Good Enough to Eat (24 page)

“Go for it,” Carey says.

“I’m a little bit jealous.”

“Of Delia’s inheritance?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that awful? I mean, she went through hell with that man, physically and emotionally, she had to pack up and leave her whole life behind without a word, she’s been living in that shelter for over a year, and I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything. But the idea of not just a small chunk of money, but also a monthly check, I admit, I’m jealous. And it goes against every independent, feminist bone in my body, but there it is. My pride was too big to take alimony from Andrew. I figured half of the value of the house and investments was so much money! But then you buy a business and a condo and before you know it you’re month to month and wondering if there will ever be anything extra, and you think about how nice a cushion it would have been. I was so pleased with myself for declining maintenance payments, and now, now I sort of wish I hadn’t. Isn’t that awful?”

“It’s neither awful nor unusual. I had another client whose younger sister got engaged, great guy, plenty of money, a dream scenario. She got the huge ring, the nice house, the ability to stop working if she wanted. My client was so happy for her sister, truly thrilled that she had gotten so lucky, but she was also deeply envious. And like you, my client is very independent, self-assured, believes in a full, rich life without marriage, but deep down, she had to admit that there was a part of her that loved the idea of a man coming along and making everything easy and feasible.”

“So I’m not a traitor to my sex?”

Carey laughs her throaty laugh. “Oh, honey. We’re all programmed at the earliest stage to want Prince Charming to come sweep us off our feet and give us a life of luxury. It’s normal to fantasize about it. As long as you don’t make unhealthy personal life choices to chase it, you shouldn’t worry.”

“Good to know. I have to get back out there. Thanks for the pep talk!”

“Anytime, I’ll talk to you in a couple of weeks.”

I hang up and head back out to the kitchen, where Kai and Delia are talking excitedly.

“What’s all this then? No work to do?”

They both turn to face me, and shut up, guilty looks on their faces.

“What’s going on? You two look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar!”

“We can’t say yet. Sort of a little secret. But we’ll be able to say something soon,” Kai says.

“A mystery, huh? All right, have your little whisperings. But let’s keep the case full too, okay?”

“You got it, Bitsy!”

We all get back to work, and I wonder what exactly the two of them are planning. Quite a pair, they are. I hope that Delia doesn’t leave me anytime soon, if only for the amusement of watching her and Kai together.

 

 

I tend not to drink to excess. I love good wines with food, a small nightcap before bed. But I very rarely get drunk. In high school, when all my classmates were experimenting with Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers acquired with fake IDs, whatever they could swipe from their parents’ liquor cabinets, or get someone’s older siblings to buy, I had a small circle of odd-ball friends, and we weren’t included in those adolescent bacchanals. In college I did some of the usual frat parties, made my share of mistakes that resulted in a night over the toilet (whoever thought peach schnapps was a good idea should be shot), but I quickly learned that I neither enjoyed the loss of control that came with overindulging nor the crappy way I felt the next day.

For me, my hangovers always come almost by accident. I’m out, someone is filling my wineglass more often than I’m fully cognizant of, and before I know it, I’m giddy and then forget to stop. I don’t pound shots, I never set out to get tanked, it just sort of sneaks up on me, especially with my beverage of choice, champagne. I live for sparklers, from top-of-the-line French to my new everyday tipple, a lovely bubbly from Albuquerque, of all places, called Gruet, which I stock in both full-sized bottles for company and half bottles for my own pleasure. A long day, and you are likely to find me in a hot bath with a flute in my hand. But you are unlikely to find me passed out with an empty bottle at my side.

However, now and again, something happens that makes me do the cliché thing, and turn to the bottle for solace.

 

 

Nate and I are having breakfast when Nadia gets home. “Oh, sorry, I don’t want to interrupt, I just need to get my yoga stuff.” Nadia has been good about staying with Daniel on Sunday nights so that Nate can stay at my place.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. You have a good night?”

“Yeah, thanks, Daniel says hi. To you too, Nate.”

“Tell him hi back.” Nathan’s voice is a little cold for my taste, but maybe it’s just morning grumpiness.

She zips into her room and reappears in a flash, carrying a bag and a rolled yoga mat. “See you guys later, have a good day off.”

“Bye, honey, say hi to Janey for me!”

“Will do.” And she is gone in a flash of pink hair.

“I want to chat with you about her.” Nathan sounds deadly serious, and I’m really not in the mood to hear his reservations.

“Again? Really, Nate, I know you don’t like her, and I know I complain about her moods sometimes, but I’m not looking to kick her out, she’s a good kid at heart.”

“But you don’t know . . .”

“I don’t know a lot, but I do know she hasn’t given me any reason to question her.”

“I’ve been doing a little research. You know, with the movie done, and no new project solidified as yet, I’ve had some time on my hands, and all her secrecy really troubles me.”

“What do you mean ‘research’?”

“I’ve been able to find some stuff out. About her past.”

“What, did you hire a private detective?”

“Of course not, nothing that dramatic. I just did a little digging, some public records, some newspaper articles, a couple of phone calls.”

My stomach tightens. On the one hand, I’m furious at him for sticking his nose in. On the other, I’m horrifically curious to know what he discovered, especially since it must be somewhat unsavory based on his obvious desire for me to kick her to the curb. I’m utterly split: I want to protect her, and tell him to stick his ill-gotten info up his ass. And I want him to tell me everything.

“Look, Mel, I’m not out to get her. I think she’s a sweet kid. But she’s living in the home of the woman I love, she’s becoming more and more involved in your business, and as protective as you are of her, I am that protective of you. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t some con woman who might run off someday with your life savings.”

“Okay, first of all, if I had any life savings I probably wouldn’t need a twenty-four-year-old roommate of uncertain history. If she’s a con woman, she’s the stupidest con woman in the world for not picking someone who had some money! She should be working the elderly and wealthy, not the middle-aged and poor.”

He doesn’t respond.

I drop my head, knowing that as much as I wish I were the kind of person, the kind of friend who would say that nothing matters except the kindness she has shown me, that it isn’t who she was, but who she is that really counts, I’m not remotely strong enough to be that woman. “Tell me.”

The tale is a sad one, and one that makes my heart break for her more than it makes me worry about myself or my non-existent fortune. Her mother was raised Amish in Indiana, but was shunned when she became pregnant out of wedlock by Nadia’s father, who wasn’t Amish. It’s unclear how they met, but Nadia’s mother was kicked out of the clan and went to live with Nadia’s paternal grandmother, who was widowed. Nadia’s parents never married, as Nadia’s mother was underage and did not, for obvious reasons, have parental consent. Her dad developed first a drinking problem, then a drug problem, and ended up dead in an ill-conceived convenience store robbery shoot-out. Nadia’s mother decided to return to the Amish when Nadia was two, unable to handle the responsibilities of motherhood and seclusion from the only community and life she knew. She was eighteen years old, and gave legal custody of Nadia to the grandmother, and went home to suffer her punishment and eventually be accepted back into her family.

The grandmother raised her as best she could, but in high school Nadia began to rebel: petty shoplifting, not coming home nights, school truancy, and suspensions. She started drinking and experimenting with drugs, although it appears neither really took hold of her in a meaningful or dangerous way.

Whatever self-destructive tendencies remained in Nadia seemed almost entirely relegated to her choices in men. A week after her eighteenth birthday, she ran off and married a thirty-three-year-old used-car salesman, who gave her the orange Saab as a wedding present. Three weeks later the marriage was annulled, and she returned to her grandmother. She attended local community college for three semesters, but left despite decent grades. When she was twenty, her grandmother died, leaving her the house and a small amount of money. She sold the house, the proceeds of which a family friend who was a lawyer arranged to have put into a trust that gave Nadia a small but steady monthly income, and used the cash to move to Nashville. She met a married sculptor at a local art fair and packed up and moved to Indianapolis, where she lived in his studio. Then she dated a bouncer at the bar where she was working, who used her as a mule to transport the meth he dealt on the side, but didn’t bother to bail her out when she got busted. She did four months in a women’s prison on the drug charge, and then moved to St. Louis, where she had a distant cousin. She left St. Louis after only a few weeks, heading to Minneapolis, where she had a friend from her brief time in college. In Minneapolis she met Barry, the shithead musician who moved her to Chicago and then dumped her.

Nate lays it all out for me, succinctly and simply. And when he is done, my heart breaks for her. Such a series of crappy details, and I suddenly know exactly what Delia meant when she said sometimes the past is the past for a reason. None of it changes the Nadia I know, except to make me even prouder of her for surviving. None of it changes my desire to keep her around me.

“It’s a horrible story, Nate. But not a dangerous one. Not one that would make me at all concerned about being connected to her. Doesn’t it elicit your sympathies at all? Doesn’t it make you want to help her? Why do you still seem to want her to move out?”

“Look, I feel for the kid, she hasn’t had much of a break. But I’m a pragmatist. Her history is to get involved with the wrong guy and then move away. Now, I know that this Daniel kid, for all his oddities, isn’t some criminal mastermind. But she likes bad boys, so how long before she dumps him and latches on to some asshole who might be a danger or a threat? Who might be a thief? How long before she feels like she needs to move on, and leaves you in the middle of the night without a word? You’re putting a lot of faith in someone who is flighty at best. You’re giving her tremendous responsibility with the new delivery venture; I just don’t want her to bail on you and leave you in a bind.”

“The delivery venture was HER IDEA! How could I not let her be a part of it? Nate, she may have had some bad judgments in the past, but I believe in her. I have to trust her, because she hasn’t given me reason not to.” And now I hate that I know what I know. I hate that I didn’t have the strength to not listen.

“Are you mad?”

“I’m disappointed. Frustrated, I guess. And trying not to be mad. I know that you did it from a place of love, at least I want to believe that, and not think that you were simply attracted to the idea of solving a mystery. But it is such a violation, and I hate that you took it upon yourself to investigate her, even if your intention was to protect me.”

“I admit, when I started digging, it was pure curiosity, since she was clearly hiding something. But the first thing that popped up was the drug bust, so that made me want to find out the whole story to be sure she wasn’t a danger to you. Promise. No other ulterior motives. Are you going to tell her?”