Recipe for Disaster (18 page)

Tomorrow is the day. I’ve worked all week to make sure that everything is prepared, we all have. The house sparkles, and smells glorious, full of roses and gardenias. The silver sparkles at the ready, and the larder is filled to bursting with cold roasts and a grand turkey. I couldn’t be happier for Martha. It was unexpected, this love, but she didn’t shy away from it, she didn’t resign herself to what she thought she’d have to settle for, she didn’t back down from her heart. She fought for herself. For her love. And now she gets to have the life she truly deserves, truly wants, and really, could any of us hope for more?

I stop the spoon halfway to my mouth.

Because as usual, Gemma has hit the nail right on the head.

A
nother beer?” I ask Jag.

“Please, allow me.” He stands up from the table and takes both of our bottles, dropping them into the recycling bin and grabbing two more from the fridge, deftly popping the caps and returning to the table. We’ve been making endless lists: what needs to be done and in what order, supplies that need to be ordered and delivered and supplies that can be shopped for in person.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a long pull on my beer, and stretching my neck back and forth. “Long one today, but good.”

He nods. “I feel like every day is something new. This house is a master class all on its own.” Schatzi clicks over and jumps lightly into his lap as if her little legs have springs in them. He allows her to get settled into a dog-shaped loaf, and then begins to stroke her silvery fur and massage her silky ears. She is practically purring, and looking at me with smug satisfaction. Whatever.

“Big plans tonight?” I ask.

“Just meeting up with some friends for dinner.”

“Where?”

“My friend Balbir is hosting tonight.”

“You all cook a lot together, you and your pals I mean.”

“In our community, coming together for home-cooked food and conversation is very much how we connect with people.”

“It’s nice. I mean, it sounds nice.”

“You should come.”

I can feel myself blush, wondering if he thinks I was angling for an invite. Which, in my current state, is the last thing I want or need. I’m having a hard enough time avoiding my own friends, let alone having to meet and engage with someone else’s. “Thanks, maybe another time. I’ve got a date with a very hot shower, a very greasy pizza, and an early bed.”

“Perhaps another time? I know my friends would love to meet you, they’ve heard so many good things.”

“Are you lying about me to your friends?” I’m joking, but something about it feels weirdly forced.

“Not in the least. I’ve just told them the absolute truth, that you are a skilled homebuilder who found a beautiful house in need of saving, and that you quit your job and gave up your home to focus all of your time and energy on it and launch your new independent business, and you were kind enough to take on an untested and inexperienced apprentice whom you have been meticulously training in your art.”

I start to laugh, and then I can’t stop. I’m laughing with tears streaming down my cheeks, making dolphin noises. Jag looks at me as if I’ve got three heads. And one of them is purple. And speaking Swahili. While high on shrooms.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my damp cheeks. “It’s just so . . . WRONG.” I hiccup.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a skilled homebuilder, all right, who quit her job because she was probably about to be fired, in a manner that ensures she will never get a decent reference or be employable by anyone else, hence the need to be self-employed. Who is living in her only future source of income because she caught her ex-fiancé having sex with another man in the apartment they shared, but was in his name. I took you in because every other day laborer in the greater Chicagoland area had turned me down and I was in desperate need of help from any reasonably able-bodied person to try to have one thing in my life not be spectacularly fucked up. Finding you is the one good thing and shining light in the enormous disaster that is my life.”

Jag takes a thoughtful sip of his beer. “Well, thank you, I suppose.”

“No, Jag, thank YOU. It is sweet of you to have thought such nice things about me, and to have described me like that to your friends. It’s been a while since anyone looked at me through a kindness filter instead of a pity filter.”

“You feel like your friends pity you?”

“I do. A short time ago I had a good job, a gorgeous apartment, plenty of money for the life I was living, and a loving partner and best friend who I was going to marry. I had three amazing girlfriends who I could have fun with, and this beautiful old place to putter around in. Now I’m just a sad sack, living alone in a construction site with a dog who detests me, no money, no job, and a very uncertain future.”

“I don’t see that person you describe. I see a strong, capable woman, who is facing a difficult situation head-on.”

“Thank you for that.”

He tilts his head. “You caught him with another man?”

I nod, and then decide to go with the moment. I tell Jag all about the day I quit and caught Grant. I’ve finally got just enough backbone to tell it in a funny way, describing myself as a snarky tornado whirring through the MacMurphy offices like an evil dervish, spewing insults in my wake. Really playing up my saucy little naked prance into the bathroom. I may have embellished to have Gregg shrieking like a girl when I announced my presence, and running out of the apartment wet and naked with an armload of clothes. Pretty soon, Jag is laughing almost as hard as I am, and shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.

When we both catch our breath, he shakes his head. “That is a lot, Anneke, I had no idea. It must still be very painful for you.”

“What can I do? I mean, I miss him, which sucks. I’d never been that close to a man before, that trusting. I really let all my defenses down. Whatever issues we had, and clearly we had many more than I was aware of, it wasn’t like we were unhappy. I really loved him, as much as I’ve ever loved anyone, or even felt capable of loving anyone, so while the betrayal is horrible and gut-wrenching, the missing him is worse.”

“Did you think about trying to make it work?”

“I did. I do. I know if I called him tomorrow he would want to. But I don’t know. I don’t trust myself or my feelings anymore; that’s the nut of it. I trusted how I felt about him, about us, about the life we were building together. And he broke that trust, and in a way broke me. I’d been fine up until I met him, just assuming I would never get married or be serious about someone, and that was comfortable. Then he made me imagine a different kind of life. And then he shattered it. So now, I don’t really know who I am. A big part of me is back to believing that marriage is not for someone like me, partnership is not for someone like me, and that I should be okay with that. But then I miss him, and wonder if I really am that girl anymore. I think about calling him to say that we can try again, but then I think that it is just the loneliness and fear talking, and if I go back, I’m just a weak and stupid person who is trying to make pieces fit that will never fit. And I wonder if a big part of my being conflicted is also because of my very precarious financial situation, which scares me even more, because I have fought my whole life to not turn into my mother, who only ever saw men as a means to financial security.”

“Maybe it’s too soon to know. Maybe the fact that you are still conflicted means that you don’t yet know what your new reality is going to be, and you just have to let it come to you in its own time. There is a saying in my culture, ‘I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.’”

“You don’t think I’d be an idiot to go back to him?”

“I think you’d be an idiot to close yourself off from any life experience that has the potential to bring you happiness, or let you know yourself better. I think if your heart contains enough forgiveness and hope to return to someone who betrayed you, because you believe that after some hard work your life will be fuller with him, then that is a beautiful thing. And if you know yourself well enough to know that you could never give so much of yourself to someone who was able to hurt you that deeply, and that you would rather be a strong woman standing on her own by choice and design, then there is no shame in choosing that life.”

“Do you want it? The whole marriage and kids thing?”

“Very much. But it’s complicated.”

“The cultural thing?”

“I very much would like to find the right woman, settle down, have a family. But while I’ve never been particularly drawn to Indian women romantically, I am very drawn to them in a spiritual way, and while I have loved women of many different races in my past, none of them ever felt like the right permanent match. And yes, it was often the cultural differences that parted us.”

“Well, maybe you just haven’t met the right Indian woman yet.”

“Or the right non-Indian woman.”

“That too.”

“I believe when I meet her, whoever she is, I’ll know, and so will she. And so will you, for that matter, however it is supposed to work itself out.”

“You’re a very wise man, Jagjeet Singh.”

“It’s the turban. Makes us all look like gurus and genies.”

“If I rub your belly, do I get a wish?”

“If you rub my belly, you might get a surprise. Genies aren’t priests, you know.”

It’s the first time he’s ever been remotely flirtatious with me, and it makes me laugh.

“I’ll be careful, then; I know how all of this can affect a man.” I make a dramatic sweeping gesture down my body as if I am Jessica Rabbit, making note of my torn and filthy baggy jeans, my tattered oversized fleece, and my hair, which is probably looking like an auburn version of Einstein’s famous do.

We laugh, and it feels good to have shared with him, to let him in a little bit and to know that he doesn’t think less of me.

“Well, irresistible as you are, I should go home and take care of all of this”—he mimics my movement—“before dinner. Sure I can’t get you to come? You’ll be most welcome, and if you don’t want to dispel the myth I’ve created around you, your secrets will be safe with me.”

I’m briefly tempted to say yes, but the word catches in my throat. The best I can do is ask for a rain check, which Jag accepts, but only after I promise to come with him in a few nights when there is another potluck dinner planned. “I’ll bring stuff here and teach you a dish and it can be from both of us. I’m dying to really cook in this kitchen.”

“Okay. Deal.”

Jag gives me a hug, and for the very first time since my life blew up, I’m able to actually hug someone back. Because his embrace is filled with friendship and respect, and not one ounce of pity or charity. It is the hug of someone who is thinking, “That sucks for you, but you’re bigger and better than that.” The hug of someone who thinks you’re just fine. And I had no idea how much I needed it until right now.

J
ack. It’s Anneke. Long time no talk.”

“Oh, um, hey, Anneke, how are you doing?” Jack is a masonry guy I worked with a ton when I was at MacMurphy, and was the one that taught me how to deal with the stonework in the basement.

“I’m great. Wondering if I can bribe you for a little more work over here at the Palmer house?” Jack is usually good for some free labor in exchange for food. His wife has slowly gone from healthy eater, to vegetarian, to gluten-free vegan, and the mere mention of a Giordano’s stuffed sausage and pepperoni pizza is often all it takes. “I need to do limestone sills for the basement windows.”

There is an awkward pause. “Um, Anneke, I can’t.”

“I didn’t even mention a date, are you just swamped? Usually this weather means you are really slow. I could sweeten the deal with a little under-the-table cash.”

“No, it isn’t the timing, it’s just, I can’t take the chance.”

“C’mon, she’ll never know. I’ll have mouthwash on hand, even an extra toothbrush if you want. I can even give you a carrot for the road.”

He laughs. “It isn’t Sherrie I’m worried about; she knows I eat stuff when I’m out, as long as I don’t bring it home I’m cool. It’s, um . . . Anneke, if I tell you something in confidence, you have to swear to me that you won’t go off the handle and that it doesn’t ever come back on me.”

“Okay, now you’ve got me worried.”

“Murph has you blacklisted.”

“Blacklisted?”

“He’s told every sub and laborer that if any of them ever do so much as help you hang a picture, they will never work for him again, and he won’t give them a reference.” That enormous butthole.

“No wonder everyone’s been dodging me.”

“Look, kiddo, you know we all are rooting for you, and that house is going to be amazing. And when you are a big-shot developer, we all hope you’ll remember us fondly. I, for one, since we’re off the record, would love nothing more than to tell Brian Murphy to stick it right up his arse. But I got three kids to get through college, and all that organic gluten-free crap Sherrie is making us all eat is damned expensive. I just can’t lose that big a chunk of my business, much as I’d rather help you for free than work for him.”