Recipe for Disaster (19 page)

“It’s okay, Jack, I get it. No worries. And thanks for being honest with me; I was starting to get a complex. Now I can stop calling everyone and making them uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, I ran into a few people last week and they were all talking about how shitty the whole thing is. Is it true you told them to go fuck themselves in front of an asshole client?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“That is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I wish there was video.”

“Oh yeah, that would be great PR for my new business! Me losing my shit and telling clients I think they are stupid and devoid of taste.”

“Well, sure, if you put it that way. Look, I’ll tell you what, I got a guy out in McHenry; he’s good and things are quiet out there, and he usually doesn’t work downtown, so no MacMurphy conflict. You’d have to pay him in money and not food, but I can put a word in. Maybe he’d be willing to drive down, make you a good deal?”

“Thanks, Jack, I’d really appreciate that.”

“I’ll check with him and email you his info if he says yes. Stay tuned.”

Fucking Murph. I thought everything was cool after I signed the paperwork, but clearly he holds a grudge. Makes me wish I’d punched him physically instead of just verbally. I’m going to have to go back to my budget and make some new adjustments, since now I know I can’t count on any of my guys to lend a hand for love or money. And, which is worse, I now have to think about a future in which I do what I do while finding a completely new set of tradesmen who are as good as the ones I’ve just lost. This is a serious setback, since my hope had been to sell this place, maybe do three or four quick two-month flips to build something of a portfolio and keep cash moving, and working with the guys I know and trust was a big part of that plan.

I plug my phone in to charge, and flip open Gemma’s journal, which is sitting on my desk.

I can’t be responsible for anyone but myself. My successes, my failures, they rest with me. And if I can get through my days shouldering that truth, that is enough.

Isn’t that the truth, Gemma? Isn’t that just the damnable truth?

I
get out of the shower with butterflies in my stomach. You’d think I was going on a first date or something. I suppose in a way, it is, even if it isn’t a romantic thing, it is the first time I’m socializing with Jag outside of the house. It does feel like he has become a true friend in such a short time, I genuinely trust him and feel safe in his presence. So when he insisted that I keep my word and come tonight to his friend’s house for potluck, I couldn’t really say no, despite every fiber of my being wanting to avoid the gathering like the plague. However, when Gemma tells me, “
Every now and again it is essential for the well-being of your soul to do something for someone who cares for you to show them that their joy is important to you, however directly it may be in conflict with your own. Set aside your petty objections and simply embrace the challenge, whatever it may be, and try to find pleasure in the act of selflessness, if not the thing itself
,” I take heed. After all, Jag is in many ways saving my bacon on this job; going to dinner and meeting some of his crew isn’t exactly the worst punishment in the world.

We spent a lovely couple of hours this afternoon in the kitchen, and he taught me his grandmother’s recipe for biryani, which I’ll never be able to replicate, but look forward to eating tonight. He’s picking me up, which is probably part of why it feels so much like a date. In my past life I’d have just blithely Ubered my way to and fro, so that I could drink if I wanted, and not worry about parking, but those easy days are over; if I don’t drive somewhere, I’m on the bus or the train. I think Jag figured if he offered to pick me up, I couldn’t wriggle out at the last minute, which means that he is really starting to know me, since a big part of me definitely wants to beg off.

I’m wearing my one good pair of dark “dressy” jeans, a black cowl-neck sweater, and my black motorcycle boots. A cool, wide silver chain-mail bracelet Hedy gave me for my birthday a couple of years ago. My hair is sort of behaving itself, so that is something. I do my usual minimal makeup routine of blush, mascara, and lip gloss, and I’m girded for battle.

“You look very nice,” Jag says when I open the door. “Although I sort of miss the ‘grout in hair’ thing you usually are sporting.”

“Very funny.” I hand him the casserole dish containing our biryani, and lock up the house behind me.

On the way to his friend Nageena’s house we chat about the people I’m going to meet. Nageena is a teaching fellow at DePaul in the history department; they met when Jag first got to town, at the Punjabi Cultural Society at a lecture. Their friend Balbir, who hosted the last event, is still in the graduate program that Jag dropped out of. Balbir’s roommate, Chuck, is a CPA, and his girlfriend, Sarah, does freelance marketing and social media stuff for nonprofits. A friend of Nageena’s named Geeta, who is a pediatric oncology resident at Lurie Children’s Hospital, and her boyfriend, Ben, who is an ob-gyn and neonatal surgeon at Prentice.

“It’s a shame all your friends are so dumb and unaccomplished,” I tease him.

“Yeah, because all of your pals are such slackers.”

“True enough. But I think I may not be smart enough to hang out with your peeps.”

“You’re fine. Besides, every one of the people there will someday be in the market for a house or a renovation. Think of it as a networking event.”

“You make an excellent point.”

Nageena’s apartment in Uptown is lovely and bright. The building looks to be about 1915, classic redbrick six-flat, with two units per floor. High ceilings, good space, some of the original built-ins and stained glass, and it smells of cooking onions and spices. Nageena herself is a beautiful curvy woman, with skin the color of a perfect cappuccino, deep brown eyes, and a generous smile. She is wearing a beautiful swingy dress in deep magenta, and a stack of gold bangles make a joyous clatter. Her long black hair is positively gleaming it is so thick and shiny, and she’s wearing it pulled back off her face with a bright teal scarf; intricate gold dangling earrings with tiny pink stones float just above her shoulders. She welcomes me with a hug, and she smells of sandalwood and cinnamon.

“So delighted you could join us, Anneke.” She relieves Jag of the casserole dish, and accepts a kiss on each cheek from him, looking up at him from beneath the fringe of long lashes that frame her sparkling eyes.

“Biryani,” he says.

Nageena closes her eyes, lifts the dish to her nose, and inhales deeply. “Heaven. Thank you. I’ll pop it in the oven to keep warm, get Anneke a drink. Everyone is in the living room.”

Jag helps me out of my coat, which he hangs on the hall rack with the others, and we head down the hall toward the happy buzz of people having a lively conversation.

W
ait a hot minute, lady,” Sarah says, accepting a piece of pistachio cake from Nageena. “Your ex-fiancé was Grant MATHESON? From
World’s Supreme Chef?
?? We LOVED him!”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

“Oh, man, that guy can freaking cook,” Ben says. “One of my patients gave me a gift card for his place; we had a ridiculous meal. The pork belly haunts my dreams.”

“Seriously,” says Geeta, popping a dried fig into her mouth. “One of the top five meals of our lives.”

“He can definitely cook,” I say.

“How are you not the size of a house after living with him?” Balbir asks.

“BALBIR!” Nageena slaps his arm. “Please excuse him, you are starting to see why he’s still single.”

“And what is your excuse?” he pokes back at her.

“I’m waiting for perfection that matches my own, of course.” She smiles her beautiful smile, and I absolutely believe her. She isn’t the kind of girl who makes you wonder why she doesn’t have someone, you just know that the kind of guy who is good enough for her is rare, and she projects the kind of strength that says she is perfectly happy to wait till he shows up. As opposed to me, who apparently projects the kind of aloofness that says I don’t believe for one minute that there is such a thing as the guy for me, and I don’t expect anyone to show up.

“Really, though, it must have been kind of cool to have a chef at home to cook for you.” Chuck takes a sip of hot sweet tea that Nageena has served in delicate etched glass cups.

“It was pretty awesome. And Balbir isn’t wrong, I’m lucky my job is so physical or I’d be twice this size!”

“We totally voted for him for fan favorite,” Sarah says. “I mean, when he won that challenge with the free trip for two to Hong Kong, and gave it to his teammate so she could take her husband to meet her grandmother? I totally cried.”

“Us too!” Geeta says. “How about when the German chef accidentally left her marinating pork shoulder on the counter overnight, and he just jumped in and helped her make those sausages, and then she won the challenge! And he was HAPPY for her. Real class.”

“It’s true,” Ben says. “We called in about a dozen times to vote for him after that one.”

“Well, thank you for that, that extra twenty grand paid for our powder room!” For some reason this happy crew just makes me feel at ease, and I’ve had a better evening than I can remember. They are warm and funny; Nageena and Jag flanked me at the table and were sure to fill me in on inside jokes when they came up. We have talked about movies and television and Chicago. The food is all really spectacular, with the exception of Balbir’s saag paneer, which was soupy and underseasoned and a little bit slimy, but he accepted everyone’s good-natured ribbing about his cooking skills. He seems to be comfortable being the socially awkward oaf of the gang, and while they all tease him, it is apparent that it comes from love.

“Perhaps we could talk about something besides how much we all like Anneke’s ex, no?” Nageena says pointedly.

“It’s okay,” I say. “He’s everything you guys saw on TV. He is a genuinely nice guy, and a really spectacular chef.” They’re reminding me of the reasons Grant was the first person I ever could even consider spending my life with, and despite myself, I can’t help but be proud of him.

“Are you guys still friends?” Geeta asks.

“We’re taking a break for now. But I still care for him a lot, and hope that someday we can be friends again.” Which slips out, and I realize as I say it that it smacks of the truth.

“Well, if he really is that nice a guy, why’d you dump him?”

“BALBIR!!!!” they all say at once.

I can’t help but laugh. “We had some fundamental issues that I just couldn’t get past.” This seems the easiest thing to say. After all, Grant is a public figure, and his sexual-identity midlife crisis is nobody’s business.

“That is enough out of you, mister, help me clear, and the rest of you head to the living room.” Nageena shoos us out of the dining room, and picks Balbir up by his ear to help her. I turn to try to help, but Jag shakes his head to indicate that this is the way things go.

“Her kitchen is tiny, and she hates a lot of people in there. Don’t even try.”

I’m full of delicious and new-to-me flavors, good wine, and the warmth of good fellowship. Back in Nageena’s comfortable living room, the conversation turns away from Grant and onto easier topics. Jag pours me more sweet tea, and I settle into the couch.

“Jag tells us that the home you are working on is going to be just amazing, Anneke. Did you always want to do what you do?” Chuck asks.

“Pretty much. My stepdad was a general contractor and master carpenter, and I started learning from him when I was about thirteen. He made me fall in love with building things, with fixing things, and especially with saving old homes. Can’t imagine doing anything else, really.”

“That is just so cool,” Geeta says. “Ben here can do a C-section in seventy-four seconds, but ask him to replace a toilet handle, and you end up with a flooded bathroom.”

“ONE TIME!” Ben says, mock offended.

“Ha!” says Sarah, pointing her thumb at Chuck. “This one tried to assemble an IKEA dresser for our closet, and hammered the pegs right through the fronts of all the drawers.”

“I just can’t control my own strength,” Chuck says, making exaggerated body-builder moves to show off nonexistent biceps. I think I could definitely take him in an arm-wrestling match. With my left hand. Using my pinky.

Balbir and Nageena come back out to join us, with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of cookies.

“Good job, everyone. Another fabulous meal. Mostly,” Nageena says, patting Balbir on the arm in a placating fashion.

“It was amazing,” I say. “I seriously don’t know how you all do it.”

“What are you talking about? Your biryani was perfect,” Geeta says.

“My biryani was Jag’s biryani, I mostly chopped things and washed dishes. I’m just learning how to cook, and everything I do is totally hit-or-miss.”

“Is that because Grant just automatically did all the cooking?” Sarah asks.

“Partially, I suppose. Cooking wasn’t a big thing in my house growing up. I was mostly raised by my grandmother, and she really considered food to just be fuel, and she was always concerned about her figure, so there wasn’t a lot going on there. And then with my stepdad, he was a steak and potatoes or takeout kind of guy.”

“What about your mother?” Nageena asks.

“She was mostly absent, and when she was present her hair and makeup took way too much time and effort to leave time or energy for cooking.”

“So you lived with your stepdad even without her?” Balbir asks.

“Sort of. We all lived together for almost three years, which is actually the longest continuous stretch I ever lived with her. When she left I had to go back to my grandmother for a couple of years, but then I lived with him during college and grad school, and we worked together for a couple of years.”

“I’m sorry about your mother, that must have been very hard,” Nageena says.

I shrug. “I was so little when she left the first time that I didn’t know I was supposed to miss her, I guess. It was just normal. She’d come home every now and then for a time, but never for long. I never really learned to rely on her, she was sort of helpless anyway, so I just kind of accepted her presence when she was there, and went back to my normal routine when she left.”

“What about now?” Sarah asks. “I know a couple of people who had hard relationships with their folks growing up, but now that everyone is an adult, they can sort of relate to one another in a different way.”