Recipe for Disaster (22 page)

“Hellloooo? Wife?”

And he’s home.

“I’m in the tub,” I yell. I hear footsteps down the hallway that stop outside the bathroom door.

“Very good, you relax. I’ll put everything away. I picked us up some lunch for when you’re finished.” His smooth British tone is muffled by the heavy wood door that separates us.

“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Take your time.”

I let my body submerge completely under the water, feeling the heat sink through my thick hair to my scalp, the pressure of it on my cheeks, the pleasurable weight on my closed eyelids. Just my pursed lips break the surface, and I focus on breathing very slowly, keeping myself under, little bubbles escaping from my ears as they fill with water. Keeping the noise in my head blissfully muted and far away.

T
oday I think it is important that you learn how to roast a chicken,” Jag says when I meet him in the kitchen. We spent the afternoon mired in paperwork, finishing the basement bathroom design and getting the tub, toilet, tiles, and other fixtures ordered. About an hour ago the skies opened, and the deluge shows no signs of slowing.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. Those dried-out greasy salt licks you keep bringing home are not roasted chickens.”

“They are doing a masterful job of imitating roasted chickens.”

“No, actually, they aren’t. And you should know better.”

“I know, but roasted chicken is hard. It’s every chef’s test for a newbie.”

“Roasted chicken isn’t hard.”

“Okay, GOOD roasted chicken is hard.”

“No, darling, it isn’t. Come.” He reaches out a hand to me and I take it easily, and he pulls me around the side of the kitchen island. “Anneke, this is a chicken. Chicken, this is Anneke.”

I shake the chicken’s drumstick formally. “Hello, chicken.”

“Very nice. Now, you want to relax your bird.” He reaches for the olive oil and pours a generous amount in his palm, and begins to massage the chicken all over.

“Shall I get the chicken a cocktail? A Xanax?”

“Very funny. Now you season inside and out.” He deftly sprinkles a mix of kosher salt and ground pepper into the cavity, and all over the outside. “Onto the rack with you, bird.” He places the chicken, glistening and seasoned, onto a V-shaped rack in a small roasting pan.

“Don’t you have to tie it up?” Grant always trussed his birds.

“Nope.”

“Don’t you have to put things up its bum? Lemons or something?” Grant always put lemon slices and shallots and fresh herbs in the chicken.

“Nope.”

“Huh. Now what?”

“Four-hundred-degree oven till you smell it.” He opens the door to the oven and pops the pan in.

“Smell it?”

“When it stops smelling like cooking chicken and starts smelling like roasted chicken, it’s done.”

“I’ll let your nose be the guide. Otherwise we might have burnt chicken.” I’m remembering the sweet potato incident.

“So you say. But I bet you’ll know. Potatoes?”

“Sure.”

He takes two large russets out of the basket on the counter, washes them, rubs the outside with a tiny bit of oil, and goes over to the oven, putting the now clean and shiny potatoes right on the rack next to the chicken.

“Hey, don’t you have to poke those so they don’t explode?”

He looks at me like I’m insane. “No. They won’t explode.” Little does he know, but if he explodes potatoes, he gets to clean the aftermath.

“Wrap them in foil?” Joe always wrapped his in foil.

“I like a crispy skin, do you?”

“Yes.”

“No foil.” He grins at me. “We’ll steam some broccoli when the chicken is resting.”

I smile back at him. “You know, I was engaged to a fine-dining Michelin-starred chef, and you’ve just taught me more about cooking than he ever did.”

“That’s why you married me and not him.”

“Well, that and the whole cheating on me with a guy thing.”

“That too. You keep a nose on that chicken, I’m going to get a little more work done on the electrical plot for upstairs.” He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, and once he’s out of the room, I grab my phone and look up roasted chicken times, and it appears that forty minutes to an hour and fifteen is the range depending on the size of the bird. I set my alarm for forty minutes from now. Jag might trust my nose, but I’m not taking chances.

I
told you your nose would know,” Jag says, licking his fingers. “Didn’t I?”

I put down the drumstick bone I’ve gnawed clean. “You did.” And he was right. Despite my backup alarm system, there really was a moment when the chicken just smelled
done
.

He looks all puffed up and proud of himself, and we sit in companionable silence as we devour the crisp-skinned juicy bird and the potatoes, crunchy on the outside and fluffy within, stuffed with butter and sour cream and sprinkled with chives. And steamed broccoli. Which is as good as steamed broccoli can possibly be, being steamed broccoli and all. But I put a fancy Gaggenau in-counter steamer in the island, so it makes getting your veggies done a dream, and even I recognize the need for some fiber and greenness in one’s diet.

We clean up the few dishes, and Jag refills my wineglass.

“Who taught you to cook?” I ask him. “Take this the right way, but I would have thought it wouldn’t be on the list of parent-approved activities.” Jag’s discussions of his folks have been sort of textbook cultural-and-generational-divide stuff. Old world versus new and all that.

“No, it wasn’t. But we had a wonderful cook in London, and I would sneak down to the kitchen and watch her. She was chatty, so she couldn’t help but tell me what she was doing and why. And my grandmother, Mum’s mum, she lived with us for a while and taught me the old family dishes.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was. I’m surprised Grant never taught you how to cook.”

“In his defense, I never asked him. Cooking was his greatest expression of love and I let him express it. Plus he wasn’t terribly patient; the few times I tried to help him he just got annoyed.”

“You’re not bad, you know. You just need practice.”

“Thank you, husband.”

“You’re welcome, wife.”

“Now for some unpleasantness.” I hate to bring it up; things are so cozy right now. The storm is still raging outside, but these thick stone walls keep it a distant thrumming and rumbling, the lightning brightening the rooms in flashes of blue.

“Uh-oh.”

“I think we have to tell your parents that we got married. In this day and age, social media being what it is, it will be better if they hear it from you.”

“I know. I’ve been . . .”

“Putting it off.”

“Avoiding it.”

“Because you can’t tell them the truth.”

“It would be a dishonor. It’s going to be bad enough.”

“That you married outside the faith? The race?”

He smiles. “That I married without them. They’re traditional, but not archaic. I’ve dated all kinds of girls; as long as they’re smart and kind, my folks are happy enough. But they’ll be hurt that it was a secret, worried that it was so fast.”

“Can’t really blame them on that. My mother would completely approve.”

“Until she finds out I’m not rich.”

“Yeah. Best not tell her.”

“If I have to, you have to. Anneke, I know she isn’t what you want, what you deserved to have, but she is the only family you have in the world.”

“I have Emily. Isn’t that really enough family for one girl?” I say with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“So you do,” he says pointedly, ignoring the implication in my tone. “But as you keep pointing out, she isn’t real. Your mother, for better or worse, is your last known living blood relation. Don’t you want to be connected at all?”

“Honestly, not really.”

He tilts his head at me.

“Maybe a little.”

One arched eyebrow raises dramatically.

“FINE. I’ll tell her. Eventually.”

“And I’ll tell my folks next week when they get home. I don’t want to disrupt their annual trip to India with this news.”

“When you do, I will.”

We shake hands on our pact, both of us struggling with our own shit of how to handle this unexpected wrinkle. Perhaps there were a few little details we didn’t really think through before we got the marriage license.

“Should I go check the basement for water? It’s really coming down out there,” Jag asks, folding the dish towel neatly, peering out the back window at the sheets of water that are pouring down outside.

“You don’t have to. This place has had a dry basement for over one hundred years, and this certainly isn’t the worst storm we’ve ever had.”

“Well, that’s good, then. I’m going to see if I can finish up those plans from this afternoon.”

I take my glass of wine and head up to the second-floor balcony to watch the rain, and try not to think about calling my mother. Wondering if Gemma would consider this the storm, or the calm before.

F
rom Gemma’s Journal:

We should have known it was coming. Life had been too easy, too smooth. There had been too much happiness. In this life, there is too much uncertainty, and if you let your guard down, you’ll be caught unawares by sorrow. Our poor girl Charity has died of the influenza, sending the house into chaos. Mr. and Mrs. Rabin have whisked away with the children to Ohio to wait out the illness in fresher air and safer climes. The rest of us are quarantined in the house, maintaining busy disinfecting every inch of the place, and keeping a watchful eye on each other for the slightest hint of disease. In the meantime, I’m trying to find a new housemaid to replace what we’ve lost, but I’m having problems reconciling myself to letting someone new into the house, into my heart. Charity was but fifteen, rosy cheeked and dear to us all. Close as I might have gotten to a daughter of my own. I am bereft, and know not how to manage my temperament.

I’m stretching on the floor in my pajamas when there is a light knock on the door.

“Anneke? Are you awake?” Jag is whispering right outside. I haul my carcass off the floor and go to open the door for him. He looks crushed.

“What is it? Are you okay?” There is a sudden knot in my stomach.

“We have a problem.” He gestures to my boots, and I slip them on. Then he takes my hand and leads me to the stairs. My mind is spinning. Did we have a break-in? Last night had been so cozy, so easy. We’d stayed up late together, watching old movies on the small television Jag has in his room, laughing and drinking calvados, and listening to the storm outside. Jag made a tubful of popcorn, which he sprinkled with nutritional yeast and dried herbs, which sounds gross, but is actually nutty and delicious and sort of like Parmesan. We laughed and he practiced what he was going to tell his parents, and we didn’t go to bed till well after two. It was, without a doubt, the best night I’ve had in months.

We wend our way downstairs, heading through the house, which has an odd blue light at this time of day, before we turn any lights on, when the skies outside are gloomy. We head through the living room, open the door, and go down the front stairs to the basement. Jag leads the way, never letting go of my hand. At the bottom landing, he stops, and turns. As his turban moves out of the way, I can see into the basement. It’s dark. And it’s moving.

“Jag?”

“Oh, Anneke.” His voice sounds devastated.

I peer into the gloom and see that the movement has shine. Water. Everywhere. It is lapping the third stair, which means there is at least a foot and a half of it down here. And since we haven’t installed any of the doors, if there is a foot and a half of water here at the foot of the stairs, there is a foot and a half of water everywhere. The base of every wall is getting waterlogged, all the flooring we just finished installing will be unsalvageable, the insulation is wicking the water right up inside the walls. Everything will be ruined, the radiant heat pads, tens of thousands of dollars in damage. And then the smell hits me.

Not just water.

Sewage.

Jag catches me as my knees buckle, and we sink together onto the landing, like a tiny little life raft on a sea of horrible.

We head upstairs to make a plan. At this stage, the best thing we can do for the project is to be smart and calm and efficient. An extra hour or two isn’t going to make a bit of difference in the end; if we don’t pay attention or get reactionary or start running around like headless chickens, we could actually make things worse. But I do realize that an extra set of hands would be useful. I know I should call the girls, but I feel like I don’t have the right to ask them for help, as much of a problem child as I’ve been these past few months. My old anger at Murph rears its ugly head, since all of the guys I used to be able to call to help me can’t take my calls anymore, and at this moment all I really want to do is hit Brian Murphy as hard as I can. In the balls. With my car.

Reluctantly I pick up the phone.

“Good morning! Wasn’t that storm amazing? It was almost like a hurricane.” Emily is perky at all hours of the day apparently.

“Yeah, it was bad and now we have a major flood in the basement.”

“OH NO! You just were finishing it up and it was looking so beautiful! I’m so sorry, that is just terrible, is everything just completely horribly ruined or will you be able to save some stuff?”

“EMILY. Please. I hate to ask, but could you come over soon and take Schatzi for her morning walk? Jag and I have to figure out what we are going to do, and then get moving, and I just don’t have time. So if it wouldn’t be a bother . . .”

“Bother? Of course it isn’t a bother, I’m on my way. Did you want me to bring you guys some coffee?”

I start to refuse, and then cave. “Yeah, actually, that would be great, thank you.”

“Hang tight, I’ll be there very soon!”

I shudder. Having Miss Sassy Pants on-site for all of this mess may just shred my last frayed nerve, but we are in crisis mode, and that means putting everything else aside.

“Emily is on her way; she’ll take care of the dog today while we get this in hand.”

“Good thinking. I’ve reserved the pumps, so if we make a list of everything else we will need, I can run out and grab it all.”

We sit down and begin to detail everything we know we will need to manage this unexpected project. By the time we have made a specific plan and gotten the list ready, Emily rings the bell.

“Hey, guys,” she says, handing off a tray with large coffees, and a bag that turns out to contain several varieties of doughnuts and Danish. “Thought you might also need some quick energy.”

“Thank you, Emily, that is very kind,” Jag says, taking a coffee and a glazed long john. “Anneke, I’ll take the truck and be back soon.” I toss him the keys, and he heads for the garage.

“Can I see?” Emily asks as I take a deep draught of my coffee, a perfect latte with plenty of sugar, which means that Emily has been paying close attention.

“If you want.” I gesture to the stairs. “Just breathe through your mouth.” I look into the bag and spot a classic chocolate doughnut that wants very much to be in my face.

I’m snarfing down the last bite, and I’m eyeing a raspberry and cheese Danish when Emily returns. Her usually creamy paleness has a hint of green and there are tears swimming in her baby blues.

“Oh, ANNEKE,” she says, and throws her arms around me tightly. “I’m just SO SORRY.”

I wriggle a bit, uncomfortable in her grasp, but she refuses to release me; after a few seconds, I let go and receive the embrace and the emotion that it contains, and give myself over to her Ivory soap smell, and her still-damp hair, and her genuine sense of my loss, and eventually, I hug her back.

I
t takes us all day to pump the sludgy ick out of the basement, working quietly in the dark with our miners’ flashlights strapped to our hardhats, since we had to shut down the main electricity. The water was below the level of the electrical outlets, but we didn’t want to take any chances. Jag rented a gas-fueled generator and industrial pumps, getting the last two available, and picked up a stack of disposable hazmat-style suits, masks, and tall waders. Emily, to her enormous credit, returned from walking the dog in a new outfit of grubby leggings and Hunter boots, hair in pigtails under a bandanna, and before I even knew what was happening, she had pulled on her own suit, grabbed one of the extra hardhats off the worktable upstairs, and was downstairs with us.

Emily sticks with me, and Jag works at the opposite end of the basement, pumping the water and sludge out. At one point Emily leaves to walk the dog again, and when she returns she calls us upstairs, where she has sacks of cheeseburgers laid out for a quick lunch. We scarf them down in less than ten minutes, and return to the horror downstairs; the three of us hunker down and get it out, over twelve disgusting hours all told, banishing it like the unwanted unwelcome invader it is.

I ordered a huge Dumpster for tomorrow, when we’ll have to pull up all the flooring, remove all the soggy drywall and other damaged materials, so that we can begin to dry it out and make a plan. By the time we’re done, we are all filthy, pruny, utterly defeated. The combination of sewage and damp rotting leaves is a smell I’m not sure will ever leave my nose. And there is a part of me that wants to just walk away from this house and never look back. Or blow it up and collect the insurance and move to Costa Rica.

“Emily . . .” I start, but can’t keep going.

“I know. No problem.”

“It was above and beyond.”

“Not for family,” she says.

“Do you want to clean up here? I could lend you some clothes if you want to shower before you go.”

“That would be good,” she says, looking down at her outfit. Despite the hazmat suits, we are terrifically grimy. “I think if you have a garbage bag, I might just dump these entirely.” I gesture to the box of industrial black bags on the table, and head upstairs to find her something to change into. I get her some yoga pants and a fleece, and a towel. Jag is already in the shower upstairs, singing “Yellow Submarine” of all things, and for the first time all day, I manage a smile.

“Here, why don’t you shower down here.” I hand Emily the clothes and towel, and motion to the bathroom.

“Okay. Thanks. And, Anneke?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for letting me help today. I know I was probably the last person you wanted to call, but I’m really glad you did.”

I think about this for a minute. “You were, but I’m really glad I did too.”

She nods at me, and heads into the bathroom. When I get back upstairs, Jag is out of the bathroom and in his room, and I strip off my clothes and get into the shower. I soap myself thoroughly five times, and wash my hair three. And then I just stand under the hot water, feeling it stream through the thickness of my hair, dividing into a dozen even-smaller trickles, over my body in rivulets. It doesn’t really soothe me, but slowly I can feel more human warmth come to the clamminess of my skin.

When I get into my clothes and come downstairs, Jag has a large pot simmering on the stove, and Emily is standing at the island eating, the towel twisted into a turban on her head; my yoga pants, tight and a little long on me, are baggy on her coltish legs and hitting her midcalf, my fleece enveloping her lithe frame. She looks like a little girl, for all her height, and I feel a weird sense of protectiveness toward her, which I assume is a combination of ravenous hunger and emotional raggedness.

“Come eat something before you fall over.” Jag takes a bowl and ladles up a fragrant slosh of some kind of stew.

“Whaddizit?”

“Leftovers. I pretty much just chucked the contents of the fridge in a pot with a bunch of chicken stock, and filled in with both rice and pasta.”

I take a spoonful. I couldn’t begin to tell you what it tastes like specifically, just that it is hot and filling, pleasantly salty and savory.

“Thank you.”

“It’s really good,” Emily says, holding out her empty bowl for a refill.

The three of us devour the entire contents of the pot, and for dessert we eat the rest of the morning’s slightly stale doughnuts with glasses of bourbon.

All three of us decide to take Schatzi on her evening walk, in need of the brisk and clean air. Emily walks ahead with the dog, and Jag puts his arm around me. Grant and I could never walk like this; we were too close to the same height, my wide hips kept nearly knocking him over. But Jag is tall and slim, and we fit together pretty well.

“Are you okay? I mean, as okay as can be expected?” he asks.

“Not remotely.”

He squeezes my shoulder and kisses my temple. “We’ll fix it. Together. It’s all going to be okay.”

I nod, and watch Emily skip ahead with the dog, and wish like hell that I could believe him.