Recipe for Disaster (25 page)

Liam’s offer is haunting me almost as much as Grant’s bombshell. I can see every bit of logic in it; I can see all of the upside. Then my hackles go up at the idea of working with him, so closely, for so long, and my stomach turns. Yes, perhaps he has, in this very recent past, shown himself to be the tiniest bit less douchetastic than usual. But he can’t keep it up forever. And once I say yes, if I say yes, I’m locked in to the bitter end. He can claim that he’ll just be a worker bee and investor, but this place is my heart; I don’t want to have discussions about design, I don’t want to have to argue about why the place doesn’t need some overgrown frat-house man-cave or ridiculous expensive organizational system in the stupid garage. I don’t want anyone to have that control or power over the project, or me for that matter.

Then again, if I don’t figure out a way to get Grant at least some of the money I owe him, he might have no choice but to get it elsewhere. I know how he is about his future; for someone in such a risky business, he has always been very careful about making sure he has financial stability for his present and his future. His folks were “spend it when you have it” kind of people; they declared bankruptcy twice before he finished high school. I get why he is so determined to make this deal for himself. I can’t imagine who on earth could be offering him money for a share of my house, but at the end of the day, whoever it is has created a real problem for me, and I have to explore every option. Even if that option is Liam Murphy.

It feels like adding insult to injury, since reluctantly I have agreed to let Emily work on the house with us. Jag wore me down, and yesterday we told her that she could help. She was so excited that she literally jumped up and down and clapped her hands and squealed and generally made me regret saying yes within thirty seconds.

I look back down at Gemma’s soft round handwriting. I suppose the question I have to ask myself is if it is important to me to be a true cook or not. I know I have to be able to feed myself, literally, with all that means. Am I willing to put in the time, to do the hard part, to feed myself well? Can I make the sacrifice with this house to make something out of nothing, and use the resources at my disposal to end up with a masterpiece, or do I let my pride win out? Or is my pride trying to protect me from making a bad decision that seems like an easy fix?

Maybe I need to start with the smaller problem. What to have for dinner. I walk over to the fridge and check out my options. There is a cooked chunk of lamb left over from the butterflied leg Jag grilled last night. Some leftover steamed broccoli florets. The lamb was marinated in a Provençal mixture of Dijon mustard, lemon, herbes de Provence. I could just reheat the lamb and broccoli and be done with it, but suddenly I remember a dish I had once at a Greek diner with Joe. It was their special of the night, a chicken and broccoli pasta dish, with a warm vinaigrette-style dressing. I think the flavors are similar; I wonder if I could do it with lamb instead of chicken?

I get a pot of water on to boil, and grab a box of penne pasta out of the pantry. Red wine vinegar, olive oil. I cut the lamb into chunks, and chop the broccoli fairly fine. There is half an onion in the fridge, the layers just beginning to separate and dry out; I might as well use it, so I chop it into smallish bits. I put a large pan on, remembering that Grant always did two things with pasta. One, he made the sauce in a pan large enough to add the noodles to, so that they could cook together for a little while, instead of my habit of just dumping the noodles in a bowl and dropping sauce on top. Two, he always saved some of the cooking water from the noodles and added it to the sauce when it was all coming together.

I heat some olive oil in the pan, and add the onions. When they are a little bit golden, I toss in the lamb chunks and hear them sizzle. It smells pretty good. I toss them around so that they start to get browned, noticing that they are leaving some crusty bits stuck in the pan. Grant always said those bits are where all the flavor is, and Gemma called it the fond, and joked that she was fond of it. Both of them always added some sort of liquid to the pan—usually wine—and scraped the bits up. I look around and see the vinegar. Vinegar is just old wine, right? I open the bottle and pour a generous glug into the pan, using my spoon to scrape at the crusty stuff until it melts into the vinegar, giving me a pungent facial in the process and making me have a massive sneezing fit. I lower the heat and add the broccoli, and drop the penne into the now-boiling water. I taste the stuff in the pan, and add some salt and pepper. I taste again. It’s fine, but a little flat. I head back to the pantry and get the herbes de Provence, figuring if they were in the marinade, they should work for this too. I put a generous pinch in the pan and taste again. Better. Still a little vinegary, so I add more oil, since I’ve learned from Gemma that when you make vinaigrette, the easiest fix is usually either more vinegar if it’s oily, more oil if it’s too sharp, and more salt if it’s too boring. I taste again and it is pretty good. I taste the pasta, and it’s about done, so I take a coffee mug and scoop out some of the water, and then drain the pasta and dump it into my pan. Worried that all this starch will affect the sauce, I think about Grand-mère making her famous German potato salad and how she always added vinegar when the potatoes were still hot so that they sucked up some flavor. So I sprinkle some of the vinegar on the pasta, and some more oil for good measure. Grant always said you have to season at every step, so I add salt and pepper, and then begin to mix the noodles into the rest of the stuff. I taste it. It’s pretty good, but missing something. I go back to the fridge and see a chunk of Parmesan, and figure it’s pasta, so that will work. I grate a bunch over the top. Then I spot the pasta water and dump it in too, figuring maybe it will help the cheese melt and mix into the pan better. Much to my delight it does, and I taste one more time.

It’s really good.

I turn off the heat and taste it again.

It’s fucking delicious.

I stand at the counter and eat the whole mess, right out of the pan, with a cold beer, tossing Schatzi a piece of lamb now and again. And pretty soon I’m looking at an empty pan, and Schatzi is licking her chops and begging for more.

I can cook.

And if I can do that, maybe, just maybe, it’s possible I can do anything.

I
check myself one more time in the mirror. My hair is reasonably tamed; my makeup is subtle but there. I’m wearing my favorite sweater, a gift from Caroline, pale bluish celadon, in a soft thin knit that drapes beautifully, minimizes the bulk of my bosom, but shows off my decent clavicle. I have on dark jeans, not that it will matter. And I took a half a Xanax, a gift from Hedy, who keeps a stash around for emergencies. I’ve never been so nervous.

“You ready, Anneke?” Jag says, appearing in my doorway.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. You?”

“Same. Shall we?” He offers his arm to me, and escorts me down the hall to his room, where he has his computer set up on a folding table, with two chairs in front of it.

“Do you want to talk to them alone first?” I ask.

“Probably. But not
alone
alone; don’t leave, just stand over there where you won’t be in the line of the camera.”

I walk over to where he has pointed, and he logs on to the computer. I can’t really see from where I’m standing, but suddenly there is some movement on the screen and I hear a lilting voice with a subtle Indian accent.

“Hello, my son, you look very well!” Jag’s mom says.

“HELLO, YOUNG MAN!” Jag’s dad’s voice comes blasting out of the computer.

“Dad, you don’t have to shout, just speak normally, the microphone will pick it up,” Jag says in a tone that indicates it is not the first time he has said this.

“Stop yelling, Bahal, your voice doesn’t have to try to reach America on its own.”

“Stop scolding me, Bahula, I’m just excited to TALK TO OUR SON!”

They sound sweet and affectionate, which is a relief. I know that their marriage was arranged, but according to Jag, it is a happy and loving one.

“Amma, Appa! Hello? Remember me?”

“Yes, of course, my little peanut, we do indeed,” Jag’s mom says, and I remember to use that against him later.

“I have some important news for you, and I hope that you will not be overly shocked and will be happy.”

“This sounds OMINOUS, my boy,” Jag’s dad says.

“Not at all, it is very good news in fact.” I see him take a deep breath, and steel himself as if expecting a blow to come through the computer screen. “I have met a wonderful woman, and we have fallen madly in love . . .”

“I KNEW IT WAS SO!!!” Jag’s dad explodes at full voice.

“It’s true, he said so when you requested that we both be here at once.”

“It’s okay that she isn’t Sikh, my boy, if you are in love, THAT IS THE ONLY IMPORTANCE,” Jag’s dad says. “We aren’t your grandparents; we trust your judgment, and ultimately your compatibility is the ONLY THING THAT MATTERS.”

“True, so true!” his mom pipes in. “Plus the mixed-race babies are so beautiful! I shall have the most adorable grandchildren.”

Jag shakes his head. “No, she isn’t Sikh, you have guessed that correctly, but that isn’t the shocking part of the news.” He looks over at me and I nod. “We got married.”

There is a deafening silence from the computer, and for a moment I wonder if the connection got dropped.

“And what is the name of our new daughter-in-law?” Jag’s dad says in a chilly voice. “Stop sniffling, Bahula, here . . .” I can only imagine that Jag’s mother is now weeping and has been handed a handkerchief.

“Her name is Anneke, Appa, and she is the most wonderful, kind, beautiful, intelligent, special woman I have ever known, and you are going to love her as much as I do, I promise.” He says this in a way that even I believe it, and my heart swells the teeniest bit. “We’re so sorry it was sudden, we just got caught up and excited, and it all fell into place very quickly.”

“We’re sure she’s lovely, son, we just are very, um, SURPRISED, YES.”

“Am I going to be a grandmother very soon?” his mother says with a hitch in her voice.

“Goodness no! It isn’t like that, we have no plans for children anytime soon, I swear!”

“WELL WHY NOT?” his dad shouts. “We’re not getting younger, and neither are you! Some grandchildren would be nice while we are still physically able to pick them up.”

If it weren’t my life, it would be hilarious.

“Where is she?” his mom asks.

“Right here . . .” Jag gestures for me to come over. I feel like a dead girl walking. I sidle over to the table and take my place in the chair next to Jag.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Singh. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” The couple in the computer look resigned. Jag is the spitting image of his dad, whose beard is shot with gray, with the same elegant features. His mom is a petite woman in a beautiful turquoise sari, with her dark hair in a thick plait over her shoulder.

“HELLO, DAUGHTER,” Jag’s father says. “I hope you understand our shock is not to be mistaken for being unwelcoming.”

“Of course, Mr. Singh, I completely understand, it was something of a shock to us as well. But your son is an amazing man, and I feel so blessed to have met him.”

“You will call us Amma and Appa, please.” Jag’s mom manages a smile.

This touches my heart in a very unexpected way. My mom always made me call her Anneliese; she thought Mommy or Mom made her feel frumpy and old. I can feel my chest get tight, and tears prick hot in my eyes. “Thank you, Mrs., um, Amma.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t mind my saying, this lovely woman deserved more than to be CARTED DOWN TO THE COURTHOUSE to be married by some minor city official, my son,” Jag’s dad says.

“Of course, Appa, I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. We got married in the home of one of Anneke’s dear friends, and another performed the ceremony.”

“YOU WILL SEND US PICTURES!” he explodes again, and I almost laugh. I love these people already. I almost forget that they aren’t really my forever in-laws.

“Yes, of course we will.” Jag smiles and squeezes my hand.

“And you’ll come here for a proper reception,” Jag’s mother says.

Jag’s mouth drops open and he begins to sputter. “Um, well, um, we . . .”

“YOU ARE OUR ONLY SON AND WE WILL CELEBRATE YOUR MARRIAGE PROPERLY!”

“We’ll talk about it, Appa, I promise, it’s very generous of you, but we are very busy here, as you can imagine, and . . .”

“Oh, we know it will have to be summer, when you are done with classes for the year, little peanut, not to worry. I will need time to plan, the cousins will need to make travel arrangements, we’ll take care of everything.” Jag’s mother grins, clearly already making plans in her head.

“Leave it to your mother, Jagjeet, IT WILL ALL BE FINE. Anneke, we are happy that you make our son so happy, and look forward to MEETING YOU IN PERSON.”

“Thank you, Mr., um, Appa.”

“We will talk again soon, son, SEND THOSE PICTURES.” And just like that the screen goes black and they are gone.

Jag looks at me, stricken. “I couldn’t tell them about school.”

“Thank god, if they knew you weren’t in classes we’d have to go get married again in London this weekend!”

“I’ll talk them out of it, I promise.”

“That doesn’t sound easy, from what little I’ve just witnessed.”

“I’m sorry, did you
want
to go to London for a three-day wedding with eight hundred guests?”

Oy. “No, little peanut, I certainly don’t.”

And we both burst into semi-relieved laughter, and hold each other tight, as it begins to sink in that it may be possible we actually bit off a little more than we can chew on this one.

I
sit down at my desk with all my notes, and Jag’s, spread out before me. My laptop is open to the master spreadsheet for the house. No matter how I move things around, no matter how I tweak things to account for reductions in pricing on finishes and fixtures, even just taking everything down one notch, not to cheap, but to more affordable, the numbers don’t jibe. Jag is out celebrating the birthday of some Sikh guru, and I’m home trying like the dickens to figure out what to do. And then I look at the email again.

Anneke- Not trying to pressure you, but I need to make a decision about my investment pretty soon. I don’t want to keep the money liquid, so if you aren’t going to let me come in on your project, I need to hand it off to my financial planner to invest somewhere else. Did you get a chance to speak to Jag about it? Let me know, Liam.

I haven’t said a word to Jag, not about Liam’s offer or Grant’s ultimatum. Or anyone else. I just can’t bring myself to face the fact that all of this is happening, just when I was starting to feel like maybe everything was going to be okay. Marrying Jag felt so right from the moment I thought of it. Help keep him here in the country and working with me. Get the girls off my back and move things more toward normal with them. Not have to think about anything but work. The numbers added up. The columns balanced. The best possible two-year plan. Focus on finishing this house, use the profit to find a new place to live, and another project. Flip a few small places for a year or so to get the nest egg back up. Get Jag his ten-year green card, and then get divorced. And then maybe I could think about dating again, MAYBE. Everything was perfectly clear.

But now, it’s starting to seem murkier. Grant’s lack of family connection was equal to my own, so it just never occurred to me that my in-laws weren’t fictional people who lived in faraway places, but instead were real people, loving people who would want to know me and celebrate my joining their family. It never occurred to me that not only would my marriage get the girls off my back about dating and my sad little life, but it would also create an even bigger distance between us, as I deal with not being able to be truthful with them, and they give me space to enjoy my newlywed life. I hate that now that the shit is hitting the fan AGAIN, I’m not in a position to lean on anyone. Jag is dealing with his own issues, figuring out how to get around to telling his folks about dropping out of school. Dealing with his own deception with his best friends. I don’t want to dump anything on him, especially because I don’t want him to offer his savings to me. He is going to need that money in a couple of years when we get divorced; it is essential to me that he not invest it in this project.

The worst thing is that Emily is the only one who seems to instinctively know that something is off with me. Damn that girl, she is horrifically intuitive. She keeps asking if I’m okay, offering to be a confidante, telling me that it’s what sisters are for. I keep telling her that I’m not her sister, and if she wants me to continue to play along with this little Harvard farce she’s created for herself, she’d better not poke too hard or too deep. I’ll share the stories of my childhood, so different from hers. I’ll listen to the fiction she created about the years we supposedly were together as sisters, and how Facebook brought us back together. This required that I let her help me actually join Facebook and set up a profile. She was very excited, explaining that the minute you join, all these people you’ve forgotten from your past suddenly find you and start friending you. I’ve been on for nearly three weeks and so far the only friend requests I’ve gotten are from Middle Eastern men who think I’m “pritty and wold be good frend to me” and a girl that went to grammar school with me, whom I don’t remember at all, but who posts every twelve seconds with an update of what her kids are doing. I keep telling Emily that nothing is wrong, but she raises her eyebrows at me and shrugs, and tells me that when I’m ready, she will want to listen. I can’t wait till she leaves for Boston.

I’ve been putting it off all night. Jag is out again, a habit that now seems to be at least three nights a week. I don’t begrudge him the time, and lord knows I don’t mind the quiet. I took a long soak in a hot tub, curled up with the latest Amy Hatvany book, now wrinkled and damp from my wet hands. I made myself a simple but substantial dinner of about a half a pound of pasta tossed with butter and Parmesan and a lot of ground black pepper and a last-minute squirt of lemon juice. Jag had picked up the first asparagus of the season over the weekend, and steamed a couple of bunches of it, dressing it with olive oil and lemon, and keeping it chilled in the fridge; I made a fair dent in it. I ate a squidillion Oreos while watching a marathon of
Fixer Upper
reruns on my iPad. I took Schatzi for a long walk. I asked Gemma for some magic wisdom, and she said, “
Don’t borrow trouble. Focus on the task at hand, and quiet the fear of the unknown with hard work. Deal with the actual problem when it arises and not before
.” But here and now, with three fingers of bourbon and two ice cubes swirling in the glass beside me, it is all becoming very clear.