Recipe for Disaster (26 page)

The problem has arisen. It’s here, today, not tomorrow.

We’re just never going to make it.

I was momentarily tempted to let Jag’s parents throw us some huge wedding in London, since according to him we’d make a ton of money in gifts. But his folks were so sweet, and we couldn’t do that to them under false pretenses. It’s bad enough that they sent us a complete service for twelve of both elegant bone china and the most beautiful sterling silver. We could entertain for the queen with this stuff. Apparently the china was their wedding china, and the sterling belonged to his maternal grandparents. It arrived in three huge wooden crates a couple of weeks after we told them about the wedding. We repacked it all in its protective gear and put it in my storage unit for safekeeping. But at least that can stay with Jag once we split up; money we couldn’t possibly accept, no matter how tempting.

I take a deep draught of the bourbon, letting it warm my insides. Despite my huge meal, I’m still hungry. Or at least I’m feeling compelled to fill this hole in me with something.

“Let’s go get a treat, girl,” I say to Schatzi, who is sleeping on the floor by my feet. “Mama needs to eat her feelings.”

I get up and head downstairs, the dog close on my heels. I rummage through the pantry and fridge, not sure what I’m looking for, other than something to tamp down the pit in my stomach. Then I spot it. The Hint of Lime Tostitos chips. Perfect. I reach into the jar on the counter and pull out a piece of the dried-chicken-jerky dog treats that Schatzi can usually gnaw on for the better part of an hour, and she takes it gently in her mouth and tilts her head at me. “Yup, back upstairs.” And I with my bag of salt and sour and crunch, and she with her rock-hard strip of poultry, head back upstairs to see if the paperwork has magically improved in our brief absence.

I’m halfway through the bag when I give up. My brain can’t find the solution tonight. Tomorrow I’ll sit down with Jag and we’ll have to make a plan. A real plan. I’m not anticipating a fun day.

I eat one more chip, and then close the bag, leaving it on the desk. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth for good measure, knowing that I’ll be tempted to open the bag and keep eating unless I’m minty fresh and flossed. I change into my pajamas, and crawl onto my bed, reaching for Gemma’s journal on the TV tray I’m currently using as a nightstand.

“There’s a distinct difference between a true evil and a necessary evil. Once you learn to recognize that difference, it makes difficult decisions somewhat easier. Not enjoyable, but manageable.”

Damn you, Gemma. I’m starting to think that your being right all the time is not only annoying, it’s actually actively making my life unpleasant.

I toss the book back onto the TV tray with a little too much force, and the whole thing collapses. My alarm clock ends up in a puddle created by the open water bottle I had there, and quickly shorts out. The lightbulb in the small lamp I use for reading shatters, leaving the base firmly screwed into the lamp socket, which I have neither the time nor inclination to fix.

“GODDAMMIT!” I yell at the universe, quickly salvaging Gemma’s journal from the mess, and using the hem of my pajama top to wipe off the water that did get splattered on the leather cover. Thankfully the pages didn’t get wet. As I walk over to put the journal safely on the desk, I manage to step squarely on a shard of glass from the broken bulb.

“Fuck EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE.” I hobble over to the bathroom, where it takes me the better part of ten agonizing minutes to dig the thin piece of glass out of the arch of my foot, bleeding like a stuck pig, while trying not to break it into little bits inside of my foot. I manage eventually to get it out in one piece, and wash the little hole I’ve now made in my foot with the tweezers with a splash of the witch hazel Jag keeps under the sink for his slightly oily skin, which stings like a mother.

A splooge of Neosporin and a Band-Aid, and three Advil and I’m sort of patched up. But it hurts like a bitch.

“Why can’t one thing just go right, dog, huh?” I say to Schatzi, who has been sitting watching this whole procedure with strange focus. “Was I some terrible horrible person in my last life? Is your former owner down in hell devising new punishments for me for having been such a huge disappointment to her during her life? Is the God I don’t believe in making His presence known as one big ‘screw you’?”

I swear the dog shrugs at me before heading down the hall. When Jag moved in, she dragged her little bed all the way to the other end of the floor, so that she can snub us both.

I hobble back to the bedroom and get into bed. “I hate my life,” I say to the darkness. And then sheer exhaustion kicks in and I sleep. For at least two hours.

“ANNEKE!” Jag’s scream wakes me with a start, and Schatzi skitters down the hallway at full speed, barking at a volume just slightly louder than a Led Zeppelin concert. The room is suddenly flooded with light, blinding me.

“Jesus Christ! Are you okay?” He rushes to my bed, eyes wide.

“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “What the hell?”

“The blood! There’s blood all down the hallway and I . . .”

I lean over and look on the floor. There is a distinct trail of blood drops leading from my bedside out the door, and I presume right down the hallway.

“Oops. Cut my foot, didn’t realize I’d left such a mess.”

“You scared the ever-loving CRAP out of me.”

“Well, now we’re even!” He looks a little sheepish. Schatzi glares at him, and then heads back down to her end of the hallway.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . What the heck happened in here anyway?” In addition to not cleaning up the blood, I didn’t clean up the mess on the floor next to the bed either.

“I had a small fight with my nightstand.”

“Clearly. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just cut my foot on the glass.”

“Okay, then. Sorry for scaring you.”

“Ditto. How was your night?”

I could swear he looks even more sheepish. “Good. Yours?”

“Annoying. I’ve run all the numbers. We’re not going to make it without help.”

“That is the conclusion I’ve been coming to as well.”

“How would you feel about Liam coming in as a partner?” This may be the single most nauseating sentence I’ve ever uttered, but at the end of the day Gemma is wise. Liam isn’t a true evil, and in our current situation, he looks more and more like a necessary one. “He has some money he wants to invest, and sweat equity as well. He’d just want a cut based on the cash infusion, not the work hours.”

Jag listens thoughtfully and nods. “I think that is your choice to make, entirely. But if it helps us finish this project, I think it’s certainly worth considering.”

“We’ll talk about it more tomorrow, then.” I was really hoping he’d talk me out of it.

“Indeed.” He leans over and kisses my forehead. “Good night, sweet wife. I’m glad you’re not hacked to bits.”

“Good night, dear husband. I’m reasonably glad of that myself.”

Mostly.

F
rom Gemma’s Journal:

The Rabins have a new addition to the household. Mr. and Mrs. Rabin were taking a stroll in the park and were adopted by a young pup. The beast, once we deloused him, and cut the mats out of his fur, turned out to be a handsome fellow of about a year, some sort of terrier we believe, and a complete disaster, much to the amusement of Mr. Rabin, and the distress of the Missus, not to mention the new housekeeper. The dog isn’t remotely housebroken, and seems only to love to relieve himself on the Persian rugs. He is good for the house, having already proved himself a decent ratter, and an excellent watchdog, barking his fool head off at any stranger who comes near the house. We’re all looking forward to a time that his positive attributes outweigh the constant cleaning and shoe replacement.

So far, I haven’t killed Liam. This is my mantra every morning when I face myself in the mirror. I swallowed my enormous pride without choking on it, and accepted Liam’s offer, and drew up the paperwork. I reluctantly accepted his money, and even more reluctantly, his help. He took a full week off from work to help us do the big prep on the basement 2.0 projects, and even though he originally said that he could come the occasional evening or weekend, he’s been here pretty much every night from six to ten, and every weekend day since we brought him on. He works fast and clean, and even I have to admit that he’s pulling my bacon out of the fire. And, which is worse, he is BONDING with Jag. And Jag seems to enjoy it. Since Jag needs the apprentice hours, and since I still find Liam to be just shy of loathsome, I let the two of them pick projects to work on together and I tend to do something else. They did the drain-tile dig and installed the sump pump system, while I started demo on the first-level dining room. They worked on the three separate concrete pours it took to replace the full pad in the basement, and I spent a week up on a scaffold installing coffering and crown molding on the dining room ceiling.

The concrete downstairs is currently curing, so no work can happen down there for a few days, and we’re waiting for the delivery of a matched pair of built-in china hutches that will be installed at either end of the dining room. Originally I’d thought we’d do them custom, but Liam found the perfect set at a salvage place in Virginia; they’re the same period as the house, completely intact, and while they were a bit pricy, it was still ultimately cheaper than building new ones and trying to match the style. They’re gorgeous, with glass-door hutches on top, and plenty of drawer and cabinet space below. By mirroring them on either end of the long formal dining room, we’re not only maximizing storage in the room, but we’re also restoring the original design.

One of the previous owners pulled similar units out and probably sold them, but the pictures from my research show them intact, and ever since I saw the design—an unusual one for the time, when most rooms would only have one—I’ve been in love with the idea. They are on a truck at the moment, but apparently there are many deliveries between the East Coast and us, so we aren’t likely to see them for at least another couple of weeks, which puts the dining room on hold. When they arrive we will install them, fix any drawer or door issues, and line all the shelves with leather and the drawers and cabinets with silver felt. These are tricks I got from Joe. Leather on shelves where you are storing good china and crystal and the like both provides a nonskid surface, and means that if something topples over it is cushioned against breakage. Cabinets and drawers are most likely to contain the good silver, and by lining everything, including the backs and tops of doors and drawers in silver felt, it keeps things from getting scratched and helps minimize tarnishing. They are the kinds of touches that seem minor, and a potential waste of money, but homeowners unfailingly tell me that these are the kinds of things they most love about their homes when I finish them.

I hate having to stop a project in the middle, especially when it is starting to look so great. The ceiling coffering and crown molding came out beautifully, and I’m dying to see the room with the hutches installed. But if this job teaches you anything, it is patience, and being willing and able to change things up on a dime. So today we are working on the master bathroom. Jag and I have moved our bedrooms downstairs to the second floor, where the bathroom is even worse than the one upstairs, but there is a huge amount of work to be done on the upper level.

We’re turning the whole third floor into a wonderful master suite. A huge bedroom, with a nook for watching television, and a built-in deep, circular window seat in the turret section, perfect for curling up with a book. His and hers walk-in closets. A small laundry room. A bonus room with its own small three-piece en suite bathroom, which could be a nursery, caretaker’s bedroom, or office. And a massive bathroom that incorporates a small separate room for the toilet, his and hers vanities on opposite walls, his with a large trough sink, hers with a smaller sink and a place to sit down and apply makeup. A large freestanding soaker tub, and a two-person walk-in shower. The bathroom is bigger than most people’s bedrooms, but we have a lot of space to fill, and anyone who can afford this house will want a retreat. I’ve always envisioned this third-floor space as a spa-like sanctuary. Sort of the presidential hotel suite you would imagine getting to celebrate your lottery win. On your honeymoon. In Paris. With George Clooney.

Jag and Liam did the minimal necessary demo on the bathroom space last week, and installed the tile backer board for the floor and shower, and two coats of RedGard sealant in the shower area, an extra step that ensures that once the place is tiled, you don’t ever run the risk of water or mold, even if the grout cracks. So today we start tiling. In the shower we’re going with supersized tiles, twelve inches by twenty-four inches, in matte charcoal gray soapstone. Instead of the expected offset brick pattern, we’re planning to stack them right on top of each other. They’re cut with very clean knife-edges, so they butt right up against each other, and the dark grout we’re using will disappear and the walls will look like smooth panels of stone.

The floor of the shower is getting the same stone, but in a small two-inch-by-three-inch herringbone pattern. Liam came up with the idea to do one of the new line drains against the built-in teak bench seat where it will be almost undetectable, instead of the usual round center drain, which I agree will look pretty cool. The shower will have no door, just a six-inch step-down from the main bathroom area, and two mounted panels of frosted glass on the sides. It isn’t dissimilar in style to the shower I installed at Grant’s, which annoys me to no end, considering what I witnessed in that shower, but it’s a terrific design and I refuse to let Grant’s damp infidelity make me abandon a good idea. We’re doing his and hers showerheads, with both wall-mounted and handheld fixtures, and six body jets each, plus a rain showerhead in the center. The bathroom floor will be the same size tiles as the shower walls, but in a white marble shot with gray veins, which will be a very striking contrast to the dark shower. It is a huge amount of work, all of it painstaking and meticulous, and my knees and back are already tensing in anticipation of the deep ache that they’ll be enjoying for the coming days.

I was almost looking forward to it, a few quiet days with Jag, just hanging out and tiling, but then the hammer dropped. Jag and I got invited to a weekend away with Chuck and Sarah; Chuck’s folks have a place in Lake Geneva that they are borrowing. I declined, claiming both the dog and work as an excuse, but encouraged Jag to go, not realizing that it would coincide with both the tiling project, and the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Emily has decamped to meet her dad for the long weekend in Maine, where one of his business partners has a house they visit every year to start their summer. Which leaves me here for the next seventy-two hours. Alone. With Liam. And, which is worse, I have nothing else to escape to. Caroline and Carl are doing a Habitat for Humanity project in New Orleans until Saturday, Hedy is in the Hamptons with a client, Marie and John got a B and B for a romantic weekend in New Buffalo.

Schatzi and I take our morning walk; it’s a beautiful end-of-May day, with sweet breezes made sweeter by the sudden appearance of white apple blossoms and the first early lilacs of the season, and you can feel the magic that will be June teasing you. At least Caroline is excited that the farmers’ markets have started, and will be coming down on Sunday to take me to the Logan Square market for lunch, which is the only bit of respite I’ll have for the whole weekend. She is a little snobby about the Evanston market, it being probably the best one in the area and walking distance from her house, but she acknowledges that Logan Square does a great job, and I haven’t seen her or the girls much at all since the wedding.

It feels so good to be out and moving that our walk goes a little long; by the time we get home I’m ravenous. Last night I read about a dish Gemma made for the staff for breakfast, which sounded really good despite its horrible name. Toad-in-the-hole. Seriously, British people, who names your foods? Spotted dick? Bubble and squeak? Bangers and mash? It’s off-putting. But the recipe itself, sort of a baked pancake with sausages embedded in it, sounded really good. I have a package of sausages in the fridge, and the rest is just pantry ingredients and eggs, and the most complicated part is searing the sausages. I’ve got the pan in the oven and Schatzi settled down to a bowl of kibble, when I hear the front door open.

“Something smells good,” Liam says, dropping his leather tool bag on the floor, and walking over to the coffeepot to pour himself a mug. He grabs the half-and-half out of the fridge and lightens his coffee to nearly white, and then adds a hefty four teaspoons from the sugar bowl.

“You do realize that your coffee is more like hot melted coffee ice cream, right?”

“I do. And it’s delicious. And you’re just jealous that I can drink this all day and never add an inch to my girlish figure,” he says while slapping his flat abs proudly, winking at me.

“
Girlish
would be the operative term, considering the coffee.”

“I’m secure enough in my masculinity to take my coffee yummy.”

The alarm on my phone goes off, and I pull the casserole out of the oven. It is puffed and golden and the sausages are spitting and the whole thing smells delicious.

“Perfect! I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Liam goes over to the cabinet and gets two plates, grabbing a pair of forks out of the jar on the counter. I hate his presumption, not to mention the easy way he operates in my kitchen, so at home, but it’s going to be a long weekend and I promised myself I would be Zen-like in my demeanor.

I dish us both up a large square that contains two sausages each. Liam goes to the pantry and gets the maple syrup, which he pours with a heavy hand over his plate. He offers it to me, and I decline. The dish is pretty good. Sort of like a Yorkshire pudding with meat in it. The sausages are a little bit spicy, and the pancake part might be the tiniest bit overcooked, it is just shy of rubbery, but overall a good breakfast. Liam wolfs it down, and quickly dishes himself up a second generous portion.

“Where did you learn to make toad-in-the-hole, lass?”

“You know this stuff?”

“It’s the food of my childhood. And not half bad at that. But I don’t know many people here who know how to make it. Makes me crave a bit of brown sauce.”

“I found it in an old cookbook, seemed interesting.”

“Well done.” He stuffs another huge bite in his maw. “So, I think we do the tiling today, grout tomorrow, finish work Monday?”

“That’s what I was thinking as well.” I’m feeling strangely awkward around him, and I realize that while I’ve known Liam for the better part of a decade, I don’t really know him. I’ve never really spent any significant time with him, and the time we have spent together has been full of barbs and insults and thinly veiled distaste for each other’s company. He joined MacMurphy just three months after me, and from the day he arrived he teased me mercilessly. I was also the only female he has apparently never hit on. Not that I wanted his attention, but at a certain point when you’ve seen the man flirt with every pair of boobs from seventeen to seventy that crosses his path, it does make you feel like a troll.

That, added to the fact that he quickly started edging me out of the best jobs and the coolest clients, would have been bad enough. But he also had that immediate boys’-club in with Mac and Murph, going to all the sporting events, golf outings, and out to the bars after work. Murph’s boat in the summer and up to Mac’s weekend place at the Dunes, the kind of quality social time that helps your career, the kind of invitations that never came my way. Every chance he got he rubbed it in, throwing it in my face. It’s true that recent events have been surprising, his kindness, his openness. But just because a dog doesn’t bite you every time you pet it doesn’t mean it isn’t still a biter. I like having Jag for a buffer, and I’m starting to wish I had decided to just go away with him, despite the awkwardness it would have created to have to share a room and a bed, to play at being in love twenty-four hours a day.