cook.”
“There’s
no need for you to go to that kind of trouble. We can just go out.”
“I’d
rather stay in, if it’s all the same. Cooking relaxes me. Seriously. It’s what
Michelle taught me. ‘In the kitchen,
you can become an artist,’ she used to say to me. ‘And when you become one, you lose
yourself and your troubles will go away.’”
“She
said that to you as a child?”
“She
did.”
“What
troubles?”
He
hesitated, but then said, “I didn’t exactly have the happiest of
childhoods. Michelle was acutely
aware of that. She took me under
her wing whenever she could. I
suppose in many ways she protected me.”
“From
whom? Your mother? You mentioned her before in conjunction
with Michelle.”
“Yes,
my mother. Often, my father
too. But let’s not discuss that
now. Another time, OK?”
“OK.”
“When
Lisa comes for dinner, we’ll have a few glasses of wine and I’ll finally get to
know your best friend. That’s
important to me. The people in your
life are important to me. Whatever
you want, I’ll cook.”
“Lisa
is a total foodie.”
“So
this will be a test?”
“It
will be to her.”
“I’m
up for the challenge.”
“You’ll
need to be,” I said.
“What
I need to do is run.”
“Have
a good meeting.”
He
gave me a final kiss, and then he went for the elevator. “You as my consultant,” he said inside
the car. “I like that. And I think I need that. Thank you for considering it.”
The
doors swept shut, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’ve
been offered a job at Wenn,” I said as I walked into our apartment. Lisa was on the sofa. On the table in front of her was a stack
of manuscript pages. Soon, she’d
ask me to proof her book. I
couldn’t wait to see what she’d created now. I was excited for her, and also for me
because I loved her writing. Her
stories scared the hell out me, but in a good way.
She
put down her red pen, but didn’t turn to look at me. “You’ve been offered what?”
“A
job at Wenn.”
“What
time is it?”
“Just
after ten. Why?”
“Mimosas,”
she said. “Two. And tout suite ! I need to hear it all.”
“I
know we have a bottle of champagne. But do we even have orange juice?”
“I
picked up a carton yesterday. I’ve
got it covered.”
“You
often do,” I said. How strong?”
“Just
a taste of champagne—not too much. I have a day’s worth of editing ahead of me, so my head needs to be
clear. But right now, for the next
hour or so, we are going to have a little chit-chat.”
“That
we are.”
I
made the drinks and brought her one in a fluted champagne glass.
“What
a lovely color,” she said, admiring the liquid in the glass.
“You
and your zombies would like it more if the juice came from a blood orange.”
“Sometimes
I think you should be the writer, Jennifer. I’m totally stealing that.”
“You
can take from my lips whatever you want.”
“Considering
where you’re lips are headed, that sounds dirty.”
“You’re
impossible.”
I
sat down opposite her. The air
conditioner whirred behind me and even though we were in the first days of
September, it was still hot enough on the fourth floor of our prison camp of an
apartment that the cool air felt like a bit of heaven to me. I remembered all those months ago, when
we first arrived in Manhattan, and the hell we’d gone through over the summer
because we couldn’t afford an air conditioner. It had been awful, but we had worked
through it, just as we’d worked through so many other problems together.
“Spill.”
I
told her about my breakfast with Alex, the conversation that ensued, and the
job offer I now needed to weigh. “So, what do you think?” I asked.
“I
saw this coming, but I sure as hell didn’t see five hundred grand coming. You came up with the job and
“There’s
no need for you to go to that kind of trouble. We can just go out.”
“I’d
rather stay in, if it’s all the same. Cooking relaxes me. Seriously. It’s what
Michelle taught me. ‘In the kitchen,
you can become an artist,’ she used to say to me. ‘And when you become one, you lose
yourself and your troubles will go away.’”
“She
said that to you as a child?”
“She
did.”
“What
troubles?”
He
hesitated, but then said, “I didn’t exactly have the happiest of
childhoods. Michelle was acutely
aware of that. She took me under
her wing whenever she could. I
suppose in many ways she protected me.”
“From
whom? Your mother? You mentioned her before in conjunction
with Michelle.”
“Yes,
my mother. Often, my father
too. But let’s not discuss that
now. Another time, OK?”
“OK.”
“When
Lisa comes for dinner, we’ll have a few glasses of wine and I’ll finally get to
know your best friend. That’s
important to me. The people in your
life are important to me. Whatever
you want, I’ll cook.”
“Lisa
is a total foodie.”
“So
this will be a test?”
“It
will be to her.”
“I’m
up for the challenge.”
“You’ll
need to be,” I said.
“What
I need to do is run.”
“Have
a good meeting.”
He
gave me a final kiss, and then he went for the elevator. “You as my consultant,” he said inside
the car. “I like that. And I think I need that. Thank you for considering it.”
The
doors swept shut, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’ve
been offered a job at Wenn,” I said as I walked into our apartment. Lisa was on the sofa. On the table in front of her was a stack
of manuscript pages. Soon, she’d
ask me to proof her book. I
couldn’t wait to see what she’d created now. I was excited for her, and also for me
because I loved her writing. Her
stories scared the hell out me, but in a good way.
She
put down her red pen, but didn’t turn to look at me. “You’ve been offered what?”
“A
job at Wenn.”
“What
time is it?”
“Just
after ten. Why?”
“Mimosas,”
she said. “Two. And tout suite ! I need to hear it all.”
“I
know we have a bottle of champagne. But do we even have orange juice?”
“I
picked up a carton yesterday. I’ve
got it covered.”
“You
often do,” I said. How strong?”
“Just
a taste of champagne—not too much. I have a day’s worth of editing ahead of me, so my head needs to be
clear. But right now, for the next
hour or so, we are going to have a little chit-chat.”
“That
we are.”
I
made the drinks and brought her one in a fluted champagne glass.
“What
a lovely color,” she said, admiring the liquid in the glass.
“You
and your zombies would like it more if the juice came from a blood orange.”
“Sometimes
I think you should be the writer, Jennifer. I’m totally stealing that.”
“You
can take from my lips whatever you want.”
“Considering
where you’re lips are headed, that sounds dirty.”
“You’re
impossible.”
I
sat down opposite her. The air
conditioner whirred behind me and even though we were in the first days of
September, it was still hot enough on the fourth floor of our prison camp of an
apartment that the cool air felt like a bit of heaven to me. I remembered all those months ago, when
we first arrived in Manhattan, and the hell we’d gone through over the summer
because we couldn’t afford an air conditioner. It had been awful, but we had worked
through it, just as we’d worked through so many other problems together.
“Spill.”
I
told her about my breakfast with Alex, the conversation that ensued, and the
job offer I now needed to weigh. “So, what do you think?” I asked.
“I
saw this coming, but I sure as hell didn’t see five hundred grand coming. You came up with the job and
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