Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"
Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
• CHAPTER NINE •
The flashing green light was like a screaming toddler who lost his ice cream cone to a gutter; Lou wanted it to disappear but couldn’t ignore it. The caller ID already revealed who left the message. She chewed the inside of her lip as she tapped the countertop with her short nails. In a quick motion, much like jumping into a cold lake headfirst or tearing off a Band-Aid, Lou poked the Play button.
“Elizabeth, it’s Devlin. I hope you’re enjoying the mixer.”
“The neighbors are,” Lou responded as his message played.
“I’m going to come over at two today. I’ll see you then.”
“Good luck with that.”
Lou pushed the Delete button, picked up her purse and small bag of blue and gold clothes, and left, locking the newly rekeyed door behind her.
• • • • •
Almost three weeks had passed since Al stood in the Infinity Chamber with Lou. His body warmed as he remembered her vanilla scent. He glanced out the window to see if a banged-up black Civic had arrived. But no Civic yet, so he turned away from the window toward his apartment, already envisioning Lou in each room.
He had moved into the two-story condo months ago, but it hadn’t changed much since the first day. Al quite liked the open, airy quality of the space. Light yellow Cream City brick comprised the walls. He had liked their color and minimalist style, and found out later the bricks were classic Milwaukee construction. The open, bare brick walls were softened by lightly stained wood beams and pillars. Rosewood covered the floors, ranging from golden yellow to rich, dark reds, and his windows overlooked the busy street below, which made watching for Lou’s car easy. The main floor contained an open living room, a kitchen area, a study, and a bathroom for the guests he never had. The loft upstairs was his bedroom and master bath that overlooked the lower level.
Other than one stool next to the kitchen counter and his work desk in front of the two-story windows overlooking the street, Al didn’t have much furniture on the first floor. He used the study for storage. Right now it contained his bike and a few boxes of cookbooks.
Up the open stairs to the loft, Al’s bedroom had a large king-size bed covered in a soft, gray down comforter and fluffy white pillows. He liked sinking into his bed and letting the comfort surround him. It was his one major purchase in Milwaukee. In the walk-in closet, Al’s dress pants and button-down shirts, plus the two suits he rarely wore, hung on hangers, but his socks, T-shirts, and pajamas still sat in the open suitcases, as if he were ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
Most nights he worked at his desk, an old farm table he’d found at a rummage sale. It was sturdy enough to safely hold his computer and books but cheap enough for him to leave behind when he moved. He preferred to type his columns at night after he finished a restaurant visit, while it was fresh in his mind. In the quiet after midnight, the window turned into a mirror, reflecting the sparse, bright apartment behind him and blocking out the busy traffic and lights below. Only the sound of running engines and closing doors reminded him of the life on the other side. It was peaceful—his own ivory tower of Cream City brick.
Al walked into his kitchen. He pictured Lou perched on the black granite counters as he whipped up a meal just for her. The counters formed a U shape and small appliances dotted the surface: an electric tea kettle, a KitchenAid stand mixer, and even a yogurt maker. He’d been trying to make a decent Greek yogurt for weeks. The left wall opened into the dining and living area. He usually ate his breakfast on the stool looking into the kitchen, the only room in the condo representing his interests. Hanging on every open wall space shone his beloved collection of French copper cookware—both beautiful and useful. Along one counter he had dozens of cookbooks, some open to a recipe, others battered from frequent use. Al used this space to explore and try to re-create dishes from the restaurants he visited.
Next to a wrapped present, the most colorful object in the kitchen lay on the hard black counter: a magnet of Chihuly’s glass sculpture. Al had bought the small kitschy item as a memento of the lovely day he shared with Lou at the museum. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t stick to any of his stainless steel appliances, so it lay on the counter where he could see it, never failing to bring a smile to his face when he glanced at it.
Al picked it up and pushed it against a copper pot, hoping it would stick. It plopped to the floor, landing with the black magnetic side up. Picking it up, he opened a nearby cupboard and reached into the dark corner, shifting objects with his other hand. After a few loud clunks, he pulled from the depths a large, heavy, rust-splotched cast-iron skillet that had once belonged to his maternal grandmother. He recalled her frying delicious handmade sausages, bacon, and eggs from the chickens on her farm. Her food was simple but mouthwatering. He knew with certainty that Lou would have loved her.
Al ran his hand over the rust spots, then held the heavy pan to his nose. He could almost smell the sausages. He set it upside down on the counter, hiding most of the rust, and held the magnet an inch above the deep black. He could feel the magnetic pull and knew he had found the perfect spot to display it. Al removed his copper paella pan and hung the skillet in its place. The reds, yellows, and blues of the Chihuly sculpture stood out in stark contrast with the inky-black pan. The melding of these two fond memories brought more homeyness into his apartment than the treasured copper collection surrounding it. Contentedness warmed him like hot tea on a brisk day. But the one magnet looked lonely—he wanted more.
Buzzzzz! Al grabbed the present and bounded from the kitchen to the intercom. He pushed the Talk button, stuffing his keys into his jean’s pocket. “I’m on my way down.” Al glanced back at the kitchen, where he could see the flash of color on darkness, then walked out the door and locked it before Lou had a chance to respond. When he walked out the front door, Lou smiled.
“Afraid I’ll find the severed heads?” she said.
“Something like that.” He held out the wrapped gift, about the size of a shirt box.
“What’s this?” Lou’s crinkled forehead contrasted adorably with her dazzling smile as she took the present.
“A thank-you.”
With the unabashed glee of a child on Christmas morning, Lou shredded the wrapping paper to reveal a colorful canvas painting of a calla lily.
“Wow! Is this a real painting?” She ran her hand over the swirls of oil paint, feeling the peaks and valleys under her fingertips.
“I couldn’t find a print of the painting you liked at the museum. I saw this one at an art fair, and it reminded me of you.”
Al held his breath as he waited for her response. He wanted her to love it, to see it and think of him. Lou wasn’t saying anything; she wasn’t even moving—just staring at the painting. He had to break the silence.
“I was going to send you flowers, but I couldn’t find your address.”
Lou looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears—the good kind if her smile was any indicator. She sniffed.
“It’s unlisted.” She wiped her eyes. “This is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me.”
She hugged the painting to her chest and kissed Al on the cheek. While he barely felt her lips, the effects of them ravaged his senses. She pulled away and used her thumb to wipe away her lip gloss.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Al swallowed and tried to keep his reaction to himself.
“No, thank you.”
Lou opened her trunk and pulled out a blue-and-gold fleece blanket. She wrapped the painting and set it in her backseat. Touching it one last time, she turned to Al.
“Before I start crying again, are you ready for some baseball?”
• • • • •
Lou drove her Civic through the teeming parking lot, following the confident arm signals from yellow-vested old men. All around them people fell out of cars, set up grills, tossed baseballs and beanbags. A group of twenty unloaded a small cargo truck containing a full-size gas grill, three large folding tables, and five large coolers. Excitement hung in the air with the smoky fog rising from thousands of hot grills. The Brewers’ record had improved steadily since their opening slump, and they’d put together an impressive ten-game winning streak. A few more wins and George Webb’s would start handing out free burgers. The local diner chain hadn’t done that since 1987, when the Brewers won twelve straight games.
Lou pulled into the parking spot, turned off the car, and looked upward. Warm sunlight hit her face. Today, the sky matched the exact color of Al’s eyes, pristine blue. The wind blew softly, the sun warmed without being too hot. Miller Park was the epitome of summer in Milwaukee. The smell of grilled meat over screaming-hot coals, car exhaust, and fresh-cut grass relaxed every muscle in Lou’s body. Car doors slammed, gloves snapped shut around flying baseballs, and countless radios blared Bon Jovi, the BoDeans, and Bob Uecker. Lou breathed deeply as she stepped out and popped open the trunk. Al appeared around the rising metal.
“So, why are we here two hours before the game starts?”
“Tailgating.” Lou’s lips twitched upward.
“Tail-whating?”
“Tailgating. A time-honored pregame tradition involving food, drink, and maybe games. Think of it as a picnic in a parking lot. It can be very elaborate and gourmet, like that group with the cargo truck, but we’re going old school. Grilled brats and beer, followed by a game of catch. You can’t say you know Milwaukee until you’ve tailgated at Miller Park. But first we need to do something about your clothes.”
Lou eyed him from head to toe. She was looking forward to this.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Al looked around him and swept his arm to indicate the sea of people, all similarly garbed. “T-shirts and jeans are perfectly acceptable attire.”
He looked down at his gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans, a faint crease still visible down the front. Lou smiled and tossed him something blue, similar to the colors flying above the stadium.
“Put that on, and this.” A matching blue baseball cap flew at him. Al raised his dark eyebrow.
“If you want to experience Milwaukee, you have to look the part.”
Al smiled and pulled his perfectly acceptable but bland gray T-shirt over his tousled dark hair. Lou inhaled—quickly. Her eyes froze on the sculpted body revealed by the missing gray cotton. A dusting of dark chest hair trailed down Al’s taut stomach to disappear into jeans that would make Calvin Klein proud. The carved edge of his hips rose just above the top. She loved that. She wanted to trace the path and see where it went. The thought made her toes curl and her face flush. Lou exhaled slowly.
Al pulled the blue T-shirt over the six-pack and set the matching cap on his head, covering his thick hair. The old-school blue Brewers shirt, with the yellow catcher’s mitt logo front and center, and cap looked great on him, Lou thought. His blue eyes popped with mirth—he hadn’t missed her sudden inhale. Damn.
“Now that I’m properly attired, what’s next?” Lou shook her head a little, pinkened, then turned her attention to the depths of her Civic. All business, she lifted out the cooler, a small Weber grill, and two chairs.
“Set up the chairs; I’ll get the grill going,” Lou said, avoiding direct eye contact with Al.
• • • • •
Al liked Lou. She laughed at his jokes, relished good food, and looked particularly adorable in a baseball cap and number nineteen pin-striped Brewers jersey. He relaxed in her company. But he hadn’t expected all the tingles. When he heard Lou gasp—never mind when she kissed his cheek—his entire body felt it. He’d never been so instantly aware of another person’s every twitch, every breath.
Al looked to his left to make sure he hadn’t lost Lou to the blue and yellow wave moving them toward the entrance. The last ninety minutes had breezed by. Lou had brought the grill from ice-cold to scorching-hot faster than a firestorm; the brats were preboiled in beer and onions and burst with the perfect combination of juicy and smoky, complete with a crunchy outside topped with just a smear of Dijon. Paired with ice-cold Spotted Cows, his new favorite Wisconsin beer, Al got it. He got why people came hours early. It wasn’t about good seats or convenient parking. It was a friendly little party with forty thousand of your closest friends.
Lou led Al through the dense crowd, past the turnstiles, up to the second level and to their seats. Once settled, Al looked around. Miller Park was not what he expected. With the roof open, sun flooded the field and stands. They sat in the front row of their level, so no one detracted from his view. He felt like Dorothy awaking to a Technicolor Oz. The emerald grass, the ruby bricks, the golden yellows, and the cobalt blues all buzzed with intensity. On the field, a diamond of sand dotted with white pads at each of the four corners contrasted the vivid green. A few people raked the sand, leaving it with the manicured appearance of a sand trap.
It looked as if each team’s bench was underground a little. He and Lou sat one level up from the Brewers’ bench, or at least he assumed it was the Brewers’, as the name was painted on top of it. The scoreboard showed different spaces for ERA, RBI, and many more acronyms he couldn’t decipher. Al’s brow furrowed and he looked at Lou, her face raised to the sun like she wasn’t often in it.
“I know nothing about baseball. Is it like cricket?” Al asked. Lou didn’t open her eyes or move her head to respond to Al’s sudden confession. She just laughed.
“I imagine that isn’t all you don’t know. And I know less about cricket than you know about baseball.” She rolled her head to face him, smiled, then leaned forward to pull some folded papers from her back pocket.
“I thought your knowledge of baseball might be a little sketchy, so I put together a crash course. It’s mainly definitions, like what each position does, what the acronyms mean. It isn’t a fast sport. Everything happens in short spurts of action. In between, there’s a lot of standing around, strategizing, racing sausages, singing, and polka.” Lou handed Al the notes and resumed her relaxed sunbathing.
After a moment digesting her comment, Al said, “Racing sausages? You’re joking.”
“They run during the sixth inning. There are five; sometimes the mini sausages race, too. You pick your favorite and cheer along. Maybe make a friendly wager. I’m partial to the brat. He wears the green lederhosen.”
“Definitely not like cricket.”
“Just another reason Milwaukee rocks. Other teams try to copy, but they’re just cheap imitations.”
Al began reading the notes, looking up to scan the field, comparing the hand-drawn images with the real field in front of him. Lou’s notes were thorough enough that Al knew more about baseball than your average suburban housewife by the time the national anthem finished and the players took their positions. Al leaned forward, matching Lou’s eager position as the first pitch flew. Miraculously, the batter hit it. Al couldn’t even see the ball because the pitcher threw it so fast. Before he could finish processing where it went, a player in the grassy field picked it up and rocketed it toward first base. The player slowed and returned to his dugout (at least that was what Lou called it in the notes). That was right—he was out because he hadn’t beaten the ball to first base.
Al continued to compare the action on the field to the notes in his hand. By the end of the first inning, he tucked the notes into his jeans, confident he could manage the rest of the game without them. He settled into his seat, set his right ankle on his left knee as Lou did the opposite. Their knees brushed ever so lightly, yet he couldn’t stop himself from sucking in a quick breath and hoping it happened again. Instead, their legs settled a safe two inches apart—but he could still feel her.
“Nuts?” Lou offered him a bag of peanuts in the shell.
“We just ate.”
“Peanuts are an important baseball tradition. No game is complete without them.”
Al took a few, cracked one open, and popped the nuts into his mouth. He held the empty husk in one hand and looked around for where to put it.
“What do I do with the shell?”
“Drop it.”
Lou tossed her empty shells on the ground.
“You want me to litter?”
“Consider it a sacrifice to the baseball gods. We must appease them for our team to win.”
Al laughed and mimicked her.
“I’d hate to incur their wrath. Any other sacrifices I need to know about?”
Al looked her in the eyes and his heart thumped. At that moment, she could have anything she wanted.
• CHAPTER TEN •
John waited, tapping the bar, as Al worked to find words– words that would explain his problem.
“I like her,” he finally said, “but I don’t think she’s quite ready. She can’t be ready. Can she?” Al propped his elbows on the smooth, dark wood of The Harp’s bar and dropped his forehead into his hands, grasping at his hair. If only he could grasp his words as easily. For the first time since coming to Milwaukee, he had asked John to get a drink. He needed a friend to bounce his erratic thoughts off of, and John seemed willing.
“Ready for what? A car ride? Dessert? A lobotomy?” John chewed a handful of popcorn. Bits of it landed on the bar in front of him and on his already-wrinkled shirt. He didn’t seem to notice.
Al gaped at the questions.
“No. Is she ready to date someone?” Al said. “It hasn’t been that long since she dumped her fiancé. I like her, but I don’t want to be the rebound.”
“Does she like you back?”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re asking me? You’re screwed if you’re asking me for lady advice.”
“Valid point, but what do you think?”
“You went to the Brewers game on Monday, right? Now it’s Friday. You said she doesn’t normally call you on the weekends. Huh. I wonder why that is.”
“She said she was busy most weekends—that’s why we get together early in the week.”
“What’s she doing, do you think?”
“I don’t know; probably working.”
“What does she do?”
“I don’t know. Never asked. Something in an office.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Quite, but I tend to avoid discussing work for obvious reasons. If I pump her for information about her work, she’s bound to ask questions back. It’s easier if I don’t have to make up lies.”
“Oh. Right. I forget you have an alter ego. Too bad he’s an asshole food critic rather than an actual superhero. I could be your dashing sidekick.”
Al blinked. Was he really an asshole? Did everyone think that? Did Lou?
“So, what do you think? I could still call her, right? Even if she hasn’t called me?”
“Dude, calm yourself. Are you having fun? Is she having fun?”
“I think so. But our excursions are about showing me her favorite parts of the city. She doesn’t seem to dwell on the ex-boyfriend. That’s good, right?”
Al looked around at the bar he and John sat in and took something small out of his trouser pocket. He started tracing his thumb over the raised edges while watching the bubbles rise to the surface of the untouched cider in front of him.
“Are you playing with a bratwurst?” John asked.
Al turned a little red and stuffed the object back into his pocket. “It’s just a magnet. I picked it up at the Brewers game. I forgot to take it out.”
“You wore khakis to a Brewers game? You need to lighten up. It’s called dressing appropriately.”
Leave it to John to question his wardrobe choices. At least John believed he wore the khakis to the game rather than the crumpled jeans on his closet floor. He wasn’t ready to share his new hobby yet, or explain why he carried the brat magnet with him all week.
“Well. Now I know for next time.”
• • • • •
Lou listened to the hold music, a Muzak version of “Money for Nothing.” Who knew a bank could have a sense of humor? But as awful as the music was, she didn’t want it to end. If she stayed on hold forever, she would never know what the loan officer had to say. Hope could still exist. Hope kept her going. Hope now sounded like Dire Straits.
Alone in the Lair, she’d run the numbers again. If the loan came through, it would give her an extra year to turn things around. A year to pay bills and her employees. Another year to improve their reputation. One year could save Luella’s.
The dream of Luella’s had started at the local culinary school, where she had met Sue. Sue would whisper inappropriate comments under her breath during classes, forcing Lou to cover up her snorts of laughter with coughs and dropped pans. One teacher almost kicked her out of class for knocking over an empty cast-iron pot.
Sue had recognized immediately that Lou had vision and the talent to back it up but lacked courage. In those early years, they had spent hours in prep fantasizing about all the possibilities. Without Sue’s, and eventually Harley’s, constant encouragement, Lou never would have saved the money or taken the risk. It was as much their restaurant as it was hers. While Luella’s wasn’t exactly what they had planned, it was theirs, too, and she wasn’t ready to lose it.
She just needed one bank to believe in her and her restaurant. Just one to see the potential. Just one to trust she could make Luella’s successful. Three already passed—they didn’t believe in her. They all said she would need a third party to guarantee the loan.
The music stopped and Lou’s stomach churned.
“Hello, this is Joanne Smith.”
“Hi, Joanne, this is Elizabeth Johnson. I’m returning your message. You said you’d finished reviewing my documents.” Lou chewed the inside of her cheek.
“Ms. Johnson. Sorry about the wait.”
“That’s okay.”
“Well, I’ve gone over everything—your business plan, your financials. And while I think you’re on the right path, I’m afraid we won’t be able to lend you the money without a guarantor—someone who can pay the loan if you can’t.”
Commercial Lender Joanne Smith might as well have sucker-punched her in the stomach.
“Oh. Okay.”
“As soon as you have someone, please call me back so we can finish the paperwork.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Lou set the phone down as if it were a cracked egg, just one bump away from catastrophe. It was how she felt. Then the bump hit. Lou curled over in her chair, rocking forward and back as the tears fell onto the dated linoleum. She held in her cries, knowing Sue and Harley would hear in the kitchen. The last door had slammed shut, the last glimmer dimmed, the last star wished upon. Her mouth filled with a horrible flavor. Failure tasted like burnt fish and coffee-soaked coconut cake.
Lou pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and entered the kitchen to prep for the evening service. It didn’t take long for their normal routine to commence.
“How can you say anything other than Ratatouille is Pixar’s best movie? You’re a chef, for Christ’s sake,” Sue said.
Lou smiled at Sue’s accusatory tone. She needed this distraction.
Harley rolled his eyes and said, “You’re letting your biases show, Sue. Up uses music better—like a character. The opening fifteen minutes is some of the best filmmaking—ever. And who doesn’t love a good squirrel joke?”
“But Ratatouille brings it all back to food.” Sue waved a carrot in the air to emphasize her point. “They made you want to eat food cooked by a rat! I’d eat the food; it looked magnificent. That rat cooked what he loved, what tasted good. Like I’ve been telling Lou, we should cook food from the heart, not just the rulebook.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Lou said, looking up from the lamb she was carving into chops, scraping all the meat off the rib to adhere to the strict standards for a Frenched chop.
“It’s true. We aren’t gaining any new customers. We may as well do what we want,” Harley said.
“We could try some venison. Hit the farmers’ markets. Otto and Gertrude said we could raid their garden.” Sue’s face lit with hope.
“I hear you and I’ll think about it,” Lou said, her stomach clenching again.
“The fish guy had some fabulous Lake Superior whitefish. I know you have a soft spot for it. A friend has a smokehouse. He cou—”
“I’ll think about it. Weren’t you two discussing movies?”
“I think we settled on me being right.” Sue winked at her. Harley snorted over the whirr and snick of his mixers kneading dough. Sue’s smile just got bigger, and her red braids shook with silent laughter. “So, you never gave us the details on the Brewers game. How’d it go? Did the Brit figure out baseball?”
“It was fine. A perfect day for baseball—sunny, not too hot. A nice breeze.” Lou smiled, pleased with the topic change.
“Bullshit! You know that isn’t what we want to know. I see you get all fluttery when he calls. When are you going to invite him in so we can meet him?”
“You act like there’s more going on than there is.”
“He gave you original artwork.”
“From a street fair. I’m merely showing him the city, which does not involve introducing him to you guys. We’ve been over this. Yes, he’s adorable. Yes, I love the accent. Yes, we have a blast together. And yes, he looks great without a shirt.”
“What! Why did he have his shirt off?”
Lou bit her lip and smiled.
“I brought a Brewers T-shirt for him to wear, and he changed into it in front of me—that’s all.”
“Clever. And . . . ?”
“I almost forgot my own name. He has the little side things.” Lou gestured at her obliques.
“I love those!”
“You know, he isn’t a piece of meat,” Harley said, peering through the stainless steel shelves of the pastry area.
“You’re just jealous because we don’t talk about you like that,” Sue ribbed him. “But seriously, why don’t you do something about that?”
“A million reasons. Too busy, too soon. He doesn’t seem the type to stay here forever. It feels like more of a stepping stone for him. Besides, our agreement is for me to show him the city.”
“So, what’re you doing next? Since you clearly don’t plan to ravage him yet.”
“Summerfest seems about right. West of East is playing Sunday night. I thought we’d catch an early dinner at The Good Land, walk the grounds, then watch the show.”
“A perfect nondate date.”
“Bite me, Sue.”
• • • • •
Al checked his back pocket one more time. The notepad didn’t stick out too much, but maybe some folded paper would lie better. He stood up next to his desk, slipped a few folded pieces of paper into his other back pocket, and slid a hand over each, trying to determine the less obvious choice.
“Why are you rubbing your own ass? You know, you can pay people to do that for you,” said John, who had just walked into the cubicle with a huge grin dividing his facial hair.
“I’m not rubbing my own ass. I’m trying to hide my notes.” Al twisted to see his own bum.
“Don’t you just type them into your iPad?”
“Normally, but I can’t this time. Lou and I are going to The Good Land this Sunday.”
“Why not just tell her who you are?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a love-him-or-hate-him kind of guy. I’m unsure which side she’s on.”
“Au contraire. Hannah said your last column received the most feedback yet—and you even liked the restaurant. Proof you don’t need to destroy every restaurant in Milwaukee to make a name for yourself. People like you when you’re nice, too.”
“Ha. Funny you are not. So, which is less obvious?” Al turned around so John could analyze his backside.
“Really, you want me to look at your butt now?” John rolled his eyes, then took the job seriously. “I can’t tell there is anything on the left side. Is that helpful?”
“Folded paper it is.” Al nodded.
“How is writing on paper less obvious than typing? Unless she’s blind and stupid, she’ll notice.”
“I thought I’d go to the loo before and after dinner to jot down some notes. I’ll dine there again, so I really just want my initial impressions.”
“Can I go next time?”
“No.”
“I’ll behave. I promise.”
“Will you shave your beard?”
John gasped. “No.” His eyes widened in horror, as if Al were wearing acid-washed jeans with black socks and sandals.
“Then no.”
“You are a cruel, cruel man.”
