“Oh my God,” the woman said, peering closer as Carmen shrunk back from the scrutiny.
“It
is
her,” the woman said to her boyfriend/husband/colleague/whatever he was. “Gus has been around forever but that Carmen is completely obnoxious,” said the man. “With that Spanish accent. Like we don’t know she comes from Des Moines or something.”
“I’m from
Sevilla,
” Carmen said hotly, even as the couple continued yakking,oblivious to anything but themselves.
“And those fake boobs,” said the woman. “All ‘hi, how are you.’ ”
“Those are the only things I like,” said the man.
The woman snorted. “Pig,” she said, though she didn’t seem the least bit unhappy. “I bet she can’t even cook.”
Gus cleared her throat. “You do realize, don’t you, that we are standing about half a foot away from you?”
“It’s all a scam anyway,” the man said to his companion, ignoring Gus entirely, as though he was merely at home talking in front of the TV.
“Hello, real people over here,” she said. “Yoo-hoo.”
“I can’t stand how they mix up the ingredients and then pull the finished pan out of the oven two seconds later,” said the woman. “Like we don’t know they cooked it ahead of time.”
“Exactly!” said the man. “Anyone could be on a cooking show. I could do that and I can’t even cook!”
His companion turned and addressed Carmen and Gus directly. “You two amateurs should get a real cooking job, like the chef at the resort here. Our dinner was fantastic.”
“Let me guess,” Gus said coolly. “You had the marinated crab with green apple and yuzu.”
“Yeah,” said the man. “How did you know?”
“Because Carmen and I just prepared that elaborate feast you and your friend here consumed,” Gus said, her voice rising. “We diced and spiced every last mouthful.”
“And Gus made the baked figs with port and cinnamon,” Carmen said. “Did you eat that, too?”
“Yes,” said the woman, shrinking back a little. “It was nice.”
“It was goddamn delicious and I think you ought to say so,” said Carmen, jabbing her finger in the woman’s face. Gus quickly put a hand on Carmen’s shoulder and pulled her back, just as the elevator door opened.
“Celebrities are such jerks,” the man said, as he scurried out the door. “All we did was try and talk to them.”
“And her boobs aren’t fake!” Gus shouted to the retreating duo as the elevator doors began to close. She turned to Carmen. “Are they?”
23
It Was Well after midnight when a sheet of paper came sliding underneathGus’s door.
Get a move on!
was written by hand in large green bubble letters.
Another game? Gary Rose was insufferable, the way he demanded everyonedo what he wanted all the time, shoving notes into people’s rooms.
She thought about staying put but she really didn’t want to be the only one not there.
Gus skipped putting a robe over her emerald nightgown, tramping briskly to meet up with the group. Why hadn’t he put this activity on the schedule? Gus marched through the gardens near the main building and found the tenniscourts, walked past them until she had made her way down to the lake.
“I forgot to wear shoes,” she said to Hannah, who was juggling tennis balls on the sand. Hannah shrugged, intent on her game.
“Mommy!” Aimee sounded urgent but her voice was faint. There she was, waving, all the way over on the other side of the lake. “I’ve lost Sabrina,” she called.
Without hesitation, Gus dragged an abandoned canoe out in the water— it was cold!—her bare feet splashing and her nightgown getting wet, trying to pull her down. It took great effort but she managed to get herself in, rowingfrantically, though the lake was choppy.
The water bubbled near her canoe, making her nervous, but then Oliver popped his head up through the waves.
“Hi, Gus,” he said. “Would you like to go swimming with me?”
“But I haven’t got a bathing suit,” she said.
“That’s okay.” Oliver reached out a hand to pull her in. “I don’t mind...”
Oof! All ten pounds of Pepper the cat landed squarely on Gus’s chest, jarring her awake. She had been dreaming.
“You’re better than an alarm clock, you know that?” she told her cat. Pepper meowed back, not so subtly encouraging her to get up and plate his breakfast.
“And a bowl of milk, you say?” Gus said, petting behind his ears. She threw on a robe and started to head downstairs in her bare feet, then turned back to her closet for a pair of slippers. Salt, snoozing on the stair landing, stretched lazily and followed them into the kitchen.
Her neck, shoulders, and butt positively burned with ache: she’d put herself through the paces with yoga, the hike, and the frantic dinner in the kitchen Sunday night. But none of that caused as much tension as the twenty minutes she spent as a passenger in Hannah’s red Miata, coming home from the retreat the morning before. After yet another zig when Hannahshould have zagged—not to mention a surprising inability to read any signs while the car was in motion—Gus demanded that she pull over and let her drive.
“But I’m really good at it,” Hannah’d protested, though Gus remained firm and got into the driver’s seat, placating Hannah by showing her how to lower the convertible top.
“I switched the wipers on four times trying to figure that out on Friday,” she’d said. But it hadn’t been a smooth drive with Gus at the wheel, either: she hadn’t driven a stick shift in over twenty years.
“Remind me not to ask you for driving lessons,” smirked Hannah, as she let her hair blow in the wind, watching the Hudson Valley scenery stream by.
Now Gus rummaged around the cupboard for some acetaminophen. She went to the sink for a bit of water and glanced out the window, expected to admire her pansies. Instead, she saw Hannah, in a T-shirt and shorts, crisscrossing her fingers and stretching her arms back, back, back over her head.
Gus rapped on the window before opening it. “You’re here early,” she said. Hannah waved and continued her exercises for several more minutes before coming in through the patio door.
“Actually you’re up late, Gus,” she said. “It’s past eight. I’ve already done a run up the road and back.”
“What?”
“I went for a jog, outside, like any normal person,” said Hannah. “And I did not wear a ball cap, sunglasses, or even a hoodie.”
“Good for you. I can only imagine that you fell under the spell of Gary Rose and his can-do spirit over the weekend.”
“Nope.” Hannah reached for an orange out of the fruit bowl on Gus’s counter. “I just got reacquainted with Hannah Joy Levine.”
“Opting out of the candy diet?”
“This is just supplemental,” she said, mounding up her orange peel on the counter. She ambled over to peek in the fridge. “Ooh, smoked salmon,” said Hannah. “Wouldn’t that taste good on eggs?”
“It might,” said Gus. “Are you going to make me some breakfast?”
Hannah pretended to be confused. “If I watch you, then I can learn a thing or two.”
Gus laid out a bowl and a whisk on the counter, a suspicious look on her face. “All right, Hannah Joy Levine, I’ll bite,” she said. “What’s with the sudden interest in cooking?”
“I’m taking up Alan’s offer,” said Hannah. “I’ve decided that I’m coming onto the show.”
“Are you sure? They’re going to exploit you like nobody’s business.”
“I just felt so ... alive this weekend,” Hannah said, reaching into the cupboardfor a cup and taking it to the coffeepot. “I thought, I’m thirty-six years old. Am I going to stay at home forever?”
“You were thirty-six a few weeks ago and afraid to come down the stairs for the show,” said Gus. “But if you’re breaking out of the pattern, then good for you.”
She yawned. “I can’t believe I slept in. Normally I set everything out for you, cups and such. It’s a bit odd to have you do it for yourself.”
“It’s okay,” said Hannah. “It’s not like you have to do that for me. We don’t want to get stuck in our roles now, do we?” She got a second mug, poured coffee and put in a dash of milk. Slowly she carried it over to her friend. “Sit down and spill it,” she said. “And I don’t mean the coffee. I barely saw you over the weekend, and it was impossible to talk over the noise of the thruway on the way back.”
“What’s there to tell?” Gus said, feeling a little weepy.
“Look, the money thing is all over the entertainment news. What with the kettle fire coverage just a few weeks ago and now this ... you’re everywhere.”
“I wasn’t the only one who got suckered, you know.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got some pretty highbrow company. And I don’t just mean Alan.”
“Well, my Q ratings must be going through the roof,” said Gus. “If you’re serious about coming on the show, we’ll be getting even more coverage.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Remember when I was just a quiet old lady with a cooking show? Now I’m ringleader of a very out-of-control circus.”
“Whatever you do, Gus, you must hold your head high,” said Hannah. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and even if you did, there’s no life in hiding out.”
“So that’s it, then?” She handed Hannah a plate of smoked salmon and eggs. “One weekend and you’re free?”
“Ha! If that were the case, I’d run ‘get over it’ retreats for agoraphobics everywhere. I’d make a mint.” She tucked into her plate and took several bites. “I’m freaked out of my wits,” she confessed. “But I’m scared to wind up ninety years old and alone. And let’s face it, Gus, you’re most likely going to be dead by then. I wouldn’t have anyone to feed me.” She polished off her breakfast and wiped her lips with a napkin.
“There’s nothing wrong with being alone,” Gus said, piling up the dirty saucepan, cutting board, and plates in the sink. “It doesn’t mean there’s anythingthe matter with you just because you don’t have a man in your life.”
Hannah choked on her coffee and began coughing.
“Don’t have a man in my life! Hell’s bells, Gus, I haven’t gone on a date in fifteen years,” croaked Hannah. “Not everyone has relationships, you know? Besides, who said anything about romance? I was just hoping to make another friend. Carmen and I hung out a bit and it was kinda cool.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree there,” said Gus. “She’s the kind of friend who’d climb over your dead body to get to the top of the heap.”
“I just said she was nice to me,” murmured Hannah. “I didn’t make her a friendship bracelet and offer to lend her my
Toto
album. Sheesh!”
“Sorry, I’m on edge,” said Gus.
“Why do you suddenly have men on the brain?” Hannah mused aloud. “That’s unusual. That’s interesting.”
“No, it isn’t. There’s nothing to tell.” Gus wasn’t about to reveal her dream to Hannah, the way the water had glistened on Oliver’s broad shouldersand the disarming way he’d gazed at her. That made her want to move closer, closer . . .
“Nothing?” Hannah asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Or did somethingelse happen this weekend that you want to tell me about? You and Gary Rose? C’mon, you can confess . . .”
“No, Hannah, the only man on my brain is named David Fazio, and he’s laughing all the way to the bank.”
Gus went over to her laptop to see if she had received any email messages from Alan about the situation. Nothing.
“So what’d you think about the contest winner, Priya?” she asked Hannah.
“A bit under a cloud, I’d say. Or maybe just obsessive. She talked about you nonstop.”
“I thought she was nice enough. Tired, maybe. But she’s got three kids. She was kind of sweet, really.”
“Speaking of kids ... what’s up with the girls?” asked Hannah.
“Ah, right, that. You saw my public humiliation with the rest of the crew. I’m officially a bad mom.”
“Not true, Gus. I meant where did you leave things?”
“We’re trying, I guess,” Gus said. “Big talks, just getting some things out there. Aimee feels too much pressure, and Sabrina’s overprotected. Or somethinglike that.” In fact, the conversations with her daughters—there had been another long one on Sunday night—had been tremendously fatiguing, and it was difficult to absorb everything they wanted to say. Mostly Gus felt blamed and worried. But her girls had seemed so hopeful when they were together, as if somehow, even as they were telling Gus to leave them be, she would be able to fix it all and make everything all right.
Sometimes old habits were hard to break. And sometimes there were no easy answers.
Clearly Gus required a publicist: she’d come home from the retreat to a phone ringing off the hook. All reporters, hoping to get a tasty quote about being bamboozled. She’d turned off the ringer, ignoring the constant flash on the call display, and pretended not to be home. And she hadn’t botheredto turn on the phone that morning, either. Instead, she put on a pair of well-worn chinos and a faded denim shirt—her gardening clothes, she called them—and went out to spend some quality time with her roses, which, despite being surrounded by thorns, never complained, talked back, or called her out in public.
“But how will you feel when I can’t afford your pricey rose feed?” she murmured. “Will you still love me then?” She carried a handful of blooms to the laundry room sink to be trimmed and washed her hands before crossingthe foyer to the dining room to choose some containers from her china cabinet. Gus spent more time choosing vases than was necessary that afternoon,because she liked the distraction and because she enjoyed reflecting on the story behind each piece. She had just selected the cut crystal bud vase that had been her great-grandmother’s—which she’d been planning to pick out all along—when the doorbell rang.
She looked at the clock on the wall: it was well past four. That was pretty much the middle of the workday for a New Yorker, which put the majority of her friends and family out of the running. Her daughters would never have rung the bell, and Hannah pretty much came through the gate between their yards and in from the patio. It wasn’t the day for the paperboy to pick up payment, and the meter reader didn’t need to come to the door. Another writer in search of a story, thought Gus. Strange how when she was engrossed in a news article she’d never spent much time thinking about the people who were quoted, about whether they’d wanted to chat off a reporter’s ear or whether they had to be hounded and cajoled.