“He’s a good man, Julie,” she says evenly. “I don’t blame you for having a crush on him.”
Crush? “I’m not seventeen, Mother. It’s not like that anymore.”
“It’ll always be like that for you. You’ve never loved any man as much as you love him. I only wish I’d realized it years ago instead of being a stubborn Yankee prude.” Without another word, she pulls herself up on the repaired railing and goes inside—leaving me flat.
“You lied!” Michael says when I get upstairs. “There’s no ice cream here. You just wanted to get away from me.”
Kicking off my shoes and going into the kitchen for a glass of water, I tell him that’s not true. “It’s been a lousy week and . . . I’m not at my best.” I wish he would leave until this phase of my life was over.
I want him to see the fun me, the pretty me, not the pathetic, anxious, frazzled me. “I’m sorry I’m not in a very good mood,” I say, trying to be nice. “Right now, I feel as far from the perfect woman as you can get.”
And what I really want is for you to hold me and tell me you’ll love me no matter what.
“You look pretty good to me.” He smiles, leaning against the fridge. “But how lousy a week could it have been? Max tells me you made him a star.”
I down half a glass of water and position myself so the kitchen table separates us. “He was a star on his own, and thanks for introducing me to him. Otherwise, we might never have found Amy’s killer and I wouldn’t be out of the basement of WBOS. I owe you. Again.”
“Should we shake on that? Or will you send me a memo?” he asks, scowling.
“What have I done wrong now?”
“Look at you standing all the way over there, shooting darts. You’ve done everything but wrap yourself in barbed wire to keep me away.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to get closer.”
“You didn’t, huh?” Reaching in his back pocket, he pulls out a couple of nails. “These are yours, by the way. I needed some more for the railing and your mother told me to look in your toolbox in the back. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, uh, great.” Sitting at the table, I play with the nails, positioning them so they make a house. “Is that it?”
“How are the air conditioners working out?”
“Great. Thanks again.”
He squints. “I love it when you go all monosyllabic.”
“How’s Carol? Did you find her Peeping Tom?”
“Ahh, there’s the rub. Beware of jealousy, that green-eyed monster, Julie. It doesn’t become you.”
“I’ve got a much scarier monster I’m dealing with now, thank you very much‚” I say, not taking my eyes off the nails.
He’s silent for a minute, waiting for me to spill. “I don’t know what’s bothering you and clearly you’re not about to tell me. But whatever it is, you can call me any time of day or night to talk. And if you don’t want to?”
I look up to find his face as blank of a mask as it was during our first dessert class. “Yes?
“Then get over it.”
Before I can catch him and apologize, he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
—MACBETH ACT V, SCENE 1
Two days later I am waiting to leave for the hospital and sitting in my living room watching Raldo mangle the story of Ray’s arraignment on the noon news. It’s surreal to see Ray, his head hanging sheepishly, enter a plea of not guilty when, clearly, he’s as guilty as sin. I can’t even think about Rhonda or the guilt she must be feeling knowing she allowed into her house a man who would later rape and murder her cherished daughter.
No peach cobbler’s going to ease that kind of pain.
Punching off the television, I get my stuff together and am about to walk out the door when there’s a knock. The familiar
tappity tap tap
of my mother, who probably wants to know why I haven’t left already for the hospital.
“I’m leaving right now,” I say, opening the door. “And I promise to call you as soon as it’s over.”
“You’re going like that.” She shakes her head at my jeans and white tee.
Neat. Clean. Nary a spot. “Sure. Why not?”
“Because you’re not dressed enough for the limousine parked outside for you. That’s why.”
A limo? Really? How exciting. Rushing to the window, I climb onto the couch and look. There’s a limo all right. A long black stretch limousine complete with chauffeur on the sidewalk waiting. Could Donald have sent that? No, that’s impossible. Perhaps this is a service Dr. Spitzer provides to all his patients.
“Gotta go,” I say, flying past Mom. “I’ll call later.”
“Hold on, Julie,” she says.
I stop and look up at my mother, who is perched at the top of the stairs with her hands on her hips, wearing one of her crazy BIRDS OF NEW ENGLAND shirts. From this angle, she’s as tall and authoritative as when I was a little girl.
“I just want you to keep in mind,” she says, “that whatever happens—
whatever
happens—you will survive this just fine.”
There’s an ominous quality to this statement—as if she might be referring to more than the biopsy.
“I know, Mom,” I tell her. “I love you.”
“Ditto,” she says. “Who sent the limo?”
“No one,” I cry as the chauffeur opens the door and ushers me inside.
“No one my ass,” a woman inside says. “This is pretty fancy shmancy car to be hired by a
no one
.”
Liza!
Tumbling into the car, I throw myself at her, hugging her so tight I risk spilling the champagne she’s trying to pour. Fortunately, Liza’s an old pro when it comes to champagne and she manages not to lose a drop.
“Please,” she says, extricating herself. “Not so close. I don’t want to pick up cancer cooties.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “I figured if you had to go to a stinky biopsy, you might as well go in style.”
“You’re the best.” I’m still stunned. It’s like I’m having visitor jet lag. It doesn’t make sense that Liza’s right in front of me when just yesterday she was in Florence trying to Americanize
Sogliola Cestello
into haddock and Cheez Whiz.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Italy.”
“Right. I’m going hang around Italy while my best friend gets hole-punched. ” She hands me a glass of Veuve Clicquot. “Besides, do you have any idea what that country’s like in the middle of summer? Dreadful. No wonder the Gauls sacked Rome in July. The Romans were too hot to fight back.”
Having Liza here chattering away makes me realize how desperately I’ve needed a friend during this minor ordeal. Mom and Em are fine, but there is no substitute for a tried-and-true girlfriend.
“No waterworks, puh-leeze.” Liza tosses me a tissue. “The way I see it, champagne can dull the pain of most troubles, right? So drink up.”
“Right!” And we toast to friendship and hot Rome.
The champagne is cold and dry and deliciously soothing. I could really get used to this. How will I ever go back to Diet Coke and driving my own Subaru?
There are more Liza touches I’m just noticing: the bud vases filled with cheerful yellow daisies, the banner that reads 90 PERCENT! “I can’t tell you how much this helps. You spent too much, Liza. Way too much just for a biopsy. Now if this turns into something more . . .”
“Quick,” she says, “ask me how to make authentic Hungarian chicken paprikash with potato dumplings.”
“How do you make authentic Hungarian chicken paprikash with potato dumplings?”
“Sautée onions in oil and butter, remove them, and brown chicken pieces on both sides. Remove the chicken, add back the onions, and mix with Hungarian paprika. Add the chicken, water, cover and simmer. When done, stir in sour cream. Meanwhile make potato dumplings using instant potato mix. . . .”
“That would be your Liza shortcut.”
“Right. Just mush them with water like we used to do with Ivory Soap Flakes as kids and roll into balls and add to boiling water.”
I tell her that’s disgusting and she tells me that paid for the limo. All I know is Liza must have one heck of an accountant.
It actually wasn’t too bad.
Not that lying still for a half hour while a nurse held my breast against a paddle while Dr. Spitzer went around punching holes out of my flesh is how I’d like to spend every Friday. No, I’d definitely have to say shoe shopping is a bit more fun.
And it would have been nice if, once they hooked me up to the machine, Dr. Spitzer could have slapped his forehead and declared it all a huge mistake.
Why, there was no lesion at all, just a smudge on the mammogram. Get dressed and go home, you silly girl.
Instead, Spitzer parroted the 90 percent line and said not to move an inch. Depositing the tissue samples in bottles, he told me they would be sent to the lab, which should send back a pathology report on Monday, thereby ruining my whole weekend.
I told him this was the first time I’d ever paid a man to go to second base, and asked him if this was the beginning of my slide into moral depravity.
“Wait till you get my bill,” he said as the nurse slapped Butterfly bandages over the biopsy sites. “You’ll want to send me a Dear John letter.”
I’m tempted to reply that I wouldn’t mind sending him one now.
Liza’s waiting with offers to go shopping or out for anything when I leave the hospital. Very wonderful and all that, but having watched Raldo butcher the basic facts of Ray’s arraignment by, for example, asserting Ray could face the death penalty when there is no death penalty in Massachusetts, has me more nervous than the results of my path report.
Right now, work would be the best therapy, I tell her.
“You and work,” Liza says as we bid good-bye. “What’s it going to take for you to get over that?”
You never know. All it might take is a bad biopsy.
Work is wonderful, though I don’t get much done. I waste an hour moving back into my desk and returning phone calls, trying to ignore the pain emerging now that the Lidocaine is wearing off.
Arnie passing by does a double take. “I thought I gave you the day off.”
“I couldn’t stay away from you or your charming personality.”
He gestures for me to follow him to his office. Probably he wants to analyze the chances of the Sox beating the Mariners tonight, that’s how serious he looks.
But I’m wrong. Once inside, Arnie pulls the shades to his glass walls and throws his tablet on the desk. “I’m going to come right out and say it.”
“You love me.” I bat my eyes. “I love you, too. Let’s elope.”
“That mammogram wasn’t good, was it?”
Shit. That’s the last thing I wanted him to find out. There is absolutely no privacy in this office. Collapsing into his comfy chair, I say, “How’d you guess?”
“We went through this two years ago with my wife, June,” he says. “It was hell for a week or so, but she was fine. The waiting’s the bitch.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Luckily she had me to keep her spirits up.” He gives me a weak smile. “You may not know this about me, but I’m a prince of a husband. That weekend we were waiting for the results, June didn’t have to touch a dish and made dinner only once and that was because she insisted.”
Meaning she was tired of eating hot dogs and beans. “How generous.”
“That’s me.” Coming around the desk, he adds, “There’s another reason I brought you in here. Valerie’s not working out so well down in D.C., and Kirk’s restrategizing. He wants to know if you’re still interested.”
Holy . . . I don’t know what to say. Here I’d pretty much put that dream aside and now it’s back. I feel like a kid who’s ridden the roller coaster one too many rides and is now getting slightly sick.
“What about all the concern over my behavior with Michael Slayton? I thought that was the deal breaker.”
Folding his arms, Arnie says, “Apparently Slayton called him this week and apologized. . . .”
“Apologized?” But he had no regrets about what he said. Why would he call Kirk Bledsoe and demean himself like that?
“Kirk said he was very gracious. They had a nice long chat and Slayton said you were nothing but professional in your coverage of the FitzWilliams campaign. He also said that he’d asked you as a friend to tell him the details two days before the story ran so he could check out the allegations himself and that you had refused because you didn’t want us to be scooped. Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true. That peach cobbler incident must have gone to your head, Arnie. I’m not that much of a softie.”
“Hmph.” Arnie narrows his eyes and keeps going. “Kirk was pretty impressed with you—and with Slayton for eating humble pie. With that issue resolved and with the cobbler thing over . . . and now that you redeemed yourself with Ray’s arrest, your star’s fairly high in the WBOS universe.”
Isn’t that always the way. When work is high, my love life is down. And vice versa.
“So what say you? You still interested in being on the national election team?”
A shooting pain brings me back to reality. “How about we wait for the results on Monday and then I’ll decide?”
Arnie nods. “Sounds good. I’ll tell Kirk you need the weekend to consider, but I’ll leave out all the gory details. By the way, got any plans? I could take you out for a beer at Duggy’s and we could catch the end of the Mariners-Red Sox afternoon game.”
“Sounds great, but I’ve got my last dessert class and I can’t miss it. It’s unending chocolate orgasm.”
Arnie blinks. “You food types are kinda hard up in the sex department, aren’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-one
. . . in the end the truth will out.
—THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, ACT II, SCENE 2
Michael’s not there when I arrive at our last dessert class. Neither is Carol.
Actually, the class is pared down to the nuns and Chris the orange-haired foodie and her bald husband. Lilly Pulitzer, Michael, and Carol are off doing something much more exciting, I’m sure. That makes sense seeing as how they were in the cool ginger ice cream group to begin with.