Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life Read online

  Angie reaches for the recorder. “Can I say something?”

  “Sure. Just press this,” I say, giving the RECORD button a click. I point out the microphone. “And talk into here.”

  She delivers a rambling soliloquy about nail polish, bunnies, and her best friend, Fiona; meanwhile, Trent cups a hand to his mouth and, eyeing Angie, asks, “Does she know?”

  Oh, no. I’ve forgotten to warn him to keep the truth about Angie hush-hush, especially from Angie herself. “No,” I half whisper, half hiss, “she doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t what?” Angie chirps beside me.

  “Nothing, sweetheart.”

  Trent saves the day by steering the conversation toward Halloween costumes—Angie wants to be a giraffe or a leprechaun this year—and soon Veronica is hovering over us with a bottle of house wine (cabernet sauvignon, I would note into the recorder, if I could pry it out of Angie’s hands) and a pitcher of ice water. My admittedly fragile ego is relieved to see that, unlike Dominique, Veronica is indeed a citizen of earth.

  “Excuse me,” Trent says once we’re watered and wined, “but can we get some menus?”

  “We don’t have menus,” Veronica informs us.

  Hmm. No menus? That deserves a mention in my review. “Really?” I ask, feeling like we must be the butts of a practical joke.

  “Yup. But I can tell you what we’re serving tonight, if that helps.”

  I’m starting to dislike this place. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, first of all, you should know that we’re a family-style restaurant. The chef wants you to feel like you’re dining at home”—she motions at the other guests—“among loved ones.” Did she say dining or dying? Although I’m not buying her pitch, I mirror her exuberant grin.

  “I’m hungry,” moans Angie.

  Veronica plows ahead. “Good. Because our food is delicious!” Yet we still haven’t heard anything about said food. “Let me get you some fresh-out-of-the-oven rosemary focaccia, drizzled with our white-truffle-and-garlic-infused olive oil.”

  Trent remarks, “Sounds wonderful.”

  Veronica does an about-face for the kitchen, and I catch the strangest sight out of the corner of my eye: Jung (my ever-elusive roommate) and Dex (Naked Shower Hottie) floating into the dining room in Dominique’s wake.

  What in the world? Has Jung tossed the third most gorgeous man on earth aside to sample our sexy, nice-guy neighbor? As Jung and Dex take seats adjacent to us, kitty-corner to the fire, my phone starts vibrating.

  In the spirit of the early snow, I’ve worn a fuzzy, white cashmere sweater to dinner. I slip my hand into its convenient front pocket and retrieve my phone, which, by my own rules, I shouldn’t answer at the table. But just this once . . .

  Or not, I think, when I see who’s trying to contact me: Jimmy. Since I quit The Crowbar, he’s made quite the pest of himself. In fact, he’s even had Kayla—the woman on whom he cheated with my blacked-out, drunken self—call!

  “Who’s that?” asks Trent.

  I stuff the phone back in my pocket. “Oh, nobody.”

  Veronica arrives with the focaccia, which is every bit as scrumptious as described. Heck, even the ultra-picky Angie is all over it (and the dipping oil is all over her).

  I scan the tables around us, trying to get a preview of the food while avoiding eye contact with Jung and/or Dex. Not that their cavorting is any of my business. (It’s not.) I just don’t want to ogle them while they’re at it.

  Too late.

  “Hi,” Dex says when he spots us, a giant grin blooming across his face.

  With a nonchalant wave, I say, “Hey.”

  Jung acknowledges me with a slight head bob.

  Suddenly, Trent is brandishing his cell phone. “I’ve gotta take this,” he says. “Be right back.” He threads his way through the crowd and—I assume, since I can’t see around corners—out onto the sidewalk, where he might find a modicum of privacy. As soon as he’s beyond view, the dinner dishes start arriving.

  “This is the turnspit-roasted guinea hen,” Veronica says, sliding a platter of tiny, headless chicken-y things across the table. “And”—she motions at another waitress, who is loitering in the wings—“these are the wood-oven-roasted mussels and the stuffed, fried olives with pickled-pepper mascarpone.” Waitress #2 slips the second and third plates in front of Angie. “The hot, smoked salmon and the grilled, marinated hanger steak will be out in the next five minutes. Anything else I can get you?”

  I glance at Angie, who’s poking at one of the fried olives. “You don’t have a kids’ menu, do you?” I ask, though I’m not sure why. Menus seem to be anathema here.

  “Nope,” Veronica says. “But the chef is very accommodating. Is there something specific you had in mind? I’m sure he’ll make it for you.”

  “Chicken fingers,” spouts Angie, a devilish twinkle in her eyes. “And smashed potatoes.”

  A girl after my own heart. “Could you ask the chef for us?” I say apologetically. “It’d make our night.” I’m sort of surprised when she agrees, even though the special request was her idea. I mean, it is opening night of a highly anticipated—at least in Mitch Heywood’s view—new eatery, making it hard to believe that the chef, even if he’s the genius-savant he’s cracked up to be, is cooking off-the-cuff.

  Veronica flits off, and I pop an olive in my mouth. One word: heaven. And I don’t even like olives, per se! Also, I’m going to have to muster more than a single descriptor for my critique. But it’s a start.

  I reach for the recorder, but my phone starts buzzing again. Even though I’m sure it’s Jimmy, I can’t not check it.

  Surprise (!): it’s Kayla. I feel a twinge of guilt for ignoring her, but there’s no delicate way of explaining why I’ve ditched The Crowbar. Better to let her assume I’m a heartless bitch than to reveal that her husband and I have engaged in drunken fornication.

  Once again, I tuck the phone in my pocket. When I glance back up, Trent and Dex are on a collision course. If I had the time, I’d screech something like: Watch out, knuckleheads! Instead, I brace for impact as they bash into each other and (oh, shit!) come tumbling toward my lap?!

  Thank God for Dex’s sure-footed athleticism, I guess. As he’s about to swipe the whole brood of guinea hens off the table with his backside, he pirouettes around my chair and lands palms-first against the brick fireplace surround. Trent, on the other hand, breaks his fall with a last-second grab of a nearby diner’s shoulder, followed by a hop, skip, and a leap into my personal space. He concludes with a dramatic flourish, splashing the last ounce of cabernet sauvignon out of my glass and across my fuzzy, white sweater. “Uh, sorry,” he’s saying as I blot the reddish purple liquid (which is already starting to stain, I’m afraid) off the tender fabric with a linen napkin.

  Both Dex and Trent issue apologies of the it’s-his-fault-not-mine variety, though they’re smooth enough to avoid blaming each other outright. Then Dex settles back in with Jung, who has been as mute as ever since her arrival. Trent plops down across from me and slurps a mussel from its shell. “Wow,” he gurgles, the mussel sloshing around in his mouth, “these are awesome.”

  I’m not a fan of gooey sea creatures, and Angie’s grimacing face suggests she agrees. “You can have all of those, if you want,” I say about the mussels. I give up on salvaging the sweater and lodge the discolored napkin under the edge of my plate. Any hope of resurrecting the garment now lies in the dry cleaner’s hands—or, well, his toxic soup of unpronounceable chemicals.

  Trent sucks the remaining mussels from their shells, while I carve up a guinea hen for Angie. At this point, it’s doubtful that the chef-savant is going to come through—and who could blame him, really?—with a Johnny-on-the-spot special order.

  Out of nowhere, Trent asks, “Do you think you could”—his chin juts at Dex and Jung—“get a ride home with the roommate?”

  I’m surprised he’s recognized Jung, since they’ve met a grand total of once. “Huh?” I say, tr
ying to cover my outrage. I mean, what kind of self-absorbed dirtbag ditches his girlfriend and her sister-daughter on such an important night?

  I toss another olive in my mouth, and Trent sighs. “It’s just that, uh . . .”

  Go on, please, I want to say. I’m dying to hear.

  “Grandfather’s called an emergency meeting of the corporate officers,” he explains. “I’ve gotta put in an appearance.”

  At 7 p.m. on a Thursday night? “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  He makes a swirling gesture at the side of his head. “He’s kind of . . . you know.”

  Who isn’t a few roses short of a dozen? “I guess I could call my mom,” I say, cutting a reluctant glance at the lovebirds—boy, Jung has the innocent schoolgirl act down to a science—who are so enamored of each other they’ve disappeared into an alternate universe. “She’d probably pick us up.”

  Trent opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by yet another waitress, who slides the smoked salmon, hanger steak, and—could it be?—chicken fingers and mashed potatoes into place in front of us. “Ooh!” Angie squeals, her plump little hand lunging for the food.

  The waitress vanishes.

  “That’d be great,” Trent says. He checks his watch and sections off a chunk of the hanger steak, which cuts like the proverbial butter. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I had a couple of olives,” I say.

  His eyes narrow. “Yeah, but . . .” He chuckles to himself. “That’s not going to make much of an article, is it?”

  I sense a burst of snarkiness coming on. “You’d be surprised at my talent for making mountains out of molehills.”

  “If you say so.” He dabs the steak juice from the corners of his mouth, stands, and deposits the soiled napkin on his empty chair. After giving me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, he drops a hundred-dollar bill on the table and, over his shoulder, says, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I won’t be holding my breath.

  For the next twenty minutes, Angie and I taste our way through the remaining food—she’s predictably gaga over the creamy potatoes, while I’m not so predictably wowed by the tender, flaky salmon. When the striking Ms. Dominique materializes beside me, I’m struggling to unzip the back of my skirt for some extra digesting room. “How was everything?” she asks, searching my face for clues to my level of satisfaction. She shoots me a Cheshire grin. “Good, I hope.”

  “I lub these,” Angie says, holding up the last chicken finger. (Note to self: get Angie checked for a sinus infection and/or speech impediment.)

  I smile, drain my water glass, and chime in with: “Wonderful, thank you.”

  She claps a too-familiar hand over my shoulder. “Your daughter is darling.”

  My throat seizes, my gaze darting to Angie, who is unfazed. “Oh, no,” I say. “She’s my sister.”

  Dominique steps backward, looks us over, and purses her lips. “I can see that.”

  This conversation is freaking me out. “Please, thank the chef for me,” I say, trying to change the subject, “for going above and beyond. We really appreciate it.”

  A light bulb goes on over Dominique’s head. “You know, he’d be thrilled to hear that himself. Would you mind?”

  She’s going to drag the chef-savant out here in person? Such a turn of events could only enhance my critique. “Absolutely not,” I say. “We’d love to meet him.” She U-turns for the kitchen; meanwhile, Angie starts wiggling around in her chair. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I have to pee.”

  I figured as much. “Can it wait a few minutes?”

  She bites her lip and shakes her head.

  “All right,” I say. I brush the focaccia crumbs off my skirt and stand up. Hand in hand, we weave our way to the restroom, the line for which is half as long as the meandering horde queued up outside for a seat. Eventually, we get a crack at the stalls—I might as well go too, since we’ve waited all this time. As Angie dries her hands in the futuristic, vertical dryer, I smooth her crumpled dress and, once again, comb my fingers through her snarled hair.

  Back at our table, Dominique is milling about collecting napkins and plates, a dark-haired gentleman in chef’s whites—the savant, I assume—hanging patiently beside her. Angie and I prance to within ten feet of them before . . .

  The chef turns, and my knees buckle. Dominique beams cluelessly as I sway from side to side, attempting to maintain my balance. If I end up fainting—an outcome that seems likelier by the second, given the shock I’ve just suffered—at least maybe the savant, a.k.a. Mark Loffel, will know to call my parents. Of course, that’s assuming he 1) remembers me and 2) recognizes me. I mean, I’ve changed a lot since high school, a tragic period during which I lived in baggy sweatshirts, considered ponytails hair nirvana, and spackled enough makeup on my face to smooth the surface of the moon. He’d have to be an FBI profiler to pick me out of a lineup today.

  “Emmaline?”

  Fuck me.

  I channel every ounce of energy I possess into breathing normally. “Hmm?”

  He takes a step toward me and I recoil, our surroundings blurring in a kaleidoscope of colors and motion.

  “Do you two know each other?” Dominique’s curious voice probes.

  That’s one way of putting it.

  From the vicinity of Mark’s head (my senses are so wonky they can’t be trusted) come the words: “It is you, isn’t it, Em?”

  This is all too familiar. And terrifying. “Oh, yeah. Brian, right?” I say, hoping giant sweat rings aren’t pooling under my arms. “We had that econ class together sophomore year at BU?”

  Dominique giggles. “Him? Study economics? You must be joking.”

  “You don’t remember me?” Mark asks.

  He can’t be dumb enough to fall for such a blatant ruse, can he? “Sorry.”

  “Let me make the introductions,” Dominique says, tugging Mark into hand-shaking—or, in another lifetime, kissing—territory. She gives a spokesmodel wave. “This is Mark Loffel, owner and executive chef of The Olive Branch.” She pauses dramatically before adding, “And one of Boston’s native sons.”

  Angie finds her way to my side, where she shyly studies Mark, whose nose, I can’t help noticing, is shockingly similar to her own.

  Dominique continues, “According to Mitchell Heywood of the Boston Sunday Times, this young lady is the next big star of the culinary journalism world.”

  Young lady? I am going to murder my new boss. “Actually, I’m a total neophyte,” I say, cringing at how pompous I sound. Then again, maybe a stilted vocabulary will convince them I’m aloof and unapproachable, an outcome that would be all too welcome at this point in time.

  Mark bends down and stares Angie in the eyes; meanwhile, my stomach flips inside out, my brain liquefies, and my skin burns with the stings of a thousand fire ants. “Hi there,” he says, extending a hand. “What’s your name?”

  Double fuck me. “She’s my sister, Angeline,” I interject, tugging Angie toward our table and scooping up the recorder. “Nice to meet you.” I withdraw a stack of twenties from my purse and scatter them over the hundred-dollar bill Trent left behind. With a pert smile and a no-nonsense attitude, I conclude with: “Thanks for the delicious dinner. Look for my glowing review in the paper in a few days.” Honestly, I’d sell my column space by the inch to the highest bidder, assuming he or she could extract me and Angie from this meet and greet gone wrong.

  “Well, um . . .” Dominique says, sounding both flummoxed and satisfied. I mean, I have promised to gild her lily—or olive branch, as it were—for the whole world to see.

  “Is everything okay?” Mark asks as I steer Angie by the shoulders toward the exit. If we can just make it to the sidewalk, we can put this whole ugly mess behind us—literally.

  “Fine,” I mutter. Until five minutes ago, I’d been pretending Mark Loffel was either a) dead or b) haunting the same Afghani caves that were rumored to have housed Osama bin Laden.

  “Good
to see you,” he counters.

  A convoluted laugh/snort bursts out of my mouth/nose. If anything, Mark should be mad at me, instead of the other way around. And if he stays in Boston long enough, it’s inevitable that he’ll end up hating me—or worse, going to war with me over the custody of our daughter. But I can’t think about that now. For the sake of everyone involved, I buck up and, with a broad—if coerced—smile, say, “Have a nice night. And congratulations on the restaurant. It looks like a runaway success.”

  Which is my cue to run the hell out, period.

  Chapter 11

  “Sorry,” I tell Dex as Angie and I clamber into the back of his SUV. “I tried my mom, but she didn’t answer.”

  “No problem,” he says, gingerly closing the door behind us. He hops in the driver’s seat and brings the engine to a roaring start. Beside him, Jung nestles against the door and props her (high-heeled?!) shoes on the dashboard.

  “So, um . . .” I begin, unsure how to ask what’s on my mind, “are you two . . . ?” Right now, anything that distracts from the chaos of my personal life is a blessing.

  Dex shoots me an over-the-shoulder smirk. “Enjoying a pleasant evening out together? Yes, we are.”

  I’m starting to wonder if Jung has laryngitis when she says, “Dexter came over to check the shower—it’s working great, by the way—and I asked him to dinner. He was nice enough to agree.”

  Something about this story isn’t jibing. “And you got a table? Just like that? On opening night?”

  Jung chuckles. “Oh, no. I had a reservation,” she explains. “Dr. Beckett cancelled, and I didn’t want the table going to waste.”