“No, thanks. We're fine.” She walked away from him and went to Zack.
Later that afternoon, Sari tried to convince Zack to touch his tongue to a piece of steak.
Maria had arrived at five and set to work preparing Zack's dinner—pasta with butter. Sari, who had been just about to leave, stopped to ask some questions about Zack's diet. Under questioning, Maria reluctantly admitted that toast, pasta, bagels, and Cheerios were pretty much all he ate. Sari asked if Maria ever offered him other foods and she said she used to, but he never ate any of them, so she had stopped trying.
“We've got to work on this,” Sari said.
“He eats healthy,” Maria said. “He drinks milk and juice. And not too many cookies. I don't give him too many cookies or candy.”
“That's great,” Sari said. “But he needs to be eating meat and chicken and cheese and fruits and vegetables. How much of those does he eat?”
“Not so much,” Maria said. “Bananas, sometimes.”
The kitchen smelled good—far better than boiling pasta ever did—and Sari looked around, sniffing. “What else are you cooking?”
“Steak,” Maria said. “For my dinner.” Adding quickly, “It's fine with Jason.”
“I’m sure it is,” Sari said. “When it's done, I’d like to have Zack taste it. From now on, I don't want you to give Zack the food he already likes until he's tried a taste of something new. It's enough for him just to put his tongue to it. But he's got to try.”
“He eats healthy,” Maria said again.
“Tell me when the steak's done,” Sari said and planted herself at the kitchen table.
Zack had been standing in the doorway humming to himself during the exchange and now came into the kitchen and climbed into the chair across from her. His right hand came to rest, palm down, on the table. Sari leaned forward and put her hand on top of his. Zack instantly moved his hand away. Sari covered it again. This time, Zack gave a little giggle and when he moved his hand, he glanced quickly at her. Sari covered his hand again with hers. Zack chorded. They did this a few more times and then Sari put her hand flat on the table. “Your turn,” she said. She waited. Zack looked at her sideways, then darted his hand forward and put it on top of hers. She covered it with her free hand. “Got you!” she said, and he exploded in laughter.
“That's good.”
Sari looked up to see Maria standing next to them, watching, a plate in her hand.
“It's nice to see him laughing with you,” the housekeeper said. She put the plate down in front of Sari. There was a small piece of steak on it. Maria also handed her a fork and knife and napkin.
“Thank you,” Sari said, arranging it all on the table. “This is perfect.”
“He won't eat it,” Maria said. “Meat makes him do this—” and she made a retching sound.
“Oh, good,” Sari said brightly. “Let's model gagging for him.”
“I’m just telling you.”
“Well, don't. Not in front of him.” She turned to Zack. “Okay, my friend.” She cut off a tiny bit of steak, then stuck a fork into it, and held it up like a steak popsicle. “One taste of this and you get a plate of delicious hot buttered pasta. You want pasta, don't you?”
He grunted and rocked.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Taste the steak and you get your pasta.” Sari held the fork out to him and he didn't move. “Come on, Zack. One little taste. Just a lick.” She moved the steak closer to his mouth but he clamped his lips shut and pulled his head back, away from the fork.
That's when Jason walked in. Sari hadn't seen him since dismissing him from the basketball court. He stopped at the sight of her. “You're still here?”
“I wanted to help with dinner,” Sari said.
There was no mistaking the look of renewed hope on his face. He came closer. “Is that steak? Zack wont eat that. He hates meat.”
“He'll learn to eat it,” Sari said. “But not if people keep reminding him he doesn't like it.”
“Sorry.”
“It's okay. But I do want to see him trying new foods. The best way to get him to do that is to wait to give him what he wants until he tastes something he doesn't usually eat. I’ll show you what I mean.” She turned her attention back to Zack. “Lick the steak, Zack, and then it's pasta time.” She put the steak lollipop close to his lips. This time, he gagged audibly. “Come on, buddy. One little taste.” She pretended to put it in her own mouth. “Like this. And then you'll get your pasta.” Zack shook his head.
Jason was watching intently, standing right next to her. He smelled like a mixture of musk and fresh sweat.
It wasn't a bad smell.
Sari snuck a covert glance up at him. His T-shirt was damp at the armpits and chest, and his arms looked even more cut than usual. He must have been working out somewhere in the house.
He was frowning down at his son. “I don't know why Zack chose to become such a determined vegetarian. I’m sure it was for some deep, spiritual reason.”
“Maybe he's just worried about mad cow disease,” Sari said.
“Ha. That's one of Denise's nightmares. She ate a hamburger in London years ago and whenever she has trouble remembering something, she's convinced her brain is turning to soup.”
“Does she still eat meat?”
“Only if it's grain-fed and organic and all that.” He went over to a cabinet and opened it. “It's cocktail hour, isn't it? Anyone care to join me? Sari? Maria? Zack?”
“Hear that, Zack?” Sari said. “If you lick the steak, Daddy will give you a martini.”
“I wish you'd stop saying ‘lick the steak.’” Jason poured some vodka straight into a small glass. “It's the closest I’ve come to having sex in months.”
Sari laughed out loud before she could catch herself. No one said anything after that for a moment. She looked at Maria to gauge her reaction, but the housekeeper was just standing at the counter, stolidly cutting and chewing her steak.
Jason went over to the refrigerator and pressed the ice button. Two pieces of ice slipped out; Jason caught one, but the other landed on the floor. Jason ignored it, just dropped the one he'd caught in his glass and sat down at the table with Sari and Zack. Behind him, Maria walked over, picked up the piece of ice off the floor, and threw it in the sink.
“Maria?” Sari said. “Would you please get Zack's bowl of pasta ready and bring it over? Maybe he'll be more inspired with it in front of him.”
The incentive worked, in a way. Zack was so eager to eat the pasta that he screamed for a minute in pure frustration when Sari held it out of his reach and continued to insist he put his mouth to the steak. Finally, furiously, he touched his tongue to the steak, then retched violently.
“There you go,” Sari said. “And here's your pasta.” She set it down in front of him and his fury instantly vanished. He plunged happily into the pasta, tears still wet on his face.
“He couldn't really have tasted that” Jason said.
“You'd be surprised,” Sari said. “Each time you offer him something, he'll be a little more comfortable with the idea, and he'll let himself taste it a little more. At some point, he may even decide he likes it. If you keep it up, I promise you his diet will expand. You just have to insist for a while.” She looked over her shoulder to include Maria. “You both have to.”
“We will,” Jason said.
“Remember—he doesn't get anything he already likes without trying something new first.” Sari pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
Jason followed her to the front door and, as she shouldered her backpack, he said, “Look, I don't know how—” He stopped. “I was just wondering—” He stopped again with a short awkward laugh. Then he said, “It's just that Maria's here for the rest of the evening, and I don't have any plans. I was wondering— hoping—that maybe you'd come get a drink with me. Or dinner. Whatever you want. Would you? Please?”
Sari felt a flash of pleasure and triumph. Jason Smith was asking her out on a date. And he w
as nervous about it. Her fifteen-year-old self squealed with joy. Then she remembered she wasn't fifteen anymore.
She said, “Thanks. I can't.” She sounded rude. She decided that was a good thing. “Goodbye,” she said and reached for the doorknob.
Jason put his hand flat against the door so she couldn't pull it open. “Wait,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I just have to ask. Did I do something to make you angry? I feel like maybe I said or did something—” He paused, took a breath, started again. “Maybe at the walk? Please tell me. The last thing I’d want to do is offend you in some way.”
It almost came out then. Did he really want to know how he had offended her? She thought of the stories she could tell, of the times Charlie had been humiliated and insulted and hurt in a million different ways by Jason and his friends.
But if she told him that, he would probably apologize, say he was sorry he'd ever been such a stupid kid. Then she would end up saying something conciliatory, like it was okay, she understood, it was all in the past… She didn't want to be conciliatory. She wanted to be angry. She needed to be angry.
So she smiled at him and said, “Don't be silly. You haven't offended me at all. And I don't want to offend you, either, so please understand—this kind of thing happens to me all the time. In fact, it happens to everyone who works at the clinic. Sometimes, unfortunately, people misinterpret our concern for their kids—read more into it than is actually there.” She tilted her head with a little sigh. “It's no one's fault. Just a little misunderstanding.”
“Oh,” he said. His face was turning red. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Once again he stopped.
“You don't have to be sorry,” she said. “And please don't be embarrassed. Like I said, it happens all the time. And, really, I think it's very sweet of you to ask me out.” She knew the word “sweet” would kill him. “But this is just a job for me. Even though I come to your house. You get that, right?”
“Of course,” he said, stepping back from the door. “Of course.”
“All right then,” she said with a deliberately fake heartiness. “I’m glad we got that all out in the open.”
He just nodded, not looking at her.
“So I’ll see you Monday?” she said.
“Yeah, all right.”
He couldn't close the door behind her fast enough.
She had totally humiliated him. She should feel good about that—revenge was supposed to be sweet, wasn't it?
But it was Friday night and she had no plans. She'd end up knitting row after row of that stupid baby blanket while she watched crappy TV and sipped at a glass of cheap wine. All by herself.
That really sucked.
II
Kathleen wasn't spending much time in her apartment. After work, she was either out with Kevin or at his house. She stayed over a lot of nights, and even when she bothered to come home, it was only to sleep.
It wasn't until she ran into Sam Thursday morning in the parking garage of their building that it occurred to her it had been a couple of weeks since she'd last seen him. He was dressed in a suit and tie and looked tired and grim as he walked toward his car.
Kathleen was heading into the building from the opposite direction, wearing the same tight electric-blue dress she had worn the night before to a club—when it had made sense to be wearing a low-cut dress that showed an almost indecent amount of her long lean thighs. She ran to catch up with Sam.
“Hey,” she said from behind as she reached him.
Sam turned around. “Kathleen,” he said. “Now I understand why I haven't seen you in a while.” He nodded toward the dress as if it explained everything.
Kathleen put her chin up and said, “I’ve been busy.”
“I can see that. Are you going into the office later? Or have you stopped doing that?”
“Of course I’m going in,” she said. “I’m still working.”
“Oh, I didn't say you weren't working,” he said. “You're clearly working hard.” He inclined his head politely and walked off.
That night, she and Kevin had a quiet tête-à-tête at a small, extremely expensive Italian restaurant in West L.A. where everyone who worked or ate there seemed to know him by name, and then they went back to his house, where they soaked in the hot tub for a while, which of course ended with them wrestling under the sheets together, and then Kathleen told him she had to go back to her apartment. “I need a good night's sleep,” she said, sliding off the bed and on to her feet. “And some clean clothes.”
“You should leave stuff at my place,” Kevin said. He was sprawled on the bed, where the rumpled Frette sheets bore witness to their recent activity. “I’ve got a whole second closet I only use for tuxedos and ski clothes. It's mostly empty.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Kathleen pulled her dress over her head.
“Want me to come with you?”
“You don't want to. The place is just a big empty mess.”
“How can it be empty and a mess?” he asked.
“I don't know,” she said. “It just is.”
When she got home, it was even worse than she had remembered. Since she'd mostly been using the apartment as a big walk-in closet, clothes were tossed all over the place. A lot of them were dirty—after years of living with a housekeeper, she was having trouble getting used to doing her own laundry.
She pushed enough stuff off of her “bed” to clear some space for herself and went to sleep.
She woke up early the next morning, hurled herself into the shower, threw on a pair of decent black pants and a sweater (worn once or twice since the last dry cleaning, but not noticeably dirty), and raced up the back stairs. Sam's kitchen door was locked. She pounded on it. He might have already gone to work, she thought, and pounded harder.
Suddenly, it opened.
“What do you want?” He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. “It's eight o'clock in the morning.”
“I thought you left for work early,” she said. “You were already heading out this time yesterday.”
He ran his fingers through his rumpled gray and black hair. “I had an early meeting yesterday. And it almost killed me. I’m not a morning person.”
“I’m getting that sense,” she said. “Anyway, you're up now. I’ll run out and grab us some bagels and coffee.”
“Are you treating?” he said.
“Sure.”
He yawned. “Be careful, Kathleen. Don't go spending money you don't yet have. The prenup alone could cost you all sorts of setbacks and legal fees.”
“You know what?” Kathleen said. “I’m sorry I asked. Forget it.” She turned around and headed back down the stairwell.
“Sesame bagel and black coffee,” he called after her. “Very hot.”
By the time she returned, he had showered and put on his suit pants, socks and shoes, and a crisp white shirt.
He seated himself at the marble half-circle table and Kathleen thunked down the cardboard cups of coffee and two paper-wrapped bagels in front of him. She sat down. Sam immediately got up again with a sigh of disgust. He went to the cupboard and took out two plates, then made a big show of unwrapping each bagel and arranging it on a plate. He frowned when he unwrapped his. “Jesus, Kathleen, what the hell's on this?”
“It's lox spread,” she said. “I thought you'd like it. I do.”
“Disgusting,” he said. “Nitrates mixed with fat.”
“It tastes good. But if you don't like it, scrape it off.”
“Not worth it. I’ll eat something at work.” He dropped the bagel on the plate and left it on the counter, picked up his coffee, removed the plastic top, and threw it out in the wastebasket under the sink, then poured the coffee into a mug. He threw out the paper cup, returned to the table, sat down, and finally took a sip of coffee. “You're quiet,” he said.
“I’m waiting for you to drink your coffee. There doesn't seem to be much point in trying to make conversation until then.”
“True.” He t
ook a few more sips, then looked at her over the top of his mug. “So,” he said. “Everything going well?”
“Fine.”
“I’m assuming that your continual absence in your own apartment reflects well on the success of your current pursuit?”
She shrugged. “I go out with Kevin a lot, if that's what you mean. In fact, tonight we're supposed to go to some big fundraiser. His dad's being honored.”
“What's the charity?”
“I don't know.”
“Good for you,” he said. “Girls shouldn't worry their pretty little heads with boring details like that.”
“Oh, who cares?” Kathleen said. “One charity is pretty much the same as another.”
“Your embrace of your own ignorance never ceases to impress me,” Sam said and took another sip of coffee.
“Don't be such a dick,” she said. “I need your help. You're a bigwig type—”
“Says who?”
“Kevin. He says you're a shark.”
“Really?” He looked pleased.
“I bet you go to things like this all the time. Tell me what I should wear—I’m going to be sitting with the Porters and I don't want to make a fool of myself.”
“Now that's what your pretty little head should be worrying about. What to wear.”
“It said ‘black tie’ on the invitation. Does that mean I have to wear like a ballgown? Or just a really nice dress?”
He flung out his hand. “How the hell would I know what a girl your age should wear when she goes out at night? Go pick up a copy of Cosmopolitan.”
“You could be a little more helpful,” Kathleen said.
“No, I don't think I can.” He took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, why worry? Your fairy godmother will take care of the dress for you.”
“Actually,” Kathleen said. “When you think about it, you're my fairy godmother. I mean, you gave me the apartment and the job. And that's how I met Kevin—”
“Your Prince Charming.”
“The shoe fits,” she said. “No, wait, it's Cinderella's shoe that fits.” She shrugged. “Whatever. You know what I mean.”