Off the Menu Read online

  When everything is set, we both sass up a bit, and pop a cork on a bottle of bubbly, toasting each other and our friendship. I’ve asked RJ to come a half an hour before everyone else so that he and Bennie can have a few quiet moments before the horde descends, and the bell rings right on the dot.

  “God, you look beautiful,” he says, kissing me right into my bloodstream.

  “And you are very handsome,” I say, taking in his crisp black slacks and lovely soft gray cashmere sweater. When he looks at me the way he is looking at me right now, it is easier to ignore the pit of the stomach reservations. Not eliminate them, but quiet them.

  “And I am a vision of loveliness,” Bennie says behind us.

  RJ peers around me, and says, “Well, you certainly are at that!” He hands me a bag, and goes to greet Bennie. “You’ll forgive me if I hug you. I feel like I know you already.” He takes her in a full embrace, nothing hesitant or restrained.

  I watch her melt. RJ gives great hug.

  “Well, Alana, now you are in trouble, because I’m going to steal him from you.”

  “Bennie, with all due respect, there isn’t a woman, living or dead, who could turn my head from Alana, but I swear that if I were woo-able, you would be the girl to do it. I’m a sucker for a redhead with an Aussie accent.”

  Bennie blushes prettily, gentle pink rising in her porcelain cheeks, making her usually pale freckles go copper. She tosses her shiny hair, strawberry chestnut shot with deep auburn, and turns to me. “Oh, honey, you are in TROUBLE.”

  We all laugh, and head to the kitchen. RJ has brought some wines from his cellar, which he specifically tells me are for me and not to just put them out for the party. He pours himself a glass of champagne. “How is everything here? What can I do to be helpful?” he asks after we have dutifully toasted each other.

  “I’m pretty close to done in here; why don’t you two go hang in the living room and chat before the locusts descend.”

  He leans over and kisses me. “Will do. Come, you vixen from Down Under, I want to hear all about how you transformed this apartment, because I hear it was significantly fuller before you got hold of it, and frankly I can’t imagine any more stuff in here.”

  “Oh, it was fine. I mean it wasn’t fruit salad or anything, it just needed an update.” She is so politic.

  “It was a hot mess and she saved it and me. Now scoot!” I shove them toward the living room, not eager to hear how this story comes out.

  My condo hadn’t been so much decorated as it had been cobbled together. When I first bought it, I was moving from an apartment half the size, and was very concerned about getting it furnished completely. I spent my spare time at flea markets and consignment stores, and took a lot of wonderful hand-me-downs from Maria. I didn’t have money for real art, so I bought a beautiful old antique book with hand-colored plates depicting classic recipes and old cooking equipment, took it apart and, with the help of some IKEA frames, managed to fill a lot of the wall space. In my travels around the antique stores of Illinois, I managed to acquire way too many small pieces, endless occasional tables, tchotchkes, and general household detritus.

  Last summer, I had finally asked Bennie for help. She came in for a visit, and in three whirlwind days we edited, moved around, redressed. She took my whole condo, which was full of stuff, and made the stuff make sense. We shifted things around, and put many former treasures out in the alley for the next generation of young people in need of furnishings. By the time she was done, my place was still full, but more logically so. And there were some places for breath. I had confessed to RJ that, while my place seemed jam-packed with stuff, it had been reduced by nearly a quarter of its volume. He just laughed and told me that I would get the joke when I saw his place, which I did. While I lean Victorian, in the spirit of my 1906 stately stone lady, he stayed true to the Arts and Crafts sensibility of his little Ravenswood Manor bungalow. And while I have a lot more stuff, it is only because I have nearly three times the space. But where I have a lot of furniture and cooking and entertaining equipment, he has music equipment, gorgeous artwork, beautiful rugs. I have worked very hard not to imagine too much how our households might merge, but I am guilty of mentally redecorating my place with some of his stuff. Can’t help it, I’m a girl, and we indulge in such madness.

  When I finally come out to the living room, the party all ready for the rest of the guests, RJ and Bennie are chatting like old friends, much to my heart’s delight. She winks at me, and I know they are bonding well. I sneak off to the bedroom, ostensibly to do a final primp, and call Bruce.

  “Hello! I was going to e-mail you. Shall we hit Girl and the Goat when I’m there in a couple of weeks? I’ll have to pull a favor to get us in, so I thought I should ask sooner rather than later.”

  “I’d love to have dinner there with you, if you still want to.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to? Oh, shit, what’s up with Patrick that you couldn’t fix?”

  “It isn’t a Patrick thing. Look, I was going to wait till you were here, to tell you face-to-face, but then I was afraid someone else might tell you and I thought you’d rather hear it from me, even if it is over the phone.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  “It’s just, I’ve, well, I’ve met someone. And we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and I think he is going to specifically ask me to be exclusive and I’m going to say yes. And I needed to know that when I say yes, that you and I have already agreed that we are going to go back to a non-naked friendship.”

  “Alana, that is wonderful news and I could not be happier for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, kiddo. Look, I always knew you were a gift with an expiration date. And lord knows if I were cut out for a real relationship, I would have jumped through a lot of hoops to get you all for myself. And I know that I’m probably going to be really depressed about it pretty soon. But we always said we were friends and colleagues first, and so we shall remain.”

  “Thank you, Bruce, and thank you for everything you have been and for being a very good friend. I’m glad that we get to keep each other.”

  “Me too. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that I’m going to need some time before I meet him, but that I do want to meet him eventually. I really hope he’s the one, Alana, you deserve it. And I hope if he turns out to not be the one, that you’ll come back to me until you do find the one.”

  “It’s a deal.” But it isn’t. Because I know that as great as my thing with Bruce was for its time, you don’t come back after a guy like RJ. You are changed forever; your context is entirely different. I know that if RJ and I don’t end up together, I won’t ever be able to be with someone who is a placeholder.

  “Okay, sweetie, then Girl and the Goat business instead of pleasure. I’ll invite Patrick so there is an appropriate buffer and I won’t be tempted to pounce on you. Maybe by next time I’ll be able to invite your fella too.”

  “Ha-ha. Just remember, whatever you might feel isn’t really about making a mistake with me, it’s just because someone else has me; it isn’t real.”

  “That is very sweet to say, and I appreciate your willingness to try to give me an out for being enough of an ass to lose you.”

  “Bruce, if either of us had really wanted or needed more from each other, we would have figured it out years ago. I think this transition will be much less onerous than you think it will be.”

  “All right, I’ll focus on that. And don’t worry, this will bring all kinds of interesting things into my therapy sessions.”

  “I do try to be helpful.”

  “So you do. Be well, honey. I really am very happy for you. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

  “Okay, bye, Bruce.”

  My whole spine feels longer and straighter. I come out of the bedroom, and see my man and one of my dearest friends, sitting on my couch and laughing and talking like they’ve known each other forever. RJ looks over at me and smiles, and I think,
I really belong to him, and that it is finally starting to be the least scary thing I have ever felt.

  Before I can get all the way over to the couch to join them, the doorbell rings and we are off to the races.

  My night is a blur of mini conversations. I find that the two best things I can do as a hostess are to put out food and drink that don’t need tending, and to be like a hummingbird, flitting from group to group for five to eight minutes at a time before moving on. Lucky for me, I have no worries about RJ; he fits anywhere, and everyone has been dying to meet him. So I spend a few minutes here, then a few minutes wherever RJ is, a few minutes there, then a few minutes wherever RJ is.

  “Look at you,” Sasha says, putting on Dad’s accent. “One foot’s here the other’s there.”

  Alexei laughs and, not to be outdone, mimics Mama. “And here we thought you couldn’t split them apart with water.” He gestures at RJ across the room, where he is surrounded by Mina and Emily and Lacey.

  “You can throw Russianisms at me all you want. I like that he doesn’t need me to hold his hand in this shark pond.”

  “We’re just teasing, Lana.” Sasha puts an arm around me. “We like him.”

  “Yeah,” Alexei says. “He seems really great. Happy for you, sis.”

  “Thanks, guys, that means a lot. Especially since he is coming to Shabbat next week. I’m glad you’re getting a chance to meet him now, so he’ll have a few friendly faces.”

  “Whose faces are friendly?” Jenny asks, sidling up to us, a little plate filled with food. Sasha immediately starts picking at the treats she has fetched. Sara is with her, carrying four glasses of champagne like a pro. I help her distribute them to the crowd.

  “Hopefully all of yours, next week at Shabbat. If this is running the gauntlet, next week is the running of the bulls. I just want RJ to be comfortable.”

  “Look at him,” Sara says, sipping her drink thoughtfully, and waving away Jenny’s proffered plate. “He looks entirely at home.”

  Just at that moment RJ looks over and smiles and raises his eyebrow at us.

  “He looks happy,” Jenny says around a mouthful of prosciutto and fig. “And so do you.”

  “I am.”

  I kiss them all and flit away again, checking in on Bob and Gloria, who have no idea where Patrick could be, since he told them he would see them here. Gloria asks for the recipe for my salad dressing, and suggests that we talk to Patrick about doing a cocktail party episode. I wander over to check in on RJ, but the girls have him surrounded.

  “Are you all behaving yourselves?”

  “They are sharing some interesting stories with me,” RJ says with a grin.

  “Oh, no, you guys promised.” High school stories, the worst.

  “Hey, we promised not to bring PICTURES. And we didn’t,” Mina says.

  “Yeah, never said anything about sharing stories,” Emily adds.

  “You’re going to have to just leave us alone with him and let the education continue.” Lacey waves her hand at me like I’m some annoying fly.

  “Do you need anything?” I ask him.

  “Not a thing, sweetheart. All is well.” I lean over and kiss him, and all three of the girls sigh loudly.

  “Aw, shuddup. I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend if I want.”

  Silence drops over them as if a record has been scratched. And then they all start saying “boyyyfriend,” dripping with sappiness and innuendo. RJ puts his arm around me, and whispers in my ear. “I like the sound of that, girlfriend.”

  I wink at him and give him another kiss, and wander over to where Bennie and Barry are hanging out.

  “He. Is. Dreamy.” Barry sighs. “Do they make that model in gay?”

  “He really is lovely, Alana,” Bennie says. “You have not exaggerated in the least. And I frankly love the way he watches you when you can’t see him. He has been hanging out with all your pals, but he knows at every moment exactly where you are.”

  “I’m a lucky girl.”

  And I am.

  So very lucky.

  Right up until the moment the phone rings.

  “Come get me.” Patrick sounds weird, and it is very noisy wherever he is.

  “What? I can’t come get you; I’m hosting a party for chrissakes. Take a cab, you big baby.”

  “Alana, listen closely. I’m at Larrabee and Division. And I’m not at the firehouse.”

  The only other thing at that location is a police station.

  “Shit, Patrick. Have they booked you?”

  “Not yet, but if you don’t come here and help, they will for sure.”

  That fucking insane crapmonkey. I don’t know what he has done, or to whom, and frankly I don’t care. But I can’t leave him swinging in the wind. “I’m on my way.”

  I pull RJ and Bennie aside and explain a bit. They offer to hold down the fort. I go to my secret cash stash under my bed and grab all five grand, hoping that I don’t need it, but feeling better to have it with me. Then I think about going to a police station, and tuck it in my bra. Gotta be at least one benefit to schlepping around a pair of 38 DDDs—I can stash a country ham in here if I need to. I go to the freezer and take out a couple of the quick breads I was working on this week, a zucchini-walnut, and a carrot-apple, figuring that if he hasn’t been booked, maybe I can make nice.

  I whiz around the party claiming that the alarm has gone off at the studio and I’m on call, grateful that Bob and Gloria have already left and aren’t there for the lie, and say I’ll be back soon. RJ offers to come with me, but I don’t want to drag him into this.

  I fly down the expressway with anger seeping out of my pores. Why? Why tonight? I just don’t understand him.

  When I get to the station, I ask for the arresting officer of the stupid television asshole, and am met with a laugh, and a uniformed officer escorts me to a back room. Patrick is sitting in a chair next to a metal desk, looking ragged. There is a small bruise coming up under his left eye, and his hair is a mess.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me.

  “Hey yourself. What the fuck happened? Why are you here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Bullet point it for me.”

  “I went home after work to change. I had a beer. I started to come over. I was sitting at a stoplight, and some prick in a BMW rear-ends me, then pulls around me and takes off, hit-and-run. So I take off after him. I chase him for a minute and then he goes to make that turn at Clybourn, and the Hummer and I don’t corner so well, so I run up the curb and into the light pole. Where I discover that an officer has been following us. I really didn’t hear the siren, I had the radio up loud. And instead of going after the schmuck who ran into me, he stopped, and decided to bring me in on suspicion of DUI, and reckless driving and who knows what else.”

  “Hi, you must be Alana,” a voice behind me says. I turn around and see a short bulldog of a man, head shaved, three-day stubble, neck like an iceberg.

  “I am. Has he been a terrible pain?” I’m dressed up, as cute as I get, and I’m not above using cleavage if it helps get Patrick out of a jam.

  “Well, let’s see. He left the scene of an accident, embarked on a dangerous high-speed chase through Lincoln Park, took down a light pole, and insulted an officer who was trying to help him. When we finally got him trying to explain his behavior, the officer smelled beer on his breath, which obviously complicates the matter again.”

  Good lord. We’re in trouble. “Officer …”

  “Detective. But you can call me Ryan.”

  “Detective Ryan …”

  “Just Ryan.”

  “Okay, Ryan, are you going to book him? Not that I would blame you, it sounds like he has been a complete idiot, which isn’t unusual as you can imagine, and I would know, I work with him all the time. But I will say that as big a putz as he is, he isn’t a liar. So when he tells me that he had one beer, I believe him and I’m sure he blew under the limit.” I’m pulling out every bit of everything I�
�ve ever learned from endless watching of police procedurals.

  “We haven’t decided whether to book him yet.”

  “Okay, good. So, I know the traffic camera at the intersection where he was hit will confirm that the other guy started it, not that it is an excuse, but even a public defender will claim that he was just trying to chase down the other guy so that he didn’t cause more damage. And you know who he is, you know he can afford a big-time attorney, who’s going to put on a show in court and make it seem like he is second only to Superman in protecting the public interest with no regard for his own safety, and that he had every intention of making a spectacular citizen’s arrest. The media will eat the whole thing up, and trust me, the CPD won’t come off as the good guys. So since you haven’t booked him, and he isn’t in the system yet, let me propose this. Leaving the scene of an accident is a misdemeanor. Even if you proved guilt, what could he get? A fine? Maybe a year probation if some judge wanted to make an example of him?”

  Patrick starts to say something, and I put my hand up and give him a look that says he had better just stay the hell quiet. His open mouth snaps shut. I keep going. “And while both Patrick and I understand that there was the possibility of other people getting hurt, luckily for us all, that wasn’t the case. How about this? You fill out the relevant paperwork and put it in your desk, including a complete statement from Patrick that he will sign, but don’t enter it in the computer. Patrick is going to apologize to you, and to the other officer. Sincerely. And tomorrow he is going to call the media liaison for the police department, and offer his services for a pro-CPD campaign. For the next year, Patrick is your PR bitch. Want someone to film a video for you to use in schools explaining how important it is to work with the police? Part of that ‘See something, tell something’ thing you have going on? We’ll film it in our studio. Need a place to hold a fund-raiser? Just pick any of his restaurants and he’ll donate the space and the food. Need a stack of autographed cookbooks to give to everyone’s wife in the precinct when there’s been too much overtime? Done. I promise, if you don’t get a call from your people tomorrow thanking you for being the genius who convinced a local celeb to get involved, you have my permission to file the paperwork and I personally will testify for the prosecution.”