A good chef has to be a manager, a businessman and a great cook. To marry all three together is sometimes difficult. –Wolfgang Puck
Guy
When I first saw Scarlett standing in the pool room with wide eyes and a blank expression, my heart almost stopped. Not because I didn’t want to see her, but because the last time I introduced a woman to my sisters, it didn’t end well. I don’t think Scarlett is anything like Marie, but I didn’t realize Marie was like Marie until it was too late, and the memory still lingers like the smell of burnt toast.
But when she asked questions and listened without comment or judgment, didn’t freak out when her dress got wet, and then even talked to Emma like anyone else…. That meant something.
We make our way upstairs, walking behind Ava who is holding onto Emma’s hand to help her walk to the elevator. Emma’s movements are jerky and somewhat unsteady.
“Did you bring chocolate cupcakes?” Ava asks Scarlett.
“Of course.”
Ava’s smile is bright, tossed over her shoulder and flashed in our direction like a sunbeam. “Good.”
A pang flares in the vicinity of my chest. It’s my fault Ava is so wary of strange women I bring into our lives. Ava is very protective of Emma, like her little personal bodyguard.
Once we’re in the apartment, I lead Scarlett to the living room and then tell the girls to go shower.
“Do you need help with the food?” Scarlett asks.
I’m picking up discarded items strewn about the room, sweaters, old food containers, coloring books and pens. “No, it’s fine.”
I glance over at her, standing in my living room and wonder what she thinks of the space.
It’s a rather luxurious building, maybe an unnecessary expense, but I wanted something nice for the girls with a pool to use as therapy for Emma. Not to mention the fact that she loves the water, which is hard enough to find in New York City. But living with two teen girls, one of whom has special needs, isn’t conducive to opulent living. The space is open and functional, with comfortable dark couches and swept hard wood. Since Emma isn’t stable on her feet, there’s no hard corners or anything she could trip on. But there is a bright green stain on the rug from when Ava dropped some sensory goop, and I’ve never quite been able to get the glitter out of the arm of the reclining chair.
The Christmas tree in the corner is not one of those tastefully decorated ensembles that could come out of a department store. Nope. I let the girls decorate, which means Ava tried to make the ornaments somewhat uniform while Emma delights in lumping them all in the same corner. Most of our ornaments are handmade art projects from both girls, but mostly Emma. She loves art and making things with her hands, despite, or perhaps because of, the unsteadiness of her fine motor skills.
“I can boil water like a pro. Or at least supervise.” She’s smiling at me and a little bit of tension slips from my shoulders.
“Okay.”
In the kitchen, she leans against the counter as I pull out the pot and fill it with water.
“Are we having fancy mac and cheese for dinner?” she asks.
“No. Nothing fancy, some spaghetti Bolognese. The sauce is in the Crock Pot. You want to stir it?”
She nods and moves over to the small appliance, picking up the wooden spoon set in a spoon rest and lifts the lid. “You use a Crock Pot?”
I shrug. “Anything that will make life easier. It’s functional for things you need to keep on a simmer. That surprises you?”
“I didn’t picture you as the type.”
“What type?”
“I don’t know. I guess I think of people who use Crock Pots as soccer moms and people who use Pinterest.” She stirs the sauce. “It smells good.”
“You think I’m too snobby to condescend to using a Crock Pot?” I stand right next to her, putting the pot on the oven and clicking the heat on.
“Maybe. Maybe I thought that before.” She puts the cover back over the sauce and turns to face me. We’re only a foot apart, close enough to touch.
“Not anymore?”
She smiles. “No.”
“Scarlett, do you like Mr. Bean?” Ava calls from the living room.
Her brows lift. “Mr. Bean?” she asks me.
“It’s one of Emma’s favorites.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it.”
She disappears into the living room and I gaze blankly at the stove, listening to Scarlett ask Ava more questions about Mr. Bean while Emma makes happy sounds as she participates in the conversation in her own way.
I dump the noodles in and then peek into the living room to check out the situation.
Scarlett is on the couch in the middle—my normal spot—with Ava on one side and Emma on the other. Emma shows her something on the tablet.
“Seven minutes,” I tell them.
“Good, I’m starving,” Ava moans.
Ten minutes later we’re sitting at the table in the dining room.
“This is really good.” Scarlett chews up a small bite. “Prego or Ragu?”
I widen my eyes at her. “How dare you.”
We laugh and Emma laughs too, a picture of unrestrained joy.
Scarlett smiles. “You have the best laugh, Emma.”
“I think so, too,” Ava says. “People at my school, they think it’s weird.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Their loss,” I say.
Ava shrugs and pats her sister on the shoulder. “Emma, you’re the best sister in the world.”
Emma reaches for Ava, too, her hand patting her on the back with jerky movements and leaving spaghetti stains on her shirt.
“When we went to Disney World last year, we didn’t even have to wait in lines,” Ava brags.
“That’s a bonus.”
“But people stare sometimes. I don’t like it.”
“They are probably curious,” Scarlett says.
Ava shrugs. “I guess. Can we have cupcakes now?”
I nod. “Fine. But tell Scarlett thank you for bringing them.”
Ava and Emma both scramble from the table to put their plates in the sink. “Thank you, Scarlett!” Ava calls as they’re running away.
They eat cupcakes and we finish our wine and watch one episode of Mr. Bean in the living room before it’s time for the kids to go to bed.
I leave Scarlett by herself in the living room so Ava and I can help Emma get ready for bed and brush her teeth. Emma is energetic, probably a mixture of sugar and having a new person in our apartment making her excitable. She keeps trying to put her toothbrush in my mouth and laughing.
Eventually, the girls are in the room they share and under the covers.
I kiss them both goodnight and cut off the light, shutting their door behind me.
Back in the living room, I find Scarlett standing by one of the shelves, holding a photo of me and the girls at the Museum of Natural History, a giant whale sculpture behind us.
“This is cute,” Scarlett holds it up.
“They love animals.” I walk over to where she’s standing, stopping when I get about a foot away.
She smiles at me and sets the photo back on the shelf. “They’re really great.”
“I think so.”
She faces me again and considers me in silence. “You’re like two different people.”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“I can’t reconcile this version of you—the family man—with the professional perfectionist who demands the same of everyone and would never let anyone stand in the way of his goals.”
I take a small breath in and give her the unadulterated truth. “I can’t control a lot of things in my life. So I take care of what I can. It’s not so much letting people get in the way of my goals, it’s more that I would never let anyone stand in the way of me doing my best for my family. They’ve been through enough.”
She nods slowly. “I get it.” She glances around the living room. “I should probably get going.”
“One more glass of wine?” I wonder if she can hear the thick thread of hope in the words.
Maybe she can, because she searches my eyes for a few seconds and then nods. “One more.”
I pour her a glass of wine and then check on the girls to make sure they’re actually sleeping before coming back to the living room.
We sit on the couch, Mr. Bean still playing softly in the background, the flickering of the TV casting shadows and light over her face.
“They share a room?” she asks.
“Yes. Emma doesn’t sleep well. Insomnia is a common problem in children with Angelman’s. She wakes up at 3 a.m. at least once a week. Ava insists on being there if Emma needs her.”
“That’s so sweet.”
I nod. “She’s great, but I also worry for her.”
“Why?”
“Emma will require care for the rest of her life. Ava insists that since they shared a womb, she wants to be the one to do it. Demands it, really. She says she was there in the beginning and she’ll be there until the end. But I worry it’s not fair to her. I don’t want her to feel obligated, I guess. Or like she can’t go off to college and experience life on her own.”
Scarlett smiles. “They are both pretty amazing. Emma, when she laughs, it’s like…listening to happiness in its most authentic form.”
I want to reach out and touch her, but instead I pick up my wine glass. “I get what you mean. She’s definitely taught me a lot about life and love. Especially since our parents died.”
“What happened to them? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s fine.” I take a sip of wine before answering. “Our mom died first. She had pancreatic cancer. By the time she was diagnosed, it was too late to do surgery or treat it with anything but hospice and end of life care. Just things to make her as comfortable as possible. Dad took care of her, non-stop. Wouldn’t leave her side, so that’s when I took the girls in. After mom died, dad wasn’t far behind. He got sick. A flu bug that turned into pneumonia, and he just kind of gave up.”
“I’m sorry.” She puts a hand on my arm, and I stare down at it. She has small hands, nails clipped short, and painted a vivid hot pink. They are bright and happy, just like she is.
I meet her eyes. “Thank you. Mom had Emma and Ava when she was older. Twins were a surprise. They’re twenty years younger than I am.”
Her eyes are luminous in the dim light and I don’t want to talk about anything that won’t put a smile on her face. “I’m sorry. This is a really depressing conversation.”
“It isn’t. And I asked. Death is a part of life.”
“That’s true, but I’m talking about myself too much. Tell me about your family. Your parents…they’re sort of famous.”
She sighs and shifts a little on the couch. Her hand leaves my arm to reach for the wine glass on the side table, and I miss the gentle pressure.
“Ah, yes,” she says.
“I may have done some light stalking,” I admit.
She gives me the side eye before taking a sip of the wine. “You don’t say.”
“Are you close with them?”
“Ha!”
“I guess that’s a no?”
She swirls the wine glass in her hand and turns a little to face me, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa. ““Jasper and Violet Jackson. Famed artists and creative geniuses,” she intones with a sigh. “I never see them. You know they’re gonna be here at some fancy show in Harlem, and they didn’t even tell me? My Granny told me. She says I should go see them, but . . .”
“You don’t want to?”
She shrugs. “If I want to be ignored by my parents, I can do that from the privacy of my own home in my jammies, no need to be shamed in public.”
“They wouldn’t ignore you, would they?”
“Eh, they might make an effort for a few minutes then they would get distracted by someone more exciting. They weren’t exactly enthused that Reese and I aren’t artistically inclined, and if you aren’t in their sphere then you’re no one.”
“Cooking is an art.”
“I think so, too, but they don’t see it that way. Food to them is only a means of obtaining energy to create something the world at large can be impressed by.”
“Is your sister artistically inclined?”
“No. Not at all. She’s a total brainiac in like everything but art. She’s in college now, earning a double major in physics and math with a minor in business.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
Scarlett smiles, glowing with pride. “She’s the best. But she’s always been inherently shy, not a fan of the spotlight, and the complete opposite of my parents. Thankfully. With Reese, I didn’t feel alone as a kid, even though we’re six years apart in age. I miss her a lot. I felt bad leaving her in Texas…but.”
“You had to get away from the ex?”
“Yeah. That and I didn’t want to be the reason Reese didn’t fly the nest. She needed a little nudge. As for the ex…he didn’t think I would make it here. In fact, he told me I would be back within six months.”
Should I tell her Marie and I are still technically married? I immediately squash the notion.
No. It doesn’t matter. We’re as good as done and it’s not like I’m thinking about remarrying any time soon. Talk of my ex would definitely ruin the moment. So instead I say, “You showed him.”
“So far.”
I nod.
We’re quiet for a few long seconds, understanding the implications behind her words but refusing to address them.
She takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down on the coffee table. When she sits back again, she’s closer, one little shift on the couch and her thigh presses against mine.
She bites her lip. Her eyes are focused on my mouth and a surge of heat rushes through me.
She inclines in my direction and I lean back. “Scarlett. Are you sure about this? You’ve been drinking.”
A puff of laughter escapes her. “I’ve had a glass and a half over the past three hours, with food.” She smiles and the small movement of her mouth is the end of any resistance I might have had. “And I know you said you could never be just friends with me and I think,” she moves in closer, her eyes dipping to my mouth, “not-friends can make out sometimes.”
And then she kisses me.