Love, Life And Linguine Part 19

"Mom, did you talk to Sid about this?"

"No." She turns her back to me and fusses with her face cream.

I lean against the bathroom door. "Well, maybe you should..."

"And another thing." Mom turns around again. "I haven't been to a library lecture or a synagogue luncheon for weeks. Maybe months. What about my breakfast club with Ally? I haven't done that, either. Nor have I spent time with Sarah and the twins."

"Or me."

"Right! Look at you, Mimi. You need me. You're still a mess."

"Hey!"

"Sorry," Mom says. "But I haven't spent nearly enough time with you."

So, she knows. Mom knows that her time with Sid has been taking her away from her family and her other activities. But is that Sid's fault or Mom's responsibility? It sounds like Mom is talking through fear, making excuses for not marrying Sid. Am I supposed to point this out to her?

I so don't want to be in this position. And yet...

"Mom, maybe you could balance things a little better. Have you thought about that? Giving that a try?"

Mom smiles at me. "Are you giving me relations.h.i.+p advice?"

"Don't think it's not painful for me."

Mom turns back to her mirror. "I'll let you know when I make my decision. In the meantime, don't mention Sid's proposal to Ally or Jeremy. They have enough to worry about with Phoebe and her lover."

"Okay." I exhale. This conversation has exhausted me. "I'm going to bed."

"Don't forget that we have a girls' lunch tomorrow."

"Girls?"

"Me, Phoebe, Ally, and you. At Ally's house. Noon."

"I'll be there."

Girls of All Ages "What does his family do?" Phoebe asks me.

"Real estate." I'm being held for questioning in the matter of my love life. Explaining Aaron is easier than explaining Joe. Phoebe, Mom, and I are sitting on Allison's sunny deck, waiting for dessert. Allison is busy making herself crazy in the kitchen. Lunch was a delicious summer salad with grilled chicken, although I'm the thing getting grilled.

"Ah, real estate," Phoebe says approvingly. This is the field in which her husband made his fortune. "His family has money?"

"Yes," I say.

"Excellent." Phoebe approves.

"Money isn't the most important thing," Mom says. "I want Mimi to be with someone she loves."

"She can't love this one?" Phoebe asks.

Mom is saved from retorting by Allison's emergence onto the deck. She's carrying a fruit salad made with honeydew, mango, kiwi, and strawberries. Phoebe smiles approvingly. "Very pretty, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Mom." Allison smiles. She scoops fruit into gla.s.s dishes.

Phoebe keeps talking. "My daughter did the right thing. Married a nice man with a good job who supports her while she raises their children."

There are so many errors in that statement that I am shocked she actually made it. Does she not know that Allison married Jeremy because she was pregnant? Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe it doesn't matter.

"Mimi, you should have children while you are young," Phoebe states. "That way, you can enjoy your life when you get older. Like me and Bobbi. We have our freedom."

Mom smiles politely.

"I'm trying, Phoebe," I tell her. "I'm trying to find the perfect husband so I can become the perfect mother and wife. Just like Ally."

"Actually, I'm thinking about getting a job." Ally says this quietly, looking at her bowl of fruit. "The twins will be in kindergarten in September. I'd like to work. I think I should get a job."

Phoebe waves her spoon in the air. "Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. You have a job. Two jobs. Mother and wife."

"I would have time to do something else."

"So you can be tired and unhappy all the time?" Phoebe laughs. "You think you have time to work, but you don't. Just because the boys aren't home all day doesn't mean you stop cooking and cleaning for them. You know what will happen, sweetheart? You will do things you don't need to do and stop doing things you must do."

"Like b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs," I offer.

"Exactly," Phoebe says.

Sisters-in-Law, Part Four Allison clears dishes and looks like she's going to implode. I follow her into the kitchen. "Phoebe's pretty tough on you, huh?"

"It's not her. It's you."

"Me? What'd I do?"

Allison deposits dishes into the sink, then turns to me. "I'm tired of you saying that I'm perfect. That I have a perfect life."

"But you do. You have everything. I want what you have."

Allison laughs. "You want what I have? I want what you have."

"What do I have? I don't have anything."

"Exactly." Allison points her finger at me. "You don't have anything. No responsibilities. Me? I'm responsible to everyone for everything. My husband, my children, my mother, your mother. You? You take care of yourself. I take care of everyone but myself."

Egad. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

Allison folds her arms over her chest and leans backward against the kitchen counter. She breathes deeply. "Don't misunderstand, Mimi. I know that I'm lucky to have a great house, a great family, and a great husband. It's just..."

"Go ahead," I tell her. "Say it."

"All summer, you've been saying that you want to get married and have kids and you've been holding me up as a role model. But really, Mimi, I don't think you have the slightest idea what it means to be a wife and mother. It's difficult. And it's forever."

"Are you sorry?" I ask quietly. "Are you sorry that you are a wife and mother?"

"No. But some days, I wonder what else I could've been."

Wow. I lean against the kitchen island, opposite my sister-in-law, and absorb what she's said. A soft breeze blows through the open windows, ruffling the curtains.

Allison exhales. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said all that."

"I'm glad you did."

"Well, I do feel better." Allison laughs. "So, thanks. For listening."

I smile at her. "Ally, I know what your mother said, but there's no reason you can't get a job. If you want one."

"I need a job," she answers. "We need money."

"Really?"

"Yes, Mimi. Don't look so shocked. We need money for the mortgage, two car payments, Sarah's piano lessons and her dance cla.s.s. The twins need clothes and supplies for kindergarten in September, which means we can't afford a summer vacation this year. Why do you think I've been asking about the finances at the restaurant?"

"Oh. I didn't realize." Exactly how self-absorbed have I been? A lot, it seems.

"We'll figure it out." Allison waves her hands in the air. "It's not your problem."

"I'm part of this family," I state. "It is my problem. But, look. The restaurant is turning a profit. A small one, but it's something. I was thinking about reinvesting it in new kitchen equipment. But you can have it. It's only a few thousand dollars, but it will help."

"Really?" Allison looks grateful. So grateful that I feel guilty for not offering to help long before this.

"Of course," I tell her. "The money is yours."

Greetings from Asbury Park Back at Cafe Louis, I think about everything Allison said. Then I remember what Allison said about vacation. I call Mom and find her at home.

"Mom, remember when Jeremy and I were kids and Dad closed the restaurant for the last week of August so we could have a family vacation at the sh.o.r.e? Why don't we do that again? We could rent a four-bedroom house, or a three-bedroom with a sleeper sofa."

"That'd be nice, Mimi."

"Great. How do you feel about splitting the cost with me? Jeremy and Ally have a lot of financial commitments. But Ally definitely needs a vacation before school starts and the kids' schedules get hectic. Anyway, I think they'd be more inclined to come down the sh.o.r.e if they didn't have to pay to rent a house. Can you and I split the cost?"

"You would do that?" Mom sounds surprised.

"I would," I tell her. "I have money saved from my Dine International days."

"Well, Mimi, you don't have to pay for it. I'll be happy to. We should absolutely have a family vacation. I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. Listen, I'll make some phone calls. It's late in the season, but I'll try Sea Isle, Wildwood, Cape May, and Long Beach Island. All of the houses may be rented."

"Why don't we try a northern sh.o.r.e town?"

"Like where?" Mom asks.

I root around in the desk for the postcard that says "To J, All my love, B." Where was that card from? Asbury Park.

"Mom, how about Asbury Park? What's it like?"

"I don't know," Mom says. "I've never been to Asbury Park."

Lipstick Theory Three She's wrong. Mom is wrong. She's remembering wrong. How could she remember a vacation she took ten years ago?

I stare at the postcard. I look at the kiss. Then I look at the lipstick. It's pink. Mom's been wearing mulberry lipstick for decades. I've never seen her wear pink lipstick.

"How does that sound, Mimi?"

"Fine, Mom." I haven't heard a word she's said.

"Okay. I'll make some more calls and let you know what I discover."

What have I discovered?

"To J, All my love, B."

The J could stand for Jeremy. From the postmark, I see the card was sent ten years ago. Jeremy was getting his MBA at Wharton. He was single. Maybe some girl sent him a postcard. Why would she send it to the restaurant? Did Jeremy work here the summer before he met Allison? No. I did. Jeremy was doing an interns.h.i.+p in Manhattan. The J has to be Jay. Dad.

Who is B? Who is the pink lipstickwearing B?

Bette.

Ordering slips. I have Bette's handwritten ordering slips. I can compare the handwriting on the slips to the handwriting on the postcard. Scrambling through the piles on the desk, I find Bette's slips.

But then I stop. I put the ordering slips back on the desk. I turn the postcard to its picture side, hiding the handwriting. I close my eyes.

Mustard Memories, Part Two My mind drifts to my childhood, and those nights when Dad came home late and made sandwiches with good mustard. Why did Dad get home at midnight if the restaurant closed at nine during the week? Why was Dad hungry if he had just left the restaurant? Why didn't Dad come on vacations with me, Mom, and Jeremy? What did he do while we were away? What does Mom know? Is that why she wants me and Jeremy to sell Cafe Louis, be rid of it once and for all? Is that why she didn't want me to work here? Because I might uncover the secret she's kept for so long?

I know chefs, do I?

No. That can't be right. Dad loved Mom. He wasn't a cheater. Dad wasn't a Nick.

But what if Dad had an affair with Bette? What does that mean? To Mom? To me?

Here I sit, with a choice before me. I could CSI my family and find the truth about Dad. I could compare handwriting samples, search for more clues, interrogate Bette, and build a case against my father. But the dead body in the middle of the case would still be dead, and part of me might die, too. I might have to spend years in therapy discussing my father's fidelity, or lack thereof, and its repercussions.

Or.

I could make this go away. Protect your mother. Isn't that what Aaron said? Ironically, I'll be protecting my mother from my father, not her boyfriend. Really, it's just a postcard and it could be from anyone and mean anything. Mom might have sent it herself. Yes, that's it. While she was on a trip to Asbury Park which she has since forgotten, Mom sent this postcard to Dad and she happened to be wearing different lipstick. And to make sure that no one else sees this postcard and gets the wrong idea, I tear up the postcard.

Boom. Done. Postcard? What postcard?

See? No therapy required.

Sally, Part Two Repressing this would go a lot easier if I wasn't standing in the crime scene. I need to get out of the restaurant. I need to drive. Not Sally. Sally belonged to Dad. G.o.d only knows what trace evidence I've been driving in.