Love, Life And Linguine Part 6

"I'll back you up," I say.

"Who's going to back you up?" Christopher asks.

"Mimi can hold her own in any restaurant," Madeline says.

"Your father would be proud of you," Bette says. "Welcome home."

Cafe LouisFamily owned and operated since 1970StartersChicken Fingers $5 Fried Calamari $6 Mozzarella Sticks $6Nachos San Padre $8 with meat or chicken, salsa fresca, cheese, sour cream, with meat or chicken, salsa fresca, cheese, sour cream, and homemade guacamoleSoup and SaladSoup of the Season $6 French Onion Soup $5 Jersey Clam Chowder $5Mimi's Seasonal Salad $6 Greek Salad $5 Caesar Salad $5Add grilled chicken $7 Add shrimp $9EntreesLinguini & Meatb.a.l.l.s $10Fettuccine Alfredo $10Lasagne $10Grilled Chicken in Summer Vegetable Ragout $12Arroz con Pollo $12N.Y. Strip Steak $15Jay's Brisket $12Mussels & Linguine $12Shrimp Scampi $12Grilled Jersey Tuna in White WineMustard Sauce $15Sides $3 $3Vegetable of the day Mash of the day French FriesBaked Potato Seasonal Vegetable Slaw Rice PilafChildren $5 $5Chicken Fingers & French Fries Grilled Cheese Linguine & Meatb.a.l.l.sDessert $5 $5Louis Family Cheesecake Creme Brulee Chocaholic Triple Layer CakeBa.s.set's Ice Cream of the Week Jersey Peach Pie Jersey Berry Cobbler All menu items are available to take out.Ask for our catering menu!

Family Business, Part One "Is Jeremy here?" A man my age smiles across the counter at me. He looks like a typical suburban guy. Average height. Barbered, blond hair. Brown eyes. Khakis and a pale pink b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt. The requisite cell phone is clipped to his belt. He's holding a giant Styrofoam cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. He's nice-looking, but so generic that he might as well have an SKU on his forehead.

"Jeremy's not here. Can I help you with something? I'm his sister."

"Ah. There's absolutely no family resemblance. Which I mean as a compliment. I'm Aaron."

Smiling, I say, "I'm Mimi. You're a friend of Jeremy's?"

"Acquaintance. Since I'm here..." He gestures to the counter.

"Please," I say. "Have a seat."

Aaron sits at the counter and points to Hugh. "What's up with him?"

"He's protesting." Hugh is eating and enjoying grilled chicken with summer vegetable ragout. However, he holds a sign in front of his plate. "Bring back the meatloaf."

I hand a menu to Aaron. He nods as he reads the new menu. "I'm impressed. You made everything sound delicious."

"I was a restaurant consultant for many years. Time to bring it all home."

"The joy and pain of a family-run business," Aaron says. "Just when you think you're out, they pull you back in."

I laugh. "I guess it depends on the family business."

"As it turns out, Mimi, we have something in common. I also work for my family's business."

"What's your family's business?" I ask.

Aaron says, "You are very pretty."

That catches me off-guard. "Thank you. Stress must look good on me."

"Tell me your troubles and I'll make them go away."

"I doubt that."

"Tell me one trouble," Aaron says. "And I hope it doesn't involve a boyfriend."

"No boyfriend trouble. No boyfriend."

"Good. Then what is your stress?"

I shrug. "Business."

"Well," Aaron says. "Your business can be my business."

I smile. "My business is none of your business."

"Actually," Aaron says, "it is."

"Oh?"

"One thing you'll love about me," Aaron says, "is that I don't lie."

"Is that right?"

"It is. I spoke the truth. Your business can be my business. If you sell it to me."

Then, I understand. "You're a Schein."

"The son Schein. Aaron Schein. Pleased to meet you."

Bette approaches, ordering pad at the ready.

"Enjoy your meal." I walk into the kitchen.

Much to my discontent, Aaron seems unperturbed by my exit. In fact, he seems quite at home in the restaurant, greeting the servers, talking to other counter customers. He eats with gusto, telling his counter neighbors that the food is fabulous. Everyone seems to like Aaron. This irritates me.

When he has cleaned his plate and wiped his mouth, Aaron waits at the register to pay his bill. Which means that I have to accept his money. Dookie.

"Everything to your liking?" I ask breezily as I punch the register.

"There was one thing missing," Aaron says.

"What?" I ask, alarmed.

"Your company," he answers with what really is a very nice smile. I return the smile and hand Aaron his change. Looking him in the eye, I say, "You're not going to get your hands on my company."

Undeterred, Aaron says, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mimi Louis."

Egg Creams & Drive-In Movies The smell of Mom's perfume draws me into her bedroom. Mom stands in front of her television. She points. "Look who it is."

I look and see Nick. Dressed in immaculate chef whites, Nick is cooking with the host of a local TV show. "Putz," Mom says and snaps off the television.

Smiling at Mom, I see that she's dressed in a champagne-colored sheath dress. "Going out?" I ask as I belly-flop onto her bed.

"Yes," Mom says. "I have a date."

"What?" I sit up. "With who?"

"Sid."

"Who's Sid?"

"From the website," Mom says. "We spoke on the phone a few nights ago and had a very pleasant conversation. We're meeting tonight for dinner."

"You're jumping straight to dinner? Shouldn't you meet for a drink first?"

Mom takes off one necklace and puts on another. "I'm not a big drinker."

"The point is not to drink. The point is not to get stuck with someone for a long time. Listen, Mom. I've dated a lot more than you have. Let me explain how it works. First, you meet for a drink or coffee. For, like, half an hour. To see if you like each other."

Mom says, "How am I supposed to decide if I like someone in half an hour?"

"Don't you just know?"

"I don't know," Mom says.

"Did you arrange for a safety call?"

"A what?"

"Safety call. You have someone call you half an hour into the date. If you want to leave, you feign an emergency. If not, you stay."

Mom puts on an open-toed slingback and looks in the mirror. "I think I can spare two hours out of my life."

"I'm trying to prepare you for the modern dating world," I say. "It can be rough. At any age. It's not egg creams and drive-in movies anymore."

Mom smiles. "Maybe it should be."

Hunter Farm Sally is not happy with me. She's getting very dirty. Mud spatters her sides and cakes onto her wheels as we b.u.mp along a back road. "We're almost there," I tell Sally.

Where we almost are is Hunter Farm, from which I intend to buy juicy Jersey produce. Sitting at a red light on Church Road in Westfield, I think about the childhood I spent here. Farms. Woods. Now Westfield is developed. Overdeveloped, like a thirteen-year-old girl wearing a DD bra.

There's no sign indicating the farm, but the dirt road leads me and Sally to a stone and brick house with a wide porch. It looks freshly painted and there are cute gingham curtains in the windows. Cats roam around the porch, and a dog barks when I get out of my car. Inhaling, I smell the air. It smells green.

"h.e.l.lo?" I call through the screen door of the house.

A tiny woman comes out of the house's shadows. Her white hair is pinned into a neat bun and her brown eyes glow with kindness. "h.e.l.lo, dear," she says.

"Are you Mrs. Hunter?" I ask politely.

"Yes," she says, and smooths her flowered housedress. She clearly is not expecting company.

"I'm Mimi Louis. I called yesterday? Joe said I should come by and see the farm. I'm looking for produce for my restaurant."

"Come in, dear," she says, pus.h.i.+ng open the screen door.

Following Mrs. Hunter through the front room of the house, I see that it is neat, but shabby. The wood floors look clean, but the area rugs are worn. The furniture is solid and antiquish. A chocolate leather chair is in the corner next to a burgundy wing chair. The room is dark, with drops of sunlight peeking through the white curtains.

"Joe's out in the field," Mrs. Hunter says as she leads me into the kitchen. It's a big kitchen with an ash wood table and chairs, white cabinets fronted with frosted gla.s.s, a large white refrigerator, and a separate freezer. Knickknacks stand on shelves and flowered curtains hang from bra.s.s rods on the windows. The kitchen is filled with suns.h.i.+ne.

"Have a seat," Mrs. Hunter says, and I sit at the kitchen table. Mrs. Hunter moves to the kitchen cabinets. She places a delicate china cup, saucer, and spoon in front of me. From the refrigerator, Mrs. Hunter retrieves a porcelain cow filled with milk. She gets a gla.s.s bowl of sugar from the cabinet, and sets these things before me. "Here you are, dear."

"Thank you." There is no coffee in my cup, or anywhere in sight. I decide not to mention this.

Mrs. Hunter sits across from me. "Are you a friend of Joe's?"

Didn't I already explain what I'm doing here? Maybe I didn't. "I'm here to see the farm. I'm looking for produce for my restaurant."

Mrs. Hunter nods. "Joe's been working hard since he came back to the farm."

"Came back from where?"

"France. Italy." Mrs. Hunter smiles, seemingly proud of her son's travels.

Nodding politely, I say, "Will Joe be back soon or should I go look for him?"

"Would you like a m.u.f.fin?" Mrs. Hunter asks brightly, getting to her feet before I answer. "Joe says I have to stop baking so much now that it's just the two of us here. My husband pa.s.sed on." Mrs. Hunter places a plate of m.u.f.fins before me. I see that she is wearing her wedding ring.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Me, too." Mrs. Hunter touches her hand to the silver cross around her neck. From beneath her housedress, Mrs. Hunter pulls another silver chain, around which is a man's gold wedding band. She kisses the ring. "I miss him every day."

Mrs. Hunter's sentimentality touches my heart. Smiling, I bite into a blueberry m.u.f.fin. "Delicious," I tell Mrs. Hunter with my mouth full. She beams in delight.

"Tell me, dear," Mrs. Hunter says, "Are you a friend of Joe's?"

Farmer Joe Fifteen long minutes later, the back door creaks open, then bangs shut. I hear the thud of boots on wood. A man's voice calls, "Mom?"

I smell him before I see him. Into the clean, bright kitchen wafts the aroma of male sweat mingled with the pungent smell of sod.

"In the kitchen, dear," Mrs. Hunter calls. To me, she says, "Here comes my Joe." She rises slowly to her feet and smooths her dress, smiling in antic.i.p.ation of seeing her son. Or does she think it's her husband?

Into the kitchen comes Joe Hunter. He's wearing work boots, faded jeans, and a navy short sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt. There's a baseball hat on his head and he's looking down at his mother, so I can't see his face. "Hi, Mom," he says, and kisses her cheek. Then he looks up and sees me. "h.e.l.lo."

Joe takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his wheat-colored hair, which hangs past his ears. Joe has the same warm, iced teacolored eyes as his mother. His face is long, like his body, and there's stubble on his jaw.

"Oh," Mrs. Hunter says, as if seeing me for the first time. "We have company." I watch her eyes move to my coffee cup and the m.u.f.fins. She sees that I have been here with her for some time. Mrs. Hunter chews on her bottom lip. She's trying to remember who I am and what I'm doing in her kitchen. To save time and embarra.s.sment, I stand and tell Joe, "I'm Mimi Louis. I called yesterday?"