Icing On The Cake

Was I ever that slim, that firm, that everything?

They must be implants. Ted always bragged that I was a good size.

Yeah, right. Ted probably paid for them.

Get a grip! Lots of women get implants, normal, nice, non-husband stealing women.

Even so, I hate her.

It wouldn’t matter if she were ten years older instead of twelve years younger. I’d hate her if she were shorter or taller, fifty pounds overweight, or skinnier than Kate Moss at sixteen. The truth is, when your husband leaves you for another woman, you hate the woman. Period.

If that’s not modern maturity, at least it’s honest.

Sure, I’d glimpsed her a few times, most notably in shopaholic ecstasy in Short Hills Mall in the months right after my divorce, and her marriage. Once I spotted her perusing bags at Anya Hindmarch, formerly my favorite handbag store that I can not now afford. Then there she was at the launch of Burberry Brit Red at Bloomies. Personally, I thought she’d only be interested in fragrance named after Britney or JLO. Another time, while window shopping, I spied her selecting triangle thongs at Dolce & Gabbana. And at Jimmie Choos—well, you get the idea. Oh, and once I saw her buy a tie for Ted at Bernini’s and knew he must have a big event coming up because I started him on that habit of a new Bernini tie for special occasions.

In fact, the more I saw of her living what had been my life, the angrier I became. That kind of emotion can motivate a person out of bed and through many a miserable day. I didn’t realize how corrosive it was to my psyche until I scared myself straight.

It happened one dark night of the soul. I had just had my card refused for insufficient funds at a drive-thru ATM when I spied her, on foot, crossing the all but empty parking lot and…

Let’s just say I realized I could end up with a number on my chest, cramped accommodations in unpleasant company, and one hell of a wardrobe crisis if I didn’t go cold turkey on her.

I never told anyone about that night. As far as I know, she told no one about what I’d almost done. That is probably what kept me out of jail.

Looking back I can’t believe I’m capable of that kind of rage. The kind that makes the blood pump so hard and fast your veins burn and cold sweat drops the size of bumblebees pop out. Right after that I had my first panic attack. The doctor murmured something about rage turned inward and the need to get a life.

So I stopped even thinking about her. I don’t even mention her. Ever. For four years, it’s a plan that was working. Why mess with it?

A flip of my wrist and the magazine lands in the trash bin.

Mrs. Morshheimer is still leaving nose prints on my front window. And I’m supposed to meet one half of my twin daughters for lunch in SoHo.

Just before ten-thirty, I make a quick tally. We’re average for the week. That’s recent weeks. I’d like to stay and hustle the lunch crowd. But I promised Sarah, and she said it’s important.

Chapter 3

The trendy restaurant on Seventh Avenue is full of lunch hour patrons. Sarah and I are stuck in a back corner at a narrow natural wood bar, teetering on stools half the width of my rear. I’m sure I’m instantly recognizable as a member of the Bridge and Tunnel crowd, suburbanites who come into Manhattan for shopping or entertainment.

For instance, Manhattanites wave off baskets of fragrant rolls as if they were being asked to partake of boiled eel eyes. One woman’s unlined face draws tight in the corners as she refuses a basket, but her nostrils quiver from a whiff of the oven browning she denies. The frantic voice in her head may be telling her how virtuous she is, how strong-willed, how disciplined. But it’s costing her.

When our waitress approaches I nod vigorously and she places the wire breadbasket draped in white between my daughter and me.

Even so, I’m already contemplating asking for carryout before our orders arrive. At least it would cut short this “kindly meant but really I don’t have the time to argue with my eldest child” lunch. It turns out this is a health intervention of sorts.

Sarah is ten minutes older than her twin Riley, but sometimes she seems ten years older. The genetic code split right down the middle with my girls. A performance artist who uses her family as her canvas, Riley inherited the Blake family temperament, which I’m told is a quite helpful state of mind for an artist. My mother has it. Sarah and I, no. Riley, oh yeah! For the past four years most of her Sturm und Drang has been directed at her decamped father.

Sarah got all the practical, disciplined, standards coding. Everything, from her thermal reconditioned straight hair to her dove-gray suit with tasteful pin to her kitten heels, screams reserved and rational. She has managed to find a rationale for being friendly, if not friends, with Brandi while Riley’s hatred for Brandi puts my dislike in perspective. Sometimes I think Sarah is trying to make up for her twin’s lack of self-control. But we all have issues, right? This no-nonsense approach works well for her career as a paralegal. But her brand of practicality also stops her from achieving her full potential. After one smack-down with the New York bar, Sarah decided that her law degree didn’t require that she practice law. I think that she just lost her nerve, but a mother doesn’t say that to a grown child. However, at the moment, she’s lecturing me as if I’m her child.

“You need a vacation, Mom.” That’s her punch line.

“Vacation? I’m working the night shift starting tonight because my new baker walked out after a fight with Shemar over the flour-to-water ratio for making ciabatta in August. I don’t have time for a nap. Forget a vacation.”

“That is exactly why you need one. When is the last time you took time off?”

I take a deep breath. Sarah and Riley both live and work in the city so I don’t see my girls that often. I don’t want to argue. No point in mentioning my spa day. The face Sarah made when she saw my watermelon toes was priceless. “I was in Phoenix two years ago.”

“That was for Grandpa Fred’s bypass surgery.”

I reach for a plump roll, perfectly formed and weighty enough to be genuine yeast bread, and place it on my plate. “What about the weekend in Kauai three years ago?”

“Didn’t you go there as part of the New Jersey independent bakers association to broker a supply deal for macadamia nuts?”

“For my Hawaiian bread.” I nod, happy to be reminded of a past culinary victory. “The secret is the bananas. Not the—” Sarah’s frown cuts short my recipe revelation. “Okay. I’ve got it. Not long ago I spent a few days in Savannah. And before you say it was business I want you to know I took a whole day to sightsee.”

“Mom, that was four years ago and you were scoping out relocation sites in case you went into merger with that Savannah frozen-dough plant.” Sarah reaches out to touch my arm. “I’m sorry if it’s still a sore subject.”

“Just because they backed out on the deal without even a discussion? Of course not.”

Out of habit I break the roll open with a thumb through the crust, expecting a moist but lightly risen center. Instead it’s damply dense. Clearly, it baked at too high a temperature and without enough moisture.

Disappointed, I lay it aside. “Okay, so I don’t do down time well. What’s the issue?”

“Let’s see. Health? Mental regeneration? Health? Refreshment of the soul? Health? A social life? Health?”

“Enough with the health. My doctor says I’m fine.”

“Really? When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

I look up as a waiter puts my order before me, hoping to avoid the trap I dug myself by mentioning my doctor. I’ve canceled my yearly checkup three times in a row. With my small-business insurance, I need to be deathly ill to be covered.

“Look, sweetie. I do appreciate your concern but I’m doing fine.”

“What’s this you’re eating, Mom?” Sarah picks up half of my sandwich and lifts a brow. “Is that pork?”

“It’s an Italian roast pork panini with organic basil pesto. Organic, get it?”

She shudders delicately and puts it down. “At your age, pork should be a rare indulgence, not a midweek lunch.”

I hunker down in my chair as she forks the first portion of her field greens salad. “I don’t eat this sort of thing often. This just sounded good and—”

“—I’m tired and wanted to give myself a little pick-me-up,” she finishes for me. “I know that speech, Mom. You’ve used it all my life. For chocolate. For ice cream.” Sarah shakes her head. “You’re in need of far too many pick-me-ups lately.”

I gaze longingly at the lovely pork sandwich I was relishing, get instead a mental picture of myself in paper-towel bikini, and put it down. “Fine. No pork.” I snap my fingers to gain the attention of the waitress nearby. “Bring me a field greens salad. No dressing.” I turn back to Sarah. “Happy now?”

Sarah reaches to squeeze my hand. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s got to be hard, with Dad and Brandi announcing that they’re trying to have a baby.”

“Baby! Baby?”

Now it’s Sarah’s turn to look stricken. “I thought you knew. Oh, Mom, Brandi called me last week. She’s always wanted a child…. Oh, damn!”