Baby Makes Three. Molly O'KeefeЧитать онлайн книгу.
man? You need something?” Gabe whirled to find a good-looking, tall…kid. Really. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-six. He stood in the open doorway, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Hi,” Gabe started to say. “No. Well, yes. Actually.”
“You selling something?” The kid pointed to the sign Alice had hand printed and posted on the mailbox: No Salesmen, No Flyers, No Religious Fanatics. This Means You.
He smiled, typical Alice.
“No,” he told the kid. “I’m not selling anything. My name is Gabe and I—”
“You’re the dude in the pictures.” The guy smiled and held out his hand. “You look good, keeping in shape.”
Gabe was knocked off stride but managed to shake his hand anyway. “Thanks. Um…I’m sorry, who are you?” And what pictures?
“Charlie, I’m Alice’s roommate.”
Roommate? Gabe’s mouth fell open.
“No, no, man, not like that.” The kid laughed. “Though I did try at the beginning but she pretty much let me know that wasn’t going to be happening. I just pay rent and live in the basement.”
“Why does she need a roommate?” he asked.
Charlie shrugged. “Why does anyone need a roommate? Money, I guess. It’s not for the company that’s for sure. I barely see her anymore. She used to make me dinner.” He whistled through his teeth. “Best food I ever had.”
Gabe’s head reeled, but he saw the sugar he needed to sweeten the deal. Alice needed money, it was the only way his incredibly private ex-wife would ever rent out part of her home and, horrors, share her kitchen with some kid who no doubt scarfed down freeze-dried noodles and Lucky Charms by the boatload.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to convince her—working at Johnny O’s, renting out the basement. He only needed to push down her pride and get her to see what an opportunity he had for her.
“She is a great chef,” Gabe said. “Look, Charlie. If you don’t mind, I was hoping to come in and wait for Alice to get home. I am supposed to have a business meeting with her.”
“Sure, no problem.” Charlie stepped out onto the porch, leaving the heavy wooden storm door open. “Don’t touch her booze, though. She gets crazy if you drink her stuff.”
Gabe nodded, suddenly speechless as Charlie walked by dragging with him Alice’s scent from the house. Roses and lemon swirled out around him, reminding him of the smell of her blue-black curls spread out across the pillows of their marriage bed, the damp nape of her neck after a shower.
“See you around,” Charlie said and took off on a bike.
Gabe lifted his hand in a halfhearted farewell.
Suddenly, the narrow hallway leading back to the living room with its big picture windows looked a mile long.
The brass key in his hand—a standard house key, identical to the one he’d carried on his key chain for years—weighed a thousand pounds.
Need a chef. Need a chef. Need a chef.
He wished it didn’t require going into that house.
He took a deep breath, buffered himself against the ghosts inside and stormed the gates. Immediately he was caught short by the familiarity of their home.
The foyer still had the cut-glass vase filled with overblown pink roses in it—she’d always loved putting it there—and the walls were adorned with their photos. Black-and-white shots from their various trips. Those were the pictures Charlie had referred to. Gabe was in some of them, standing next to the Vietnamese fisherman and the Mexican grandmother who made the best tortillas he’d ever tasted.
What is she doing with these still on the wall? He wondered. He’d emptied all his frames of her, his wallet and photo albums. Looking at his apartment, you’d never guess he’d been married. Looking at her house, you’d never guess she’d been divorced.
He stalked through the house and turned right toward the kitchen, resisting the urge to check out the family room and the back lawn.
More roses sat on the kitchen table. These were fresh, bright yellow buds still.
The kitchen was spotless. Their expensive renovation still looked modern and elegant, such a reflection of his wife.
Ex-wife. Ex.
An image—one of the few to have survived the war between him and Alice—came and went like smoke in sunshine.
The memory was of a random night—a Wednesday or something in March—when nothing special was happening. Alice had come home late from shutting down the restaurant and he’d woken up while she showered. He’d waited for her in this kitchen, dark but for the bright panels of moonlight that lay over the furniture like a sheet. She’d walked in wearing a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else.
She’d smelled sweet and clean. Powdery. Her hair a dark slick down her back. Her lithe body taut and graceful, her skin rosy and fresh.
“You’re better than sleep,” she’d said to him, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, just south of his ear. He’d touched her back, found those dimples at the base of her spine that he’d loved with dizzying devotion.
And then they’d made slow, sleepy lazy love.
It surprised him at odd times when it seemed as though his Alice years had happened to someone else. When he thought he’d finally managed to put it all behind him.
But looking at his former kitchen, the memory ambushed him, rocked him on his heels and had him struggling for breath that didn’t taste of his ex-wife.
He tore open the maple cabinets, as if he could tear that stubborn memory out of his brain. But in cabinet after cabinet he only found empty shelves. Which was not at all like her. She used to say that having an empty pantry made her nervous. If there wasn’t pasta, garlic and olive oil on hand at all times she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.
Something in his gut twinged. Remorse? Worry?
No, couldn’t be. He was divorced. Papers, signed by both of them, exonerated him from worry and remorse.
But his gut still twinged.
He pulled open the cabinet above the fridge only to find it fully stocked with high-end liquor.
No need for the Beaujolais.
Another cabinet over the chopping block was filled with freeze-dried noodles and cereal.
Charlie’s small stake in the kitchen.
Something warm and fluffy brushed up against his ankles and he looked down to find Felix, their French cat. Another thing she’d gotten in the divorce.
“Bonjour, Felix,” he said with great affection. The gray-and-white cat wasn’t really French—he was south-side Albany Dumpster—but they considered him so due to his love of anchovies, olives and lemon juice.
Gabe opened the fridge and found enough anchovies and expensive olives soaked in lemon juice to keep the cat happy for aeons.
He pulled out a slick, silver fish and fed it to the purring cat. “What’s happening here, Felix?” he asked, stroking the cat’s ears.
During their last big fight, Alice had told him that she would be better off without him. Happier. And he’d jumped at his chance for freedom, relieved to be away from the torture they constantly inflicted on each other.
But, as he looked around the home that hadn’t changed since he’d left, he wondered if this empty kitchen was really better.
Is this happy?
He stopped those thoughts before they went any further. That cold part