Walk of Shame
Page 43
“Oh!” I say. Okay, well, I can’t leave family standing out in the hall. “Come on in. He should be back any minute.”
Pam smiles as she steps inside.
“Can I take your coat?” I ask, just as a cellphone begins to ring.
“Oh, I wonder if that’s him,” she says, digging through her purse and coming up with an iPhone that’s a couple of generations old.
“Hi, Andrew,” she says, her widening smile telling me that they must have at least a somewhat decent relationship. “No, it’s no problem! I don’t mind waiting—and actually, a very nice girl let me into your apartment.”
I beam. I am very nice. I can practically hear Andrew’s eye roll through the phone.
I move into the kitchen to give Pam a bit more privacy, but she hangs up a second later.
“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes or so—he got held up with a client phone call,” Pam says, her eyes scanning the kitchen.
I suddenly realize my error. I meant to surprise him with a home-cooked meal when he got home, but it didn’t even occur to me that just as I also want to maintain my former life, he still has other commitments in his. Things I know nothing about.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I say, starting to clean up. “I meant to surprise him. I didn’t know he had plans—”
Pam interrupts. “Saltimbocca?”
I glance down at the mess on the cutting board. “Trying to be.”
She points at my glass. “Pour me one of those.”
I do as she asks, and when I turn around, she’s taken my place behind the cutting board. It’s obvious from the confidence of her movements that she’s better in the kitchen than I am.
“You really don’t have to save me,” I say. “I can clean it up—he’ll never know about the massacre.”
Her hands never stop moving as she pulls out a piece of plastic wrap, placing it over the chicken so she can pound it out a bit more, but she watches me the entire time. “Never known him to have a woman cook for him.”
I give a tiny shrug, feeling self-conscious and out of place knowing that this is a member of his family and I’m his . . . I don’t know what. Girlfriend, I guess. That thought makes me happy.
“Sit,” she says, nodding at the bar stool.
I do as instructed, while she beats the crap out of the chicken.
“It needs to be thinner so you have more surface area to work with,” she says, holding up the now very flat piece of chicken. “Easier to roll, see?”
She does indeed make it look easy, and I watch and learn, even as my mind races, considering what question to ask first.
I really should leave and let Andrew tell me about himself in his own time, but that will probably take centuries, so . . .
“You’re married to Andrew’s brother?” I ask.
She nods. “Peter. We live in New Jersey.”
“Do you two make it into the city often?” I ask, sort of asking why his brother didn’t tag along without actually asking it.
“Not so much. Peter hates Manhattan. The honking, the sirens, the people . . .”
“But you don’t mind it?”
“No, I do,” she says with a friendly smile. “But I have something to discuss with Andrew in person. A favor.”
I nod and say nothing, since there’s really nothing to follow up with that wouldn’t seem prying.
“He said your name is Georgiana?” Pam asks, putting a nicely rolled piece of chicken onto the baking sheet I already lined with foil.
“Georgie,” I say. “I live in the building, and we . . .” She lifts her eyebrows, and I feel myself blush. “We’re friends.”
“Awfully nice of you to attempt chicken saltimbocca for a friend,” she says, winking as she uses the back of her hand to push blond hair off her forehead.
Pam’s easy to like. Her brown eyes are friendly, and her appearance is friendly without being flashy. But she seems a little bit sad too.
“How long have you and Peter been married?”
“Oh, forever,” she says with a laugh. “We were high school sweethearts, got married when we were nineteen. We’re six years older than Andrew, so I’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“What was he like?” I can’t help asking, leaning forward.
She’s quiet for a moment. “About like you’d think. Quiet. Serious. Deadly smart.”
“Deadly smart,” I say, surprised by the strange word combination. “Like . . . a savant?” Good Lord, am I falling for some sort of genius?
Pam gives a little shake of her head as she sets the fourth piece of chicken on the baking sheet and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “He hates all those labels, but yeah, I suspect his IQ’s off the charts. Parents didn’t know what to do with him. He was lucky to have a couple of good teachers who recognized that his brain moved faster than was the case with the rest of the kids, but sometimes I think . . .”
I wait for her to dry her hands and gather her thoughts.
“Sometimes I wonder if it was the best thing,” she says, turning back. “He’s kind and considerate as they come, but being put in with older kids didn’t do him any favors. They didn’t know how to relate to someone two years younger, and he didn’t know how to relate to them.”
My heart hurts at the thought of little Andrew feeling ostracized by his bigger classmates.
“Were he and Peter close?”
“Not particularly. The six-year age gap was a lot to overcome, even with Andrew’s advanced intellect. They cared for each other, got along well enough when they weren’t fighting, but were never friends in the way of siblings that are closer in age.”
I sip my wine, and she does the same. “Did he have any friends?” I ask quietly. “Andrew, I mean.”
“Sure. Some. He tried hard, but . . .”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but that tells me all I need to know. No wonder he seems so heartbreakingly alone. The poor guy never learned how to make a friend.
“Please tell me he has some friends now,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re killing me here.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t know?”
“He and I are sort of . . . new to each other’s lives.”
“Ah. Well. Yes, he’s got a couple of close friends. Things were rough in high school, but they got better in college. His best friend is from law school. Paul. He lives in Boston. And I get the impression he gets along quite well with some of his colleagues.”
Pam smiles as she steps inside.
“Can I take your coat?” I ask, just as a cellphone begins to ring.
“Oh, I wonder if that’s him,” she says, digging through her purse and coming up with an iPhone that’s a couple of generations old.
“Hi, Andrew,” she says, her widening smile telling me that they must have at least a somewhat decent relationship. “No, it’s no problem! I don’t mind waiting—and actually, a very nice girl let me into your apartment.”
I beam. I am very nice. I can practically hear Andrew’s eye roll through the phone.
I move into the kitchen to give Pam a bit more privacy, but she hangs up a second later.
“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes or so—he got held up with a client phone call,” Pam says, her eyes scanning the kitchen.
I suddenly realize my error. I meant to surprise him with a home-cooked meal when he got home, but it didn’t even occur to me that just as I also want to maintain my former life, he still has other commitments in his. Things I know nothing about.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I say, starting to clean up. “I meant to surprise him. I didn’t know he had plans—”
Pam interrupts. “Saltimbocca?”
I glance down at the mess on the cutting board. “Trying to be.”
She points at my glass. “Pour me one of those.”
I do as she asks, and when I turn around, she’s taken my place behind the cutting board. It’s obvious from the confidence of her movements that she’s better in the kitchen than I am.
“You really don’t have to save me,” I say. “I can clean it up—he’ll never know about the massacre.”
Her hands never stop moving as she pulls out a piece of plastic wrap, placing it over the chicken so she can pound it out a bit more, but she watches me the entire time. “Never known him to have a woman cook for him.”
I give a tiny shrug, feeling self-conscious and out of place knowing that this is a member of his family and I’m his . . . I don’t know what. Girlfriend, I guess. That thought makes me happy.
“Sit,” she says, nodding at the bar stool.
I do as instructed, while she beats the crap out of the chicken.
“It needs to be thinner so you have more surface area to work with,” she says, holding up the now very flat piece of chicken. “Easier to roll, see?”
She does indeed make it look easy, and I watch and learn, even as my mind races, considering what question to ask first.
I really should leave and let Andrew tell me about himself in his own time, but that will probably take centuries, so . . .
“You’re married to Andrew’s brother?” I ask.
She nods. “Peter. We live in New Jersey.”
“Do you two make it into the city often?” I ask, sort of asking why his brother didn’t tag along without actually asking it.
“Not so much. Peter hates Manhattan. The honking, the sirens, the people . . .”
“But you don’t mind it?”
“No, I do,” she says with a friendly smile. “But I have something to discuss with Andrew in person. A favor.”
I nod and say nothing, since there’s really nothing to follow up with that wouldn’t seem prying.
“He said your name is Georgiana?” Pam asks, putting a nicely rolled piece of chicken onto the baking sheet I already lined with foil.
“Georgie,” I say. “I live in the building, and we . . .” She lifts her eyebrows, and I feel myself blush. “We’re friends.”
“Awfully nice of you to attempt chicken saltimbocca for a friend,” she says, winking as she uses the back of her hand to push blond hair off her forehead.
Pam’s easy to like. Her brown eyes are friendly, and her appearance is friendly without being flashy. But she seems a little bit sad too.
“How long have you and Peter been married?”
“Oh, forever,” she says with a laugh. “We were high school sweethearts, got married when we were nineteen. We’re six years older than Andrew, so I’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“What was he like?” I can’t help asking, leaning forward.
She’s quiet for a moment. “About like you’d think. Quiet. Serious. Deadly smart.”
“Deadly smart,” I say, surprised by the strange word combination. “Like . . . a savant?” Good Lord, am I falling for some sort of genius?
Pam gives a little shake of her head as she sets the fourth piece of chicken on the baking sheet and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “He hates all those labels, but yeah, I suspect his IQ’s off the charts. Parents didn’t know what to do with him. He was lucky to have a couple of good teachers who recognized that his brain moved faster than was the case with the rest of the kids, but sometimes I think . . .”
I wait for her to dry her hands and gather her thoughts.
“Sometimes I wonder if it was the best thing,” she says, turning back. “He’s kind and considerate as they come, but being put in with older kids didn’t do him any favors. They didn’t know how to relate to someone two years younger, and he didn’t know how to relate to them.”
My heart hurts at the thought of little Andrew feeling ostracized by his bigger classmates.
“Were he and Peter close?”
“Not particularly. The six-year age gap was a lot to overcome, even with Andrew’s advanced intellect. They cared for each other, got along well enough when they weren’t fighting, but were never friends in the way of siblings that are closer in age.”
I sip my wine, and she does the same. “Did he have any friends?” I ask quietly. “Andrew, I mean.”
“Sure. Some. He tried hard, but . . .”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but that tells me all I need to know. No wonder he seems so heartbreakingly alone. The poor guy never learned how to make a friend.
“Please tell me he has some friends now,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re killing me here.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t know?”
“He and I are sort of . . . new to each other’s lives.”
“Ah. Well. Yes, he’s got a couple of close friends. Things were rough in high school, but they got better in college. His best friend is from law school. Paul. He lives in Boston. And I get the impression he gets along quite well with some of his colleagues.”
