Love, Life And Linguine Part 17

Fly Girl frowns. "I thought that test was about sus.h.i.+."

I say, "That equates women with raw fish. That's not right."

"Plus, sus.h.i.+ comes with rice," Madeline explains. "And soy sauce. Or a man could say that he eats sus.h.i.+, but all he really eats is a California roll. Which doesn't even have raw fish. Nope, mangoes are the way to go. Mimi and I have given this much thought."

"You guys rock," Fly Girl says.

"How old are you?" It suddenly occurs to me that this may not be age-appropriate for her.

"I'm twenty," she tells me.

"The other thing," Madeline continues, "is that it's not simply if he will eat a mango, but how. Does he use a knife and cut the mango into small pieces?"

I say, "Does he cut the mango into big, juicy slices?"

"Or..." Madeline laughs. "Does he bite into the mango and get the juice all over his face?"

"Gross beyond gross," Christopher moans.

"Then stop listening, Chrissie," I tell him. "Anyway, no. I haven't given either Joe or Aaron the mango test. But I'm sure Joe eats mangoes, and eats them well. He knows food."

"I bet chefs make great lovers," Fly Girl says dreamily.

"We do." Madeline grins.

"Even the men?" Fly Girl asks.

"Male chefs make great lovers but bad boyfriends," Madeline tells her. "On the plus side, they are used to putting all kinds of things in their mouths. They are very sensual. They pay attention to details. Also, they have lots of time in the afternoon between lunch and dinner. Chef s.e.x in the afternoon. Nothing like it. So, by all means, have s.e.x with a chef. Just don't date one."

"Don't tell her that," I reprimand. "She's young and impressionable."

"Better she learn now," Madeline answers as she chews on a French fry.

"If chefs are great lovers, why not date them?" Fly Girl asks.

"Because," Madeline continues, "he'll work nights, weekends, and holidays. He'll be dictatorial, because in the kitchen he's the big boss and he won't turn it off at home. Also? Think of all the waitresses running around as temptations."

I groan.

"Sorry," Madeline apologizes.

"It's all right," I tell her. "Seems like ages ago. I'm ready for a new mango man."

Christopher leans over the counter. "Do you think the same test works with bananas?"

Here Comes the Sun Humidity is my least favorite thing about summer. It builds, rises, increases until it's hard to breathe and impossible not to sweat. If humidity had a color, it would be gray. London gray. Los Angeles gray. Like smog. But we don't have smog in Jersey. Not yet, anyway. The only good thing about humidity is that it leads to summer storms, which are a sight to behold.

G.o.d's letting off a little steam, Dad said. He can only take so much. Look what happened to Noah.

As I stand outside Cafe Louis on the first day of August, I see the color drain from the sky. Clouds don't really gather for a summer storm. They disperse, actually, running hard and fast from G.o.d's temper tantrum. In their haste to get away, the clouds shed, leaving a blanket of gray in their wake. It makes the sky look like a ceiling.

Next comes the breeze. It's cool and crisp and smells green from all the trees it has swept through on its way here. The breeze is refres.h.i.+ng, and even though I know it's a trick, that the breeze is lulling me into a false sense of security, I close my eyes and let it blow through my hair.

Thunder, soft at first. It sounds like the rumbling of a highway under a Mack truck. It's another warning.

Look out below, Dad said.

The thunder builds, like the rising drumbeat of an orchestra. Then comes the lightning in quick shots, adding the crash of a cymbal to the overture.

The first drops. .h.i.t my face gently, and I know I should go inside the restaurant. One, two, three drops. Boom. Crash. Four, five, six drops. Boom. Crash.

Then the heavens open and dump water in bucketfuls. Stepping under the awning of the restaurant, I listen to the steady rhythm of the rain bouncing against the concrete steps and the asphalt of the parking lot. It sounds like applause.

Five minutes pa.s.s, and I watch, hypnotized. The skies begin to clear before the rain stops. The gray ceiling fades and the sky lightens to a pastel blue. The rain's intensity abates, quickly slowing to a drizzle. The applause fades. The show is over.

Here comes the sun.

Phoebe Greene She's here.

To celebrate Phoebe's arrival, I have been summoned to Allison's house in the middle of the day. Because I'm working the dinner s.h.i.+ft at Cafe Louis, I can't stay for long. If I could, I would glue myself to Phoebe for the duration of her visit. The woman knows how to live, love, and look fabulous.

Allison's house smells gold, the color of simmering chicken soup. Chicken soup in the summer? Why is Allison doing this to herself?

Walking into the kitchen, I see Phoebe and Allison huddled over the stove, their backs to me. Allison is wearing a black tank top and white skirt with black heels. From behind, I can tell that Allison has styled her hair into fat curls, which her mother prefers. But the humidity and cooking steam have undone most of Allison's curls and her head is now a mishmash of straight strands and loosening waves.

As for Phoebe, she is a riot of color next to black and whiteclad Allison. Phoebe wears a silk top festooned with triangles of jewel-toned blue, green, orange, and red. Her black pants are fitted to her trim waist and hips. Phoebe's dyed blond hair is teased high, making its drop to her shoulders more dramatic.

"I'm trying to show you the right way to make chicken soup," Phoebe tells Allison.

Doesn't Allison know how to make chicken soup? Yes, I'm quite sure she does. Allison's hair isn't the only thing approaching a meltdown. She hands her mother a wooden spoon and turns her back on the stove. "Look, Mom. Mimi's here."

Phoebe turns to smile at me. Eyes. She had her eyes done.

For the past few years, Phoebe has arrived in Jersey with part of her body newly restructured. She started with a tummy tuck. Breast lift, thigh lipo, arm lipo, b.u.t.t lift, lower back lipo, chin lipo, laser removal of age spots. Because she has the work done gradually, Phoebe doesn't look drastically different from visit to visit. But there's always something. Now it's her eyes. It doesn't look like a drastic brow lift. Perhaps it was something on the eyelids. I'll ask her later. Phoebe is honest about her cosmetic procedures. She considers them to be part of her job as a woman. Maintenance, she calls it.

"Mimi!" Phoebe abandons the stove, leaving Allison free to dump a handful of herbs into the disputed pot. Enrobing me in a light, musky scent, Phoebe gives me a strong hug.

"How are you?" I ask. She waves away my question.

"What is this about your boyfriend cheating on you?"

"Mom!" But there's no point in Allison trying to deflect or protect me from her mother's questions. When it comes to men, Phoebe Greene is the self-appointed expert. Of course, Allison could've avoided the whole thing by not telling her mother about Nick's transgressions. As if reading my mind, Phoebe says, "I asked Jeremy about your love life. So, what? He cheated on you and you left?"

Mom walks into the kitchen holding sippy cups. She says, "Oh, Mimi, you're finally here." I look at my watch and see that I am right on time. Mom goes to the refrigerator to refill sippy cups. "What are you girls talking about?"

"Mimi is telling me the story of her boyfriend cheating on her," Phoebe says.

Without looking up from the jar of apple juice, Mom raises her eyebrows. But she doesn't interrupt. So Phoebe continues. "Tell me."

I shrug. "There's nothing else to say."

"You caught him?"

I nod.

"Doing what?"

Mom isn't looking at me, and Allison's back is to us. No help.

"This girl was giving him...oral..." I say.

"A b.l.o.w. .j.o.b?" Phoebe asks.

"Well. Yeah."

Phoebe waves her fingers at Allison. "What do I always say about b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs? You see? I was right."

Allison groans.

Phoebe smacks her hands together, making her gold and silver bangles crash around her wrists. She turns to me. "That's what men want."

"b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs?" I reply.

"s.e.x," she answers. "Men want s.e.x, money, and food. They want the money to buy food. They want the food to have strength to have s.e.x. It's simple."

"Okay." I can't argue with her logic. I can't argue with her at all.

"Also, don't cut your hair short," Phoebe commands. "Never. You want to keep your man? No short hair. They like it long." She points to her daughter. "Like Allison's hair. Beautiful. She wanted to cut it short when her twins were born. I told her no. Right, Allison?"

"Yes, Mom."

"You see?" Phoebe says proudly. "I was right."

Finished refilling the sippy cups, Mom heads out of the kitchen. As she pa.s.ses Allison, Mom rubs her back and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. Mom leaves me standing under Phoebe's s.e.x spotlight.

"Another thing," she continues. "Don't stop shaving and waxing. Men don't want to see hair growing on their women. You're sick? You're pregnant? It doesn't matter. You get out of bed and get a razor. You need help? Get your mother to help. We've done worse."

Sarah walks quietly into the room. "Aunt Mimi," she says with a smile, "come play with us." Sarah puts her hand in mine and pulls me away. Thank the G.o.ddess.

Latin Lover Hot tamale. That's what I think when I lay my eyes on the hunk of burning Banderas standing in Allison's living room. Dark skin, black eyes, black hair that is wavy in all the right places. Wide shoulders, wide lips, and a s.e.xy smile. Which is directed at me. Is he an early birthday gift from Phoebe? It would be just like her to bring me a stud. "You need a Latin lover," she'll probably tell me.

Ezra and Gideon are pulling at my hands. I shake them lose and walk toward the handsome man. I smile. And then Jeremy is standing in front of me. "Mimi," he says. "I have to talk to you."

"Can't I meet the gorgeous man first?"

Jeremy laughs and whispers in my ear. "That's Phoebe's boyfriend."

I gasp. "No!"

"Oh, yes," Jeremy says. "When we went to the airport to get Phoebe, there he was."

"You and Ally didn't know he was coming?"

Jeremy shakes his head. "We didn't know he existed."

"Oy."

"Double oy," Jeremy says.

"Are they staying in a hotel?"

"Nope," Jeremy says. "They are in our house. In the same bedroom."

"He looks Latino," I whisper, eyeballing the man over Jeremy's shoulder.

Jeremy nods. "She met him in Buenos Aires."

"What was Phoebe doing in Buenos Aires?" I want to know.

"I have no idea. What is she ever doing anywhere?"

"How old is this guy?" I ask Jeremy.

He shrugs, and peers into the living room. "Late thirties? Early forties?"

"At least our mom dates men her own age."

Jeremy smiles. "I guess Phoebe likes younger men."

"And they like her."

This Latin lover, whose name is Enrique, is so completely under Phoebe's spell that it's difficult not to laugh at him. When Phoebe walks into a room, Enrique's face brightens. When she is near him, Phoebe touches Enrique in a feminine way that makes him look more masculine. Gently, she leans on him. She turns her head to look up at him, although they are almost the same height because she is wearing stilettos.

They aren't doing anything, really. They don't have their arms around each other. They aren't holding hands. But I feel like a peeping Tom, even though there's nothing to see. Like Enrique, I can't take my eyes off Phoebe. When she leaves his side, Enrique watches her walk, unabashedly rolling his eyes over her body. Her sixty-something-year-old body. Maybe Phoebe's right about something. Or everything.

Mothers Out of the corner of my eye, I see Allison standing in the kitchen watching her mother. She looks very sad. No one sees her but me, so I slowly make my way to her. When she sees me coming, Allison turns and disappears into the kitchen. I follow her.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Allison nods, then shakes her head. "She's acting like a fool. What is she thinking? That man is twenty years younger than she is."

"But he makes her happy. You said that about Mom and Sid. Remember?"

Allison frowns. "I understand now. What makes you upset about Sid. It's not who he is. It's who he isn't. Your father."

"Yeah," I say. "I guess that's what it is."

Allison puts her hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't understand."