how now that you’re out of work you don’t know what to do with yourself,”I add, knowing that more than anything, Sienna likes to be going one hundred miles a minute.
Sienna looks at me, and then Bill, and then back at me. Optimistically, Bill crosses his arms in front of him and reaches for each of our hands in a Three Musketeers–like handshake, a move that no one but our Bill, as I now think of my new business partner, could get away with.
“Oh hell. It’s not like I have anything better on the horizon. My TV career’s in the toilet, the rent’s due, the whole world’s on the brink of financial disaster, and the way the two of you make it sound, this is practically my feminist duty. Count me in,” Sienna says gamely. “What do we have to lose?”
O N THE WAY home I stop at Chelsea Market to buy lobsters, double-baked potatoes,
haricot verts
, and a bottle of sparkling cider to celebrate. It’s the same meal that Peter and I ate when he got his first big promotion and when I found out—after years of waiting—that I was pregnant with the girls. Fueled by the flush of yet unachieved but as far as I’m concerned inevitable success, I spring for chocolate truffles and two pounds of ripe red cherries.
I hop in a cab and despite the fact that it’s rush hour, I enjoy a charmed trip uptown—if there are potholes, we fly over them, and miraculously we make every light. My timing today is impeccable. The driver is hooked up to a friend at the other end of his telephone headset—a driving hazard to be sure, but less deadly than the old days, when, starved for conversation, they insisted on sharing everything from rants about the mayor to raves for Dr. Laura.
Terrance offers to carry my packages upstairs, but I tell him it’s not necessary.
“It’s good exercise,” I say, hoisting the heavy bags effortlessly in the air as if they’re filled with sunshine.
I put my groceries down beside the antique umbrella stand outside the apartment and dig around my pocket for my key. Unnecessarily, because Molly hears me and yanks my arm inside.
“Mom, you have to see this, Dad’s making dinner,” she says, pulling me into the kitchen where Peter—who doesn’t know a blender from a box of macaroni—is dumping a bag of precut lettuce into a big wooden salad bowl. There’s a collection of pots on the stove and from the corner of my eye, I spy a pouch of ninety-second Minute Rice. It takes thirty seconds longer to make, but you can put it in the microwave.
“Hm, honey, smells good in here,” I say reflexively, though after a moment I realize that there aren’t actually any food aromas—good or bad—wafting around the room.
Peter winks and points to a package of frozen lasagna. “Nothing like a home-cooked meal.”
“It’s the thought that counts.” I reach into the refrigerator, open a jar, and playfully swipe a fingerful of mustard onto his pristine chef’s apron. “A touch of authenticity.”
Peter grins and whirls me around, pulling me closer for a kiss.
“What’s all this about?” I say, feeling a flush of relief and excitement to see Peter happy after weeks of moping around. “Don’t tell me you saw Halle Berry today on
The View
?”
“Better,” he says, running his hand caressingly down my hip.
Paige comes into the kitchen and rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, would you two just cut it out? Don’t you know that PDAs can scar your children for life?” Then she filches a carrot from the salad and twirls it in the air. “Daddy got a job,” shesays as matter-of-factly as if she were announcing the train schedule.
“Yes, Daddy got a job!” sings Molly, wrapping her arms around Peter and giving him a congratulatory hug.
“Tell Mom who he’s working for, why don’t you?” says Paige slyly.
“Yes, tell me everything, I want to know all the details.”
“It all happened so quickly,” Peter says, searching for the right words. “I hardly know where to begin.”
“Oh I’d
Sienna looks at me, and then Bill, and then back at me. Optimistically, Bill crosses his arms in front of him and reaches for each of our hands in a Three Musketeers–like handshake, a move that no one but our Bill, as I now think of my new business partner, could get away with.
“Oh hell. It’s not like I have anything better on the horizon. My TV career’s in the toilet, the rent’s due, the whole world’s on the brink of financial disaster, and the way the two of you make it sound, this is practically my feminist duty. Count me in,” Sienna says gamely. “What do we have to lose?”
O N THE WAY home I stop at Chelsea Market to buy lobsters, double-baked potatoes,
haricot verts
, and a bottle of sparkling cider to celebrate. It’s the same meal that Peter and I ate when he got his first big promotion and when I found out—after years of waiting—that I was pregnant with the girls. Fueled by the flush of yet unachieved but as far as I’m concerned inevitable success, I spring for chocolate truffles and two pounds of ripe red cherries.
I hop in a cab and despite the fact that it’s rush hour, I enjoy a charmed trip uptown—if there are potholes, we fly over them, and miraculously we make every light. My timing today is impeccable. The driver is hooked up to a friend at the other end of his telephone headset—a driving hazard to be sure, but less deadly than the old days, when, starved for conversation, they insisted on sharing everything from rants about the mayor to raves for Dr. Laura.
Terrance offers to carry my packages upstairs, but I tell him it’s not necessary.
“It’s good exercise,” I say, hoisting the heavy bags effortlessly in the air as if they’re filled with sunshine.
I put my groceries down beside the antique umbrella stand outside the apartment and dig around my pocket for my key. Unnecessarily, because Molly hears me and yanks my arm inside.
“Mom, you have to see this, Dad’s making dinner,” she says, pulling me into the kitchen where Peter—who doesn’t know a blender from a box of macaroni—is dumping a bag of precut lettuce into a big wooden salad bowl. There’s a collection of pots on the stove and from the corner of my eye, I spy a pouch of ninety-second Minute Rice. It takes thirty seconds longer to make, but you can put it in the microwave.
“Hm, honey, smells good in here,” I say reflexively, though after a moment I realize that there aren’t actually any food aromas—good or bad—wafting around the room.
Peter winks and points to a package of frozen lasagna. “Nothing like a home-cooked meal.”
“It’s the thought that counts.” I reach into the refrigerator, open a jar, and playfully swipe a fingerful of mustard onto his pristine chef’s apron. “A touch of authenticity.”
Peter grins and whirls me around, pulling me closer for a kiss.
“What’s all this about?” I say, feeling a flush of relief and excitement to see Peter happy after weeks of moping around. “Don’t tell me you saw Halle Berry today on
The View
?”
“Better,” he says, running his hand caressingly down my hip.
Paige comes into the kitchen and rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, would you two just cut it out? Don’t you know that PDAs can scar your children for life?” Then she filches a carrot from the salad and twirls it in the air. “Daddy got a job,” shesays as matter-of-factly as if she were announcing the train schedule.
“Yes, Daddy got a job!” sings Molly, wrapping her arms around Peter and giving him a congratulatory hug.
“Tell Mom who he’s working for, why don’t you?” says Paige slyly.
“Yes, tell me everything, I want to know all the details.”
“It all happened so quickly,” Peter says, searching for the right words. “I hardly know where to begin.”
“Oh I’d
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