it,” Becky said. “You didn’t have to yell at her. Christina is sobbing in the storeroom, and all because of you. Sometimes you’re as sensitive as a steamroller.”
The round-faced, fuzzy-eyebrowed owner of Merlin’s Fine Diner glared at her from behind the counter. “Christina got the order wrong again,” he snarled. “The customer’s always right.”
“In this case the customer was wrong. He ordered a BLT without the bacon, tomato on the side, and that’s exactly what he got!”
“Yeah, right. Who orders a BLT without the bacon?”
“Me, for one,” Becky answered. “Not that I’ve ever been inclined to eat in this dive.” These days, however, just seeing all that grease sizzling in the kitchen, never mind the smell, was enough to send her stomach reeling. “I’d better check on Christina,” she mumbled, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea.
“You people are all alike,” Merlin said. “Trouble-makers, everyone of you.”
Becky whirled around. “You people? What is that supposed to mean?”
“You vegetarians. It’s as if you all belong to the same secret club. It’s un-American, I tell you. Downright subversive. Now get back to work.”
“Work, shmirk. You heartless clod! Christina is in the back room, crying her eyes out, and all you can think about is work? What kind of person are you?”
He waved a finger in her face. “I’ll tell you what kind of person. Someone who plans on staying in business. Someone who doesn’t need back talk from the help. I’ve had it, Rebecca. If I’d wanted a cook with a mouth, I would have hired my wife. You’re fired. From now on I’m doing all the cooking myself, just like when I first opened.”
Another fine mess, Becky thought after saying goodbye to Christina. Another job down the drain. Fired again, and for what?
Little silver bells jingled as she pulled open the door to the diner, a blast of cold air assaulting her face. She pulled her scarf up over her chin and stepped onto the sidewalk.
It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t hold down a job. She just hadn’t found her niche in the world. But she wasn’t thinking about her sudden unemployed state, and she wasn’t thinking about the weather as she bundled her jacket close to her body and made her way down the street. She was thinking about it. The problem. The predicament she planned to dump on her family at dinner.
No use putting it off. They’d find out sooner or later. Might as well let the cat out of the bag when the whole family—the whole mishpokhe as Bubbe liked to say—was gathered around the table.
For as long as Becky could remember, no one in the family had ever been excused from Friday-night dinner at Ma’s. To be excused, you had to have been run over by a truck or be in the process of having a baby. When Becky was married and living in New York, she’d taken the train back to Middlewood every Friday evening. But she’d always traveled alone. Her husband, Jordan, had been excused. He was almost a doctor, and doctors, according to her mother, made their own rules.
Becky could just imagine the scene that evening when she broke the news. In the center of the polished oak table would be her mother’s favorite crystal vase, filled with an arrangement from the florist. Her father would complain that nothing could equal the prize roses he grew every summer in his garden, and her mother would roll her eyes.
“Pass the knishes, please,” Becky might say to her brother, David. “Guess what, Ma? I lost my job today. Oh, by the way, I’m three months pregnant.”
“Again you got fired?” Becky’s mother might answer. As usual, Gertie Roth would hear only what she expected to hear, and the last thing she’d expect to hear was that her divorced daughter was pregnant. Refusing to do the math, the last thing she’d want to hear was that Jordan Steinberg, her ex-son-in-law the doctor, wasn’t the father.
On second thought maybe I shouldn’t tell them right away, Becky debated, imagining the mayhem that would follow. Her mother, once understanding set in, would hold her hand over her heart and feign an attack. Gertie Roth—who, barring mild hypertension, was as healthy as a horse—was convinced she was going to die young. “It’s too late for that,” Becky’s father liked to tease her, only now he’d be in no mood for jokes. He’d insist that Becky get a second opinion, all the while lamenting, “Where did we go wrong?” And Bubbe would nod her head sadly, in the way that grandmothers did, while thanking God that Chaim, Becky’s grandfather, had already passed on, because if he hadn’t, the news would probably kill him.
No, Becky decided, she wouldn’t tell them tonight. She couldn’t drop a bomb like this between the chicken soup and gefilte fish—which, being a vegetarian, she’d never get to eat—and not expect a fallout. She considered not telling any of them, ever. She could blame her weight gain on her depression, and when the time came she could…she could what? Give her baby up for adoption? No way, she told herself, just as terminating the pregnancy hadn’t been an option when, just hours ago, she had hidden in the ladies’ room at the back of the diner, waiting for the results of the home pregnancy test.
Positive.
Bracing herself against the wind, she rounded the corner at the end of the block, and, like Dorothy after she had landed over the rainbow, found herself in another world. Here, in the older part of town, the houses were different from the contemporary split-level bungalows in Becky’s neighborhood. In striking contrast, they were large and stately in the Colonial style of days long ago. Here was where Carter had grown up.
She turned another corner and stopped outside a bed and breakfast. Set against a woodsy landscape, the old home was a picture of old-fashioned charm. The posts on the corners of the house were ornamentally molded, the chamfered beams under the overhang embellished with large teardrop shapes. On a sign in the window, Vacancy was written next to Starr’s Bed & Breakfast, underneath that, Assistant Cook Wanted. On sudden impulse she walked up the stone pathway. She reached for the large brass knocker, then hesitated.
In the yard stood a large Douglas fir, silver streamers and multicolored lights woven through its branches. Since Thanksgiving, Christmas decorations had sprouted everywhere, candles in windows, wreaths on front doors, Santa with reindeer on snow-covered lawns.
She pulled her hand away. Not my world, she thought, and headed back to the street.
The job in Phoenix had taken ten months to complete, but it was nothing compared to what lay ahead, the project that would ensure him a full partnership with Sullivan and Walters, Middlewood’s prestigious architectural firm. Joe Sullivan had called him on his cell phone only moments ago, informing him that the New Zealand job had been approved.
At the moment, though, New Zealand was the farthest thing from Carter’s mind.
He sat in the booth, examining the stained checkerboard oilcloth that covered the table. Bored with that, he turned his gaze to the torn red vinyl of the seat. He’d never been here before and now he knew why. A Meal You’ll Never Forget, the sign outside boasted. If the coffee was any indication of what the food was like, never forget was right. Your stomach wouldn’t let you.
The day had been long, starting with a five-hour flight from Phoenix to LaGuardia, followed by another hour’s trek by car service to Middlewood, Connecticut. All he’d wanted was to stay home and unwind, but he knew his mother was expecting him. After dropping off his bags at his apartment, he headed straight for the garage to get his car and was on the road again.
And
