I may not be Anne Rye, but I’m still her daughter and I’ve picked up a few things in the kitchen over the years. I sort of had to—she used to tote me around to her catering gigs like a combination personal assistant/trophy, dressing me in clothes that matched her own and teaching me about all the cooking and prep work. People thought it was so cute when the caterer’s eight-year-old daughter stood behind a warming tray, spooning out apple compote or mashed potatoes or whatever was on the menu. When Mom opened the cupcake bakery in New York, sometimes I’d help out in the kitchen. That was in the early days, back when my mother did all her own handiwork, before she became a Brand Name™ and could hire loads of people to do things for her.
Still, I’m no slouch in the kitchen. And I make a mean mac and cheese—not that boxed Kraft stuff, but the real deal. As in, I use three kinds of cheese: Pecorino Romano, Gruyère, and sharp white cheddar cheese. And my mother taught me long ago that fresh pasta is almost always better than dried, boxed, or bagged pasta, so she either makes her own for dinner parties or keeps some fresh pasta from a specialty store on hand. She happened to have fresh elbow macaroni from Citarella in the fridge, so I was in luck. Throw in some nutmeg, pepper, milk, flour, bits of bread (yes, bread—makes it soooo good), salt and butter, and boom! I had whipped up a truly kickass version of a classic American treat. At the last minute, I decided to take some bacon my mother had bought from the butcher, fry it up, slice it into little pieces, and add it to the mixture. I did this for two reasons: one, bacon makes everything better; and two, my mother is disdainful of the trend in which people add bacon to things that don’t require bacon (like ice cream, milk shakes, salads, you name it—people are nuts for bacon these days). Then I cut up some watermelon into cubes and tossed it with some balsamic vinaigrette, arugula, and feta.
The doorbell rang at eleven thirty, and the florist and her assistants marched in with three big vases of red roses and three big vases of white roses. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I just kind of spread them around the first floor. I even put one vase in the bathroom, because why not? The bell rang again at noon, while the macaroni was gently bubbling in the oven. I took off my apron and went to the door to find Jacinta wringing her hands on the front steps.
“Jesus,” I said when I opened the door. “You look amazing.”
She was wearing purple eye makeup that set off her enormous green eyes, and a beautiful mint-green sleeveless dress that consisted of finely wrought lace over a satiny sheath. Little, slouchy green leather elf boots and lavender fishnets completed the look. It was delicate and sweet and sexy and hip.
“She’s not here yet,” Jacinta said, looking at me with mournful eyes. “She’s not coming, is she?”
“It’s only noon,” I reminded her, ushering her into the house. “She’s coming at one. Did you decide about the cookies?”
She looked at me blankly. Then something seemed to register.
“Oh, the snickerdoodles,” she said. “Delilah’s favorites. They’re coming at twelve forty-five.”
I put a hand on each of her arms and looked up at her. I’m not the type of girl who touches people a lot, but this girl was a serial hugger, and I figured I wasn’t crossing any boundaries. “Jacinta,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m freaking out,” she whispered.
I steered her over to the couch. “Lay down,” I ordered. “Or lie down. I never know which one it is.”
“I don’t know, either,” she said faintly, obeying me.
I made a mental note to check my SAT book. That was exactly the kind of trick they’d probably use to make you lose points.
Then I heard the oven timer ding.
“That’s the mac and cheese,” I told her. “I’ve got to take it out to cool.”
“Mac and cheese?” Jacinta repeated, looking confused. “Like Kraft mac and cheese?”
“No way,” I said. “I don’t mess with that Kraft b.s. This is the real deal. Homemade with fancy cheeses.”
Jacinta looked a little relieved that I had made a properly pretentious version of comfort food. I left her on the couch and went to the kitchen to get the dish out of the oven. Then the doorbell rang, and it was Jacinta’s housekeeper with the snickerdoodles. Then I realized I still hadn’t set the table on the deck, or made fresh lemonade.
I bustled about, feeling like Suzy Homemaker, and set out what my mother would have called “an exquisite spread” on the table on the back deck. I was so consumed in my activity that I jumped a little when the doorbell rang.
Delilah Fairweather stood on the front porch wearing a red shirtdress that had probably been a gift from Ralph Lauren himself. She looked like the epitome of an all-American girl. Skags would’ve scolded me for the thought, pointing out that America is a vast mosaic of individuals of different ethnic backgrounds, colors, shapes, etc.—but Delilah certainly had that classic Barbie look down pat.
“Hello there,” Delilah said.
“C’mon in,” I said, ushering her into the foyer.
“Your house is beautiful,” she cooed. “Your mother has perfect taste.”
“She’s an expert shopper,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“You couldn’t do a mimosa, could you?” she asked mischievously, her big blue eyes sparkling.
“Sadly, no,” I said. “I know I sound like a nerd, but my mom would flip if she found out I’d opened any of her champagne.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Delilah said. “I forget that most people’s parents actually notice if they steal their alcohol. Merilee isn’t the most—attentive mommy.” She giggled.
“I just made some lemonade. Want any?”
“You made it yourself?” Delilah sounded truly impressed. “Of course I’d like some!” Then her eyes widened in surprise. I looked over my shoulder in the direction she was looking, and there in the doorway to the living room was Jacinta Trimalchio, pale as could be in her little dress and elf boots. Delilah instantly generated a friendly smile and looked at me expectantly.
“Oh,” I said, a little confused. “Delilah, this is my neighbor, Jacinta Trimalchio.”
Delilah gave a squeal of delight.
“Oh my gosh,” she said, grinning wide. “I adore your site. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Jacinta appeared frozen by some invisible force, so I gamely put my arm around her waist and pushed her forward. I may get a case of the Nervous Naomi Babbles now and then, but I don’t think I’ve ever appeared this terrified when being introduced to a new person. Jacinta, on the other hand, was looking at Delilah as if she was a ghost.
“Jacinta,” I said after an uncomfortable silence. “This is Delilah Fairweather.” It was such an unnecessary statement that I immediately felt embarrassed.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about the site,” Delilah suggested, and I felt a rush of gratitude toward her. Here she was, confronted with a freakishly silent girl, and she was really making an effort to make her comfortable. Without a word, Jacinta obeyed. The two girls sat on opposite ends of the living room couch staring at each other, while I stood with hands awkwardly clasped in front of me.
“For how long have you been blogging?” Delilah asked politely.
“S-since I was fourteen,” Jacinta said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Four years.”
“Well, I’ve been a huge fan for the past three,” Delilah said, soldiering onward. “I remember the first time you featured me in a Spotlight, when Mom and I did the red carpet for the Whitney Museum benefit. I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited.”