Cook the Books

Josh? I couldn’t stand the thought of his hearing about Digger’s death through the grapevine. He should hear from someone close to him. Of course, Josh’s former sous-chef and former roommate, Snacker, could tell him, but as much as I loved Josh’s crazy friend, he was not one to count on for a delicate, sensitive delivery. I called Adrianna.

“Hi, Chloe. What are you doing home already? Aren’t you supposed to be feasting on delicious food at Digger’s? Did you call to gloat?”

At the sound of Adrianna’s voice, I started crying, and it took ages to compose myself enough to explain that Digger had died in a fire. When I could finally breathe normally, I described the morning in detail. “And I can’t help worrying about Josh. Do you think I should get in touch with him?”

“This is just terrible,” Ade said. “I’m in shock. What a horrible way to die! Oh, poor Digger. Well, do you have Josh’s new phone number?”

“No. I think I still have his e- mail address, but that wouldn’t be right. I can’t send him an e- mail telling him that Digger is dead,” I said with a sniffle. “And I don’t want him to think that I’m using Digger’s death as an excuse to contact him. But maybe that’s what I want to do!” I wailed. Josh had been my rock for the past year; I was used to leaning on him. I still had Adrianna, but Josh had been a strong force in my life in a totally different way. I missed him more than ever. I missed him way too much for my own good.

“Chloe, I hate to say this, because I can tell how much you want to talk to Josh, but you know he’ll hear about Digger from one of his friends. He knows tons of people in Boston, and he’ll hear. You’ve been working so hard to get over him.”

I blew my nose. “You’re right. I’m moving on with my life. He moved on with his, right? He could have stayed in Boston instead of going to Hawaii without me, but he didn’t. I’ll just have to be sad about Digger without Josh,” I announced as defiantly as I could.

“Listen, Chloe, I know you’ve had a crappy morning, but is there any chance you’d be up for doing me a favor?” I heard Patrick gurgling cutely in the background. “I hate to ask, but-”

“Anything,” I said. “What do you need?”

“I was wondering if you could watch the baby for me this afternoon? Just for a few hours? I’m so desperate to get out of the house for a little bit, and a girl I used to work with said she could squeeze me in for a cut and color at four today. She just called me to say she had a cancellation, but I totally get it if you aren’t up to it.”

Not up to it? A few hours with the cutest cuddlebug in the world would cheer up and distract me. “I’d love to. Do you want to drop him off here? Around three thirty?” I turned a guilty eye to the hall closet, which was crammed full of outrageously expensive baby supplies. I’d paid for them with money that I still owed to the credit-card company, but I’d known that Patrick would spend time at my place and hadn’t wanted Ade and Owen to haul stuff back and forth. This occasion was an excellent example of why I needed the baby supplies; having Patrick here would justify my purchases as necessary expenses.

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Adrianna asked. “Because I could try to get another appointment.”

“No way. I want time with my buddy,” I insisted. “See you then.”

I took a scalding shower. Although the fire had been extinguished by the time I’d reached Digger’s, the horrible odor that had enveloped his street seemed to cling to me. I washed my hair twice and doused myself in orange- and-honey-scented bath gel. Later, I spent a few hours trying to focus on my schoolwork, but images of burning buildings won out against rational thought, and I made almost no headway in my reading. I scanned the notes I had taken on the clients I saw at my internship and tried to think about other people’s problems instead of my own.

Just as I was setting up Patrick’s Pack ’n Play-a little portable crib and infant play area (not that I was expecting to let the gorgeous one out of my arms)-Kyle called.

“Chloe, I am so sorry about this morning. Not only for the fire that killed your friend, but also for my father’s behavior. It’s the way he is, but it was inexcusable. I just dropped him at the airport, so at least he’s out of our hair for the time being.”

My stomach churned when Kyle said killed, but I appreciated his apology. “Thanks so much. I’m still in shock,” I said. “I can’t really process what’s happened yet.”

“Of course. Listen, if you’re up for it, I’d love to take you to dinner tonight. I have a seven o’clock reservation at Incline, in the Seaport district.”

“That would be lovely,” I said honestly. “I’ll meet you there?”

“I’ll come pick you up, if you like,” Kyle offered. Ohhh… so maybe this was a date? “I have some more material to give you. The papers from the other night were only the tip of the iceberg. That is, if you’re still interested in working on the cookbook?”

“Of course I’m still interested.”

“Great. I don’t want you to have to schlep all this stuff home with you, so this way I can drop it at your house. Six thirty sound okay?”

“Sure.” I gave him my address and hung up, perfectly happy to have an excuse to cut my studying short. Patrick and Ade would be here soon, and I’d have to figure out what I was wearing to dinner with Kyle. Incline was a chic, intimate little restaurant that practically screamed romance-small tables, candles everywhere, soft background music, the whole shebang. When I’d gone there with my gay friend Doug, we’d nodded politely at our server’s efforts to promote our supposed romance. The two of us hadn’t really longed to be left alone, and we hadn’t been eager to share a heart-shaped dessert. Luckily, I’d never eaten there with Josh, so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed with memories of-Damn! I shut my eyes, refusing to tear up over my ex. Again, I briefly wondered about the possibility that Josh had been at Digger’s last night, but I dismissed the idea. If Digger had known that Josh was going to be in town, he’d have said so when we’d talked on the phone.

I picked through my wardrobe and chose a short black skirt that I paired with a white shell and a cream-colored sheer cardigan. I’d put on tall black boots and look like a million bucks for Kyle. Josh could go to hell.

SEVEN

“NOW that is a gorgeous baby!” Kyle beamed at Patrick, who snuggled cozily in my arms, wrapped in a new fleece blanket that I’d unearthed from the closet of baby stuff.

“Isn’t he the best?” I rubbed the peach fuzz on the baby’s head and then kissed his nose. “I cannot get enough of him.”

“Is, uh… is he yours?” Kyle stood in my living room holding an alarmingly large cardboard box that presumably held cookbook material. “You haven’t said anything about being married or having a boyfriend or…”

“No, no.” I smiled. “He’s not mine. This is Patrick, Adrianna’s baby. She went to get her hair done. She should be back any minute. I’m definitely not married and not dating anyone.” I cringed. Could I be more obvious? But Kyle did look exceedingly handsome tonight. Again, he had on a suit, and although I didn’t usually gravitate toward the stockbroker look, I was willing to expand my horizons. There was something sexy about his being all covered up in layers of clothing. I briefly wondered what was under that button-down. True, Kyle had a beast of a father-I couldn’t imagine having that dreadful Hank Boucher as a father-in-law-but… Wait a minute! What the heck was I doing even considering Kyle as potential husband material? “I’m Patrick’s godmother, so I get to spoil him to pieces. You can put that box down anywhere, Kyle.”

“Thanks.” Kyle couldn’t keep his eyes off the baby. A good sign! The man loved children and probably wanted a family of his own.

“Here, why don’t you hold Patrick for a minute, and I’ll put the material on my desk.” I rose from the couch and passed the baby to Kyle. “Just keep him close to your body. He likes being held tightly.”

I helped position the baby in the crook of Kyle’s arm. Cooing and sighing, the easygoing Patrick nestled right in. Reluctantly, I approached the box that my employer had set down. Ugh. I had just started to make progress on the first, much smaller, batch of notes Kyle had given me, and now I had this new mess to tackle. How on earth could Kyle imagine that randomly tossing papers into a big box was any way to approach writing? What if I handled my graduate school work like this? What if spent the semester haphazardly flinging notes into a box? Well, maybe Kyle was overzealous in his research and too busy to impose any coherent order on all of his findings. I carried the box to the bedroom and set it on a chair. Hours and hours of deciphering