The Saturday Night Supper Club Page 15

  “And ironically, the social media frenzy jump-started your career while it killed mine.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, but he still flinched. “Yes. So you see, I owe you.”

  Rachel’s eyes locked with his for a moment, as if she was trying to read the truth. And then she pushed back her chair. “Time to choose a palate cleanser. I hope you like sorbet?”

  So they were done with the personal. “If you make it, I’m sure I’ll like it.”

  He did, though he preferred the cucumber-mint to the tomato and watermelon that she put in front of him. Both the lamb shank and the quail were great, but they agreed that lamb said spring more than summer and chose the quail. When Rachel cleared the last of the plates, Alex rose and nudged her away from the sink. “Let me do the dishes. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Okay,” she said with a nod. “That’s why I have open shelves. So you know exactly where to put them.”

  Ever since he had told her about his professional problems, Rachel had seemed to relax. Was it because it proved he didn’t consider himself above her? That she wasn’t a charity case to him? When the dishes were cleaned and dried and put away, and Rachel had wiped down every last surface in the kitchen, she looked at him and asked, “Do you want a tour now? It will be a short one.”

  “Sure.” This felt like an olive branch, an offering in honor of their newfound understanding. He followed her from the kitchen into the nearby living room.

  “This is it. One room, besides my bedroom and the bathroom, of course.”

  “It’s nice,” he said, and he meant it. “Did you bring this all from New York?”

  “No. I bought a car in New Jersey as I left—because no one really needs to own a car in Manhattan—and came out here with my cooking supplies and one suitcase of clothes.”

  “Taking advantage of the flea market?”

  Rachel grimaced. “I didn’t actually decorate any of this myself. I used my moving boxes and crates as end tables and slept on a mattress on the floor for at least a year. Melody’s the one who finally decorated the place.” She shrugged. “I’ve worked long hours six days a week since I moved here, and on my day off, I don’t want to do much but sleep and binge-watch Netflix.”

  He stared at her incredulously. “But you’ve, you know, done things. Right?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hiked? Gone to Garden of the Gods? The Museum of Nature and Science? Seen a concert at Red Rocks?”

  She stared back at him blankly.

  “You’re seriously telling me that in six years, you’ve done nothing but work, eat out, and sleep.”

  “I don’t think you understand what my job is like. I haven’t had a weekend or a holiday off in twelve years. Until now, of course.”

  “So you’ve never seen a fireworks display for the Fourth of July.”

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  “Then you should come over for Independence Day festivities at my house next week. Starts at eight. Bring your friends if you like.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but instead continued to wander around the perimeter of the room, trailing a finger over the impeccably dusted surfaces and stopping to look at the few decorations that marked the walls and the mantel. Then he paused in front of the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. They were crowded with books, few empty spots left on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  “Great Expectations, The Iliad . . . most of these I haven’t even thought about since college.” There were culinary-school books, too, with boring-sounding titles like The Professional Chef and Principles of French Cooking. Clearly she had kept every text from every class she had ever taken. “I admire the fact you kept all your course materials. I couldn’t wait to dump my psychology texts into the nearest recycling bin.”

  Rachel said nothing, and that alone was unusual enough to make him cast a look over his shoulder. She was studying the shelves with a strange expression.

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t go to college. Or culinary school. Or finish high school.” Her voice had drifted low by the end, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t shame he was hearing. Maybe regret. “I got my first restaurant job at fifteen, so I got my GED instead.”

  “Your parents were okay with that?” He’d thought his mother was going to have an aneurysm when he announced he was giving up his PhD candidacy.

  “They didn’t really have a choice,” Rachel said. “You’re looking at my informal education on those shelves. And of course all my kitchen jobs. Like I told you the other day, that’s kind of how the industry works. Or it used to, before all the college kids decided not to use their expensive educations and go to culinary school instead.”

  There was definitely some resentment in those words, but he was pretty sure he was bordering on the limits of what she was willing to tell him. He tipped out a copy of Ulysses. “Then you have my utmost respect. Anyone who would tackle James Joyce without being forced is a braver soul than I.”

  “I don’t display my collection of CliffsNotes.”

  Alex let a vague smile flit across his lips as he replaced the book and went back to his perusal. She was so confident and well-spoken, he’d assumed she had a formal education, but she was obviously equally comfortable in the rough-edged kitchen environment. So far, Rachel was defying his efforts to categorize her.

  He was about to turn away from the shelves when a small stack of books caught his eye. He lifted them, surprised to find that one was a tattered, leather-covered Bible. On top of it was a thick green journal with a pen clipped to the cover.

  “I forgot those were there.” Rachel swooped them out of his hands before he could ask about them, strode across the room to her closed bedroom door, and quickly deposited them inside.

  “You don’t need to be embarrassed,” he said.

  “I’m not.” But her tone clearly forbade him to speak any further on the subject.

  That was something more than unwillingness to let him see she had a Bible, and he’d be willing to bet it was about whatever was written inside that other book. But pushing merely to satisfy his curiosity would damage the tenuous understanding they’d established.

  He flashed her a mischievous smile. “I don’t get a peek at your bedroom?”

  The guarded look vanished, and a twinkle lit her eyes. “Nope. And you never will.”

  “Ouch. And here I thought I’d proved that my intentions are honorable.”

  She sent him a look that practically dared him to say otherwise. He glanced at his watch. “As much as I’d like to stay here and convince you, I have to go. My mom is a stickler for punctuality.”

  “Your mom? You’re seriously ditching me for your mom?”

  “You’re welcome to come with me. They’re always telling me to bring a date.”

  “While I would love to take you up on that—” her tone held a hint of amusement— “I think that would send the entirely wrong message.”

  “To them or to me?”

  “Both.”

  “Next time, then.” He moved toward the door and paused with his hand on the knob. “The menu really is perfect.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for helping me eat it all.”

  “See you on the Fourth?”

  “I’ll think about it. Depends on whether Ana and Melody are available.”

  “Fair enough.” He gave her a wink and a little wave as he left, but his good mood lasted only as long as it took to reach his car. He really did wish she’d decided to come. If he showed up with a woman, it would be one less part of his life laid bare to scrutiny.

  On the other hand, he liked Rachel too much to subject her to that.

  Crosstown traffic was light as he made his way through the city to Hale, a little neighborhood nestled in the quadrant of Colorado and Colfax near Rose Medical Center. He’d never quite understood why his parents had chosen to settle here, so far away from the Russian community on the southeastern edge of the city. Maybe it
had felt like the quintessential American neighborhood to them—tree-lined streets, quaint 1920s bungalows, small-town feel. Even now, seeing how well-maintained his childhood block remained, he couldn’t resist a wash of bittersweet nostalgia.

  Nostalgia because he really had had a relatively good childhood here. Bittersweet because every time he came back, the visit ended in an argument. Somehow he didn’t have much hope that today would be different.

  He sat in his car, staring at the covered porch, and took deep breaths in and out. Now or never.

  Alex strode up the long walkway to the front steps and pushed through the unlocked door without knocking. “Mom?”

  “In here, Sasha!” came a lilting female voice from the kitchen.

  He followed the familiar smell of cooking toward the back of the house, his heart lightening a degree. “What’s going on? You never make zharkoe in the summer.”

  Veronika Kanin looked up from the stove, as slender and beautiful as ever, an apron covering her slacks and neatly pressed blouse. Too late, Alex realized she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze to the antique oak dinette behind him, and his stomach sank.

  “Hello, Alex.” Dr. Gregory Hirsch rose from where he sat with Alex’s father, his hand extended.

  Alex put on a smile to cover his dread and shook the man’s hand with more enthusiasm than he felt. Dr. Hirsch was the chair of CU’s psychology department and Alex’s former dissertation adviser. Or he would have been, had Alex not abandoned his PhD studies after the first semester.

  Clearly he’d been naive to think this invitation was his parents’ way of making amends. It was simply another ploy to try to bring him around to their way of thinking.

  Hirsch’s smile faded, and Alex realized he was scowling. He released the professor’s hand. “To what do we owe our good fortune tonight?”

  “I had mentioned to Dr. Kanin that I hadn’t had zharkoe since I was in Moscow years ago. She was kind enough to invite me to dinner tonight.”

  “How fortunate.” Alex realized he was doing a poor job of hiding his feelings with his stilted formality, but he was waiting for the other shoe to drop—and clock him on the head in the process. No chance that Dr. Hirsch’s presence was merely a coincidence.

  Alex’s father, Alexei—the other Dr. Kanin in the room—looked at him with sympathy from where he still sat at the table. Wordlessly, he poured Alex a glass of red wine and nudged it in his direction. So this was Mom’s idea. He should have known.

  He took the glass and moved uncomfortably to Veronika’s side. “Can I help with anything?”

  “There’s a cheese platter in the refrigerator. Could you put it out while I finish here?”

  Alex did as requested and found a wooden board with cheese, sliced meat, olives, and pickles, then set it on the table with a stack of small plates. Even though he was still stuffed from Rachel’s food, he piled a plate high. With his mouth full, no one would expect him to make small talk.

  Hirsch didn’t seem to take the hint. “Your father was telling me about all the press you’ve been getting.”

  “Oh?”

  “I read your piece and found your conclusions compelling. I’m beginning a study on social media behavior. I could use a research assistant. I thought it might be something you’d be interested in.”

  And there it was. His mother’s attempts to get him to reconsider his PhD had failed, and now they were dangling a research position as a carrot to pull him back in.

  The look his father shot him over Dr. Hirsch’s shoulder made it clear Alex would not be rejecting out of hand what was obviously a favor. Alex answered cautiously, “It does sound interesting. Can you send me some information about the position and the study?”

  His mother’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. She’d expected him to turn it down flat. Maybe it would have been better if he had. At least then he wouldn’t be giving her false hope about his openness to going back to his postgraduate studies.

  Unbidden, Alex’s mind drifted to Rachel. Her comment about college graduates abandoning their education showed some buried resentment and longing. What had happened to cause her to drop out of school and start working at fifteen? She said her parents didn’t have any say in the matter. As much as Alex hated his parents’ tendency to push and manipulate, they were still part of his life. He had the niggling feeling she couldn’t say the same.

  When the zharkoe was ready, they moved to the table, where they served themselves family style. Dr. Hirsch, of course, raved about Veronika’s cooking and ate two helpings, while Alex tried not to give away that he was so full he could burst. When the professor finally made his excuses—after dessert and one last drink—Alex heaved a sigh of relief.

  “You’ve gotten a lot less subtle,” Alex said as soon as they were alone. “What did you have to do to get him to offer the position?”

  “Sasha!” Veronika’s insulted look made him realize he’d crossed a line. He accepted the rebuke with a bowed head as she continued, “I only suggested he come to dinner to make you an offer in person.”

  “Forgive my skepticism, but I don’t believe he’s the one who has been sitting around thinking up ways to make me reconsider my career path.” The fact he was a friend of the Kanins and a staunch Russophile probably played into his interest far more than Alex’s academic promise.

  “Sasha,” his father said, more gently than Veronika, “you would have made an excellent clinician. You are intelligent and insightful, two qualities that make for an accomplished psychologist. Don’t let all those years of study go to waste.”

  “They’re not going to waste. Do you have any idea how rare it is for a writer to become so successful so fast? That’s due at least as much to my psychology background as to any innate talent.”

  “But, Sasha, writing—”

  “—is at least as worthy in its value to society as psychology. Besides, I was a terrible clinician.”

  “That’s not true,” Veronika protested.

  “Then how come I’ve never been able to get through to you or Dina? She’s been gone three years. Have you even talked to her once?”

  His father’s expression closed. “That’s none of your business.”

  “She’s my sister. You’re my parents. Of course it’s my business. What I want to know is, when I finally convince you that this writing career isn’t a phase, are you going to cut me out the way you did to Dina?”

  They stared at him, shocked. Good. They needed to be shocked. Sure, Dina was just as stubborn, but she was a twenty-year-old girl. They were the parents. They needed to bend before they lost their daughter forever.

  “That’s enough, Sasha,” Alexei said, his expression pained. “You don’t understand. Dina made her choice.”

  “Yes. Her choice. She was rejecting all your plans for her. She wasn’t rejecting you. But you can’t see that. I just don’t understand what made her rebellion so much worse than mine.” Alex rose. “I’ll look over Dr. Hirsch’s information as I said I would, but I intend to turn down the offer. Hopefully I’m still welcome here when I do.”

  His mother jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm before he could leave. She took his face in her hands, her dark eyes imploring. “Sasha, you are always welcome here. And so is Dina. All she has to do is ask.”

  He stared at his mother. Veronika wasn’t a bad person, even if he didn’t agree with her priorities. His words came out softly. “Mamushka, sometimes it’s okay not to win. You are allowed to change your mind.”

  Alex kissed her on the cheek, hugged his dad, and made his exit without further comment. He always hoped things might change with them, but they never did. His parents were set in their thinking, their expectations, their disappointment that their children hadn’t turned out to be the people they wanted them to be.

  It no longer made him angry. It simply made him sad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  AFTER FIVE DIFFERENT TRIES, Rachel had finally decided on a layout for the menu that wou
ld be used for the upcoming supper club and all the events thereafter. Elegant, but not stuffy; modern, but not too trendy. She momentarily considered the possibility that she was being too middle-of-the-road, and then dismissed it. This wasn’t a restaurant, for one thing; it should be as elegant and accessible as her food, for another. A simple, modern sans serif font with a slight midcentury twist was enough to evoke the feel of Alex’s throwback contemporary home and the classic nature of her food.

  She printed out a copy on plain paper and started the process of choosing the stock from a samples folder she’d gotten from a local paper supplier. These were the types of decisions that no one knew a chef made, the little touches that made a difference to the overall guest experience.

  A knock shuddered her front door, and she wandered to the window to peek through before she opened it. Melody stood on the front porch, holding a huge cardboard box loaded with smaller white pastry boxes and bags.

  “What are you doing here?” Rachel took the box from her friend and stood aside so she could enter.

  “You can’t finish your menu or your plating until we decide on some desserts, so I brought samples.”

  “Enough for the entire neighborhood?” She headed into the kitchen and set the box down on the table with a surprisingly solid thud.

  “Lots of choices,” Melody said. “I’ll admit, some are day-olds I swiped from the bakery. They’re my recipes, though, so I’m within my rights to bake them for you. With any variations you want.” She began to unpack the boxes one by one, pointing out the contents. “These are simple custard fruit tarts. I know they’re standard catering fare, but these are particularly good examples, if I do say so myself. These round ones right here are cinnamon-sugar donuts, which I can of course do with a variety of different flavors and sauces. Those would need to be prepared ahead of time and then deep-fried on site, so you would have to bring along a countertop fryer. I can lend you mine if you need it.”