Dinner at Fiorello's

Chapter 1-2

In the kitchen, their housekeeper, Maxine, was making herself some breakfast. Henry paused to watch the woman who’d been a part of the Applebys’ daily life since he was a little boy. She was what his mother would call “pleasingly plump,” with broad shoulders—like a linebacker, his dad joked—and even wider hips. She didn’t wear a uniform but always came to work dressed the same: black polyester slacks and a polyblend loose-fitting top, usually floral-patterned. Her hair, once a startling shade of red, had dulled over the years and was now shot through with gray. Still, it was a riot of curls, and Henry thought that a few extra pounds or gray hairs could not diminish the vibrant beauty he saw in their housekeeper.

He watched as she cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl, whisked them, then added a few torn basil leaves, some grated cheese, and a handful of cherry tomatoes, cut in half. She poured the egg mixture into a pan Henry knew would be coated with a thick layer of melted butter.

“I know you’re watchin’ me, kid. That’s why I made enough for two.”

Maxine turned and bestowed upon him one of her trademark grins. The gap in her front teeth made her look impish. The one thing that never aged about Maxine was her smile. It had the ability to illuminate a room and made Henry feel warm all over, loved. The smile he gave in return bore no relation, he thought, to the sheepish grin he must have given his father moments ago.

“Thanks, Maxine. You have to show me how you do that sometime.”

“This? This is nothin’. Tomorrow you can cook for us. Just don’t let Mr. Appleby see.” She laughed.

It was like a donkey’s bray, and Henry giggled, a little boy again. But she was right. His father would have ridiculed him, at best, if he saw his son cooking in the kitchen. Cooking was work for the help when they were at home or for kitchen staff when they went out to a restaurant or to their country club.

Maxine finished up with the eggs in short order, jerking the frying pan rapidly toward her over and over until, like magic, a perfectly rolled omelet appeared. She pulled down a couple of plates from the cabinet, loaded them up, and handed one to Henry. They sat on stools at the kitchen’s marble-topped island to eat. “You want some toast with that?” Maxine asked after a while. “Just take me a minute. I got sourdough.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Henry went back to eating. Maxine had been with the family since Henry was eight years old and was kind of like a mother. Unlike his own mom, though, this was a woman with whom he could talk and share secrets, knowing she would never pass judgment.

“You’re kinda tight-lipped this morning,” Maxine said once they’d finished their amazing eggs. They were soft, buttery, and silky, unlike any other Henry had ever had. There was something delicate about their texture, yet the taste was a melding of layers: sweet herb, acidic tomato, salty Parmigiano-Reggiano. Henry swore Maxine threw a little handful of magic into everything she cooked.

“Just thinking about all I have to do today.”

“Right.” Maxine covered her mouth as she belched. “What’s on your agenda? Wait. Don’t tell me. The beach with Kade? A bike ride along the Green Bay Trail? Maybe head out to Old Orchard, charge up your dad’s Visa at Nordstrom?” She winked. “Get somethin’ for me. I could use a new pair of shoes. Size ten. Kitten heels. I like red.” She giggled.

At the mention of Kade, Henry’s thoughts went dark. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend since the night of Henry’s graduation party ten days ago—but who was counting? What had happened between them on the beach after all the guests left was something Henry had been at first gleeful about, but as time wore on with no calls, texts, or e-mails from Kade, Henry had begun to worry he had pushed things too far and maybe lost his best friend. Yet he could still recall the satiny feel of Kade’s skin against his own, the seawater-sweet taste of his come.

Had it been worth it? If he had lost a buddy he’d had since boyhood, no. But he couldn’t help but savor the memory of that night, a fantasy he had never thought would come true.

Maxine nudged him, knocking her shoulder into Henry’s. “You mind putting the dishes in the dishwasher? Your mother wants me to clean floors today, and the marble ones are a chore—especially with only bein’ allowed to use vinegar and a little water.”

“Maxine, cleaning up breakfast dishes is not my son’s job. It’s yours.”

Henry turned to see his mother enter the kitchen. As always, when he saw her he was confounded by his perception and mix of feelings. For one, Megan Appleby was beautiful. She was only in her early forties but looked closer to someone in her thirties, maybe even twenties if the light was right. Her blonde hair was like silk, hanging to her shoulders, fashionably cut and woven in with strands of gold, brown, and platinum that looked perfectly natural but cost well over a hundred bucks every time she visited her “colorist” in Winnetka. Her face was very much like her only son’s: full lips, startling blue eyes, and a nose that was slightly too long but gave her an aura of aristocracy. Both she and Henry had fine bone structure, strong, but where Henry’s was chiseled, his mother’s was more delicate. Her skin was, to labor a cliché, like porcelain. That was as it should be too—Megan spent a lot of money on not only expensive toners and lotions, but saw a doctor, also in Winnetka, for regular Botox injections.

Today she wore a form-fitting floral dress that seemed too formal for a hot summer day. Henry wasn’t sure if his mother even owned a pair of jeans.

In spite of her head-turning beauty, there was something cold about his mom, something that kept people at a distance. Like right now. What need was there to talk to Maxine that way? Maxine was like family. He hated to see the way Maxine stiffened at the sound of his mother’s voice.

Henry moved away from the table, hands up, knowing it wouldn’t be prudent to grab the dishes from the island anyway.

“Sure thing, Mrs. A.” Maxine busied herself running the dishes under the tap and loading them into the dishwasher. Henry couldn’t see her face, but if he could, he was certain she’d be rolling her eyes.

Megan walked over to Henry and gave him a kiss he barely felt on his cheek. She smelled subtly of lavender and money.

Maxine closed the dishwasher. “You want anything for breakfast, Mrs. A? I can make you some eggs or pancakes.”

Pancakes! Henry wanted to bust a gut at that one. He knew Maxine was making fun of his mom without her even knowing it. Pancakes would no more pass Megan Appleby’s lips than a cup of hemlock.

“Thank you, Maxine. I’ll just have a cup of green tea, if you wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on.”

“And a carrot?” Henry couldn’t resist asking.

Mom wagged a finger at him. “Henry,” she chided. “You know I’m trying to shed a few pounds. It’s beach season, after all.”

Henry thought if his mother succeeded in shedding a few pounds, she would waste away to a skeleton, but he kept his own counsel.

Megan sat down at the island and fingered the pieces of fruit—pineapple, bananas, mangos, and kiwis—before drawing her hand away from them as though they were something distasteful.

“Have one, Mom. It won’t kill you. That’s healthy stuff.”

“It’s all sugar,” she said softly.

Getting his mother to eat was mostly a lost cause. Somehow she managed to subsist on green tea and rice cakes, with the occasional stalk of celery if she was feeling wild.

Henry started out. “Well, I think I’m gonna head back up to my room. See what I can get up to today.”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Enjoy your free time while you have it. Your father wants you at the firm bright and early Monday morning.”

If Henry had any guts at all, he might have said to his mother, “Well, that may be what he wants, but what about what I want?” But all he said was “Right.” He hurried from the room with the sound of Megan’s musical voice instructing Maxine to use only vinegar and water on the windows. Windex was toxic, she said.