“Maybe it really is for a bunion. Or maybe she just doesn’t feel like traveling from Shaker Heights to Philly, I don’t know. Besides, who am I to judge? If someone came along and offered me a free tummy tuck right now, I’d probably sacrifice my own mother.” Pause. “God, that sounded horrible, didn’t it?”
Brooke wanted to rip her own hair out. Instead she forced a laugh. “I’m sure you’re not alone there, but you don’t need it. You look great.”
“Oh, you’re too sweet!”
Brooke waited a few seconds for Cynthia to remember why she called. “Oh! So anyway, I know he’s probably so insanely busy these days, but if there’s any way Julian could make an appearance at our luncheon, it would be so great.”
“An appearance?”
“Yeah, well, an appearance or a performance, really whatever he wanted to do. Maybe sing that song he’s famous for? The brunch starts at eleven with a silent auction in the auditorium and some light deli appetizers, and then we all move into the main hall where Gladys and I will talk about the work the Women’s Board has done so far this year, the general state of membership at Beth Shalom, give some dates of upcoming—”
“Got it, okay. So you’d want him to . . . perform? At a ladies’ luncheon? You know the song is about a dead brother, right? Do you, uh, do you think everyone will like that?”
Thankfully Cynthia didn’t take offense to this. “Like that? Oh, Brooke, I think they’d just love it.”
Two months earlier Brooke wouldn’t have believed it if someone told her she’d be having this conversation; now, having already been approached by the principal at Huntley, one of Brooke’s old high school classmates, an ex-coworker, and not one but two cousins—all wanting Julian to sing or sign or send something—Brooke wasn’t surprised by anything. All that said, this was probably the best one yet. She tried to picture Julian singing an acoustic version of “For the Lost” on the bimah of Temple Beth Shalom to a group of five hundred Jewish mothers and grandmothers, after receiving a kvelling introduction by the rabbi and the president of the board. Afterward, all the women would turn to one another and say things like, “Well, he’s no doctor, but at least he makes a living at it,” and “I heard he was premed but never pursued it. Such a shame.” Then they’d swarm him and, noticing his wedding ring, want to know everything about his wife. Was she a nice Jewish girl too? Did they have children? No, why not? And more important, when do they plan to start trying? They’d cluck that he’d surely be a much better fit with their daughter or niece or friend’s daughter. Despite the fact that they lived on the Main Line in Philly and Julian grew up in Manhattan, at least a dozen of the women present would find a connection to Julian’s parents or grandparents or both. Julian would return home that evening shell-shocked, a veteran of a war only a few understood, and there would be nothing Brooke could say or do to comfort him.
“Well, let me talk to him. I know he’ll be so honored you thought of him and I’m sure he’d just love to do it, but I’m pretty sure he’s completely booked the next few weeks.”
“Well if you really think he’d love to do it, I could talk to the other board members about possibly moving the date. Maybe we could—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to do that,” Brooke said as quickly as she could. She’d never seen this side of Cynthia before and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “He’s incredibly unpredictable these days. Always committing and then having to cancel. He hates it, but his time just isn’t his own anymore, you know?”
“Of course,” Cynthia murmured, and Brooke tried not to think how ironic it was that she was using the same excuse on Cynthia that Julian now used on her.
Somewhere in the background the doorbell rang, Cynthia begged off, and Brooke sent Cynthia’s visitor a telepathic thank-you. She read another two chapters of her book, a nonfiction account of the Etan Patz kidnapping that had her convinced every creepy-looking guy on the street was a potential pedophile, and followed the shade-installer-slash-paparazzi-blocker out the door when he was finished.
She was starting to grow more accustomed to being alone. With Julian gone so much, Brooke often joked that it felt like her old single days, just a whole lot less social. Now she weaved down Ninth Avenue, and when she passed the Italian bakery at the corner, with its hand-painted PASTICCERIA sign and its homemade curtains, there was no way to keep herself from walking in. It was an adorable place with a European-style coffee bar, where people ordered cappuccinos in the morning and espressos the rest of the day and drank them standing.
She surveyed the massive case of baked goods and could practically taste the butter cookies and jam-filled croissants and cheese tarts topped with berries. Of course there was no question that, if forced to choose only one, she’d have to go with a deliciously overstuffed cannoli in its sinful fried shell. First she’d lick the cream from the top, and then, following a palate-cleansing sip of coffee, she’d allow herself a full bite from either end, stopping to savor—
“Dimmi!” the Italian mother said, breaking Brooke’s food fantasy.
“A large decaf skim latte, please, and one of those,” Brooke said with a sigh, pointing to the un-iced, unstuffed, and otherwise unadorned biscotti resting sadly on a tray near the register. She knew the almond biscotti would be fresh and tasty and just the right amount crunchy, but it was a poor substitute for a cannoli. There wasn’t much choice, though. She’d gained four pounds after their weekend in Austin and the mere thought of it made her want to scream. Her couple extra pounds of pudge would have been barely noticeable on the average woman, but on her—not just a nutritionist anymore, but a nutritionist married to someone famous—it was downright unacceptable. After returning from Austin, she’d immediately begun a food diary and accompanied it with a strict 1,300-calorie-per-day diet. Neither was having an impressive effect yet, but she was determined.
Brooke paid for her purchase and was hovering near the coffee bar when she heard her name.
“Brooke! Hey, over here.”
She turned around and saw Heather, one of the guidance counselors at Huntley. Their offices were just down the hall from each other and although they occasionally met to discuss a student they had in common, lately they’d been seeing each other more than usual due to Kaylie. It was Heather who first noticed Kaylie’s obsession with her weight and suggested she see Brooke; now both women were concerned about the girl. Yet as often as they’d been meeting at school the past couple months, they weren’t actually friends, and Brooke felt a twinge of awkwardness seeing her colleague at a café on a Saturday.