Somehow discussing a distant movie star was a lot easier than talking about a man who could become part of her family. “He seems very nice,” she said slowly. Seems being the important word there. It was the character lurking underneath the charming veneer that counted, as she knew from bitter experience.
Rachel had been looking forward to a relaxing vacation, but now it seemed she was also here to check out Max’s prospective husband. Right now, that seemed like too big a job. Okay, so she hadn’t worked in two months. Hadn’t done much of anything but catch up on soaps she hadn’t seen since college. It was amazing how you could pick up the story lines again. She’d watched and rewatched classic movies and sitcoms, reread her entire collection of Sherlock Holmes, Anne of Green Gables, and the Harry Potter series which she’d somehow missed. With cable TV, online bill paying, and a grocery store and restaurants that delivered, she’d hunkered down in her apartment for weeks. The final divorce papers were in her filing cabinet under D, for disaster.
She’d still be in her pajamas surrounded by junk food and watching the classic movie channel if it weren’t for Max.
Bossy, pushy, never-give-an-inch Max.
“George is nice, but I want you to get to know him better.” She pulled another cookie out of the bag. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Don’t be. I’m a mess. Your butler wanted to send me round to the servants’ entrance when he saw me.”
“Wiggins doesn’t approve of trousers on women,” Max said in a stern British accent, pointing to Rachel’s jeans.
Rachel snorted. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. He’s a sweetie when you get to know him, though.”
“It’s not only the jeans,” she said, looking down at herself. “I’m a total wreck.”
“Maybe you’re a little pale, and your hair, it’s so…”
“I look like shit. I know,” Rachel said, pushing the tangle of dark brown over her shoulder, as though she might be able to minimize the disaster if she hid it from sight.
Her sister didn’t argue with her about her looks. “I’m not used to it being so long. When did you last have a haircut?”
“When I had a regular paycheck.”
They’d always been different, she and Max. She was the one who worked summers at the deep fryer at Kentucky Fried Chicken while Max worked in the showroom of their uncle Wilf’s car dealership. When they got older, they stayed different. While she was in chef school learning how to remove the intestines from scampi, debone a chicken, and make stock from the bones and yucky parts, Max was taking the communications program at Berkley, after which she slid right into the glamorous world of television.
Now Max was a respected producer with a great wardrobe living in a castle with a guy who was in spitting distance of being an honest-to-God prince.
And she, Rachel, was unemployed, divorced, and suffering from a bad hair millennium.
“Well,” her sister said, in a brisk voice Rachel knew from experience would be full of plans, “now you’re here, we’ll get you all fixed.”
Listening to her made Rachel tired. She stifled a yawn.
“We’ll get your hair done. I found a fantastic place in London.”
“ London. You go to London to get your hair cut?”
“It’s not that far. A couple of hours on the train. There’s nowhere nearer. Trust me.”
“Maybe I’ll be okay with my hair. I’m thinking of growing it,” she lied. Mostly, she’d been avoiding anything more strenuous than pressing the remote with her thumb and crawling to the freezer for more ice cream.
As though she’d read her thoughts, Max said, “Your skin looks sort of pasty. Have you been eating properly?”
And, out of nowhere, irritation spurted. “No, I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been holed up in my apartment scarfing junk food. I’m a chef, and I can’t even be bothered to cook for myself. I cry at commercials-and not the long distance phone ones everybody cries at. I found myself in tears when the woman with her first job bought herself a Saturn. I feel like my skin is breakable.” She leaned back into the couch until she was staring up at the ancient ceiling. “I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”
“We’ll get that fixed, too.” Max reached over and patted Rachel’s knee briskly. “You’re going to be a lot happier when you start work.”
“If anybody still remembers me when I get back home.” She thought of the now-defunct restaurant where she’d invested so much of herself and let a scowl settle on her face.
“I was thinking you might do some cooking while you’re here.”
Rachel had known that I-know-what’s-best-for-you expression too long to be fooled by it. “I’d be happy to cook dinner for you and George.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a professional gig.”
“I came here for a rest.”
“Mom says you’ve been ‘resting’ since the restaurant closed.”
“Mom should mind her own business.”
“Rach, we’re worried about you.”
“Well, don’t. Apart from the small breakdown, I’m fine. I’m free. Free of that phony bastard I married, and free of eighteen-hour shifts.”
“The restaurant closing wasn’t your fault,” Max said gently.
“No. I know. Bad luck, bad management. Owners who didn’t have the same commitment.” But if it wasn’t her fault, then why did she feel like such an abject failure?
Max took the last Oreo and offered it to Rachel, who shook her head. Around the cookie, Max said, “Your reviews were fantastic, your food is amazing.”
“Thanks.”
Of course, despite having grilled her about her professional life, Max wasn’t nearly done torturing her. After finishing the cookie she said, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“You mean like a man?” The entire notion revolted her. She didn’t think she’d go out with a guy for a couple of years, at least. And as for weddings! She’d developed a severe allergy to tulle, cakes with pillars between the layers, and vellum stationary. Max, with the chorus of Ave Maria playing in her head, was not good company.
“I meant like a therapist.”
“I’m not crazy.” Though secretly she thought she must have been to marry Cal, and throw her heart and soul into a restaurant that wasn’t hers.
“I know you’re not crazy. I think you’re depressed.”
Rachel picked at the end of her thumbnail. “You’d be depressed, too.”
“I know. That’s why I have a therapist on speed dial.”
“You lived in L.A. too long.” But, amazingly, Rachel was smiling. It must have been a while since she’d tried it because her smile muscles felt lax and out of shape. Kind of like the rest of her.
“Anyway, now that you’re here, we’ll have fun, you’ll rest, but George is trying so hard to make this estate pay for itself that he takes in catering jobs. It would be so great if you could help out-”
That was fair. If her possible future brother-in-law and host needed catering help, it wouldn’t kill her. “I’ll do anything but weddings.”
If Maxine’s dominant quality was persuasiveness, Rachel’s was stubbornness, and she glared at her sister.
Outside, two volunteer docents walked by sharing an umbrella.
“The catering job I’m thinking of is to celebrate a merger,” Max said.
Max had been in TV long enough for Rachel to be suspicious. “What kind of merger?”
“Look, it’s a dinner reception for a hundred people. You worry about the food. You can do something absolutely amazing. They won’t believe your food.”
“What kind of merger?”
“Two separate entities becoming one.”
“Will there be champagne involved?”
“I think champagne is very likely.”
“A multilayered cake with two tiny people perched on top, perhaps?”
Max made a face. “I hope they have more imagination.”
“It’s a wedding.” Rachel shot to her feet. “I don’t do weddings!”
“Honey, you’ve got to get back on the horse.”