and starts to leaf through it. I clear my throat and say, “Maddie, I’m going to run my dad’s restaurant.”
Madeline puts down the magazine.
While I tell Madeline about my plans to revitalize Café Louis, she picks at a scar on her forearm. Madeline has scars up and down her arms. They are a result of her years working in professional kitchens. Hot liquids, knives, and ovens have left their mark on her. Of course, Madeline has other scars that aren’t visible.
“What do you think of my plan?” I ask.
Madeline shrugs. “You’re the restaurant consultant. I’m just a cook.”
“You’re not just a cook,” I say.
Madeline shrugs. “It seems to me like backward momentum. Still, I am your friend and I’ll support you.”
“Thanks. I’m overwhelmed.”
To catch some spring sunshine, we move into Mom’s courtyard garden. I sit in one of the outdoor club chairs. Madeline pulls a pair of purple sunglasses from her bag. Like a cat in the sun, Madeline stretches her limbs on a chaise longue. She smiles at me. “Where are we with the Nick fallout?”
“I’m still in the sulk,” I say. “Let’s face it. I’m homeless, jobless, and manless. I can figure out the living situation and the employment issue, but I hate being single. It sucks.”
“I don’t think singledom sucks,” Madeline says. “I like my freedom.”
“I don’t want freedom. I want a mortgage and a diaper bag.”
Madeline sifts through her hot pink tote. “I thought I put sunscreen in here.”
“What I’m thinking is that I need to change myself in order to get what I want. Maybe I need to be more feminine.”
Madeline says, “What is feminine?”
“I don’t know. Less tigery, more kittenish.”
Madeline kicks off her mules. “Don’t get all damsel-in-distress, Mimi. It doesn’t become you.”
“I don’t know how to damsel. But there’s an in between, isn’t there? Look at Ally. Hair, makeup, attitude. Ally is so well done. I’m too raw.”
“Not raw.” Madeline waves her hands in the air. “Rare. As in special. You’re a filet mignon, cooked rare.”
“Filet mignon? I feel like a day-old Big Mac.”
“You’ll find a man who can savor your rareness. Speaking of which, you should get back in someone’s saddle. Don’t let living with Bobbi turn you into a nun.”
“I am not in the mood for sex. My diva has laryngitis.”
“My diva is singing arias,” Madeline says. “The lawyer I’m sleeping with is quite the conductor.”
“Good for you.”
Madeline smiles. “Yes. It is good for me.”
Lipstick Theory Two
We are heckling chefs on the Food Network when Mom comes home. “Hi, girls,” she greets us.
Madeline rises from the couch to hug Mom. “You look very nice, Bobbi,” Madeline says. Mom is wearing a pale peach, lightweight sweater and a cream-colored skirt that shows off her legs. And yes, Madeline calls my mother by her first name. Mom prefers it.
“Thank you, Maddie.” Mom walks to her computer. “My friends and I went to a matinee performance of a new play at Arden Theater. We’re going to get a bite to eat. I’m just going to check the e-mail and I’ll be out of your way. I need to see if any men have contacted me.”
“Men?” Madeline asks.
“I joined an Internet dating site for people over fifty.”
“Good for you, Bobbi.” Madeline pokes my arm. “You’re lucky to have such a cool mom.”
“I am cool, aren’t I?” Then Mom sighs. “No e-mails.”
“Don’t be discouraged,” Madeline says. “These things take time. Dating is rough.”
“Mom, tell Maddie your lipstick theory.”
Mom turns off her computer and turns to us. “My lipstick theory is that you should always wear lipstick because you never know who you’re going to meet.”
“Mom! That is not your lipstick theory.”
“It’s not?” Mom says. “What is it? I forget.”
“You compared dating to shopping for lipstick. You said that we should go slowly and date carefully, just like we try on a lot of lipsticks before we buy one.”
Madeline grins. “I buy all the lipsticks.”
The Make-Up Bar
“Look at them,” Allison says as she waves her hand in front of my eyes. She’s gesturing to my overgrown eyebrows, showing them to Lisa Severino, waxer extraordinaire. Allison insisted on bringing me to The Make-Up Bar so she could properly introduce me to Lisa, whom she described as her WMD in the war on hair.
Lisa looks at my face, and I look at hers. She is perfectly cosmeticked and coiffed. Lisa is an Italian-American version of my perfect sister-in-law. I feel vastly inadequate. But Lisa smiles. “It’s not that bad,” she says.
While Lisa applies the wax, Allison busies herself among