"I want to cut it into shapes," Chloe insists, looking at me as if I'm the dissident.
I pause for a second, once again asking myself what Willow would do.
"Ok," I say, giving in. "What shapes are you going to cut it into?"
"Lemon shapes, to match the lemon flavor on the carrots in the filling. But I'm going to need your help," Chloe says, with the lack of irony only a child can have. "So please try to do it well."
I nod, shrug, then say, "Sure. I guess you're the boss now."
Somehow, the elliptical shapes aren't too bad. Against all my suspicions, Chloe seems to have a good sense of correct proportions, covering just enough of the sheets with filling before we press the top layer of ravioli down. Forty minutes later, the pasta all boiled and drained, drizzled with just a little olive oil and fresh-cracked pepper for sampling purposes, we're eating away, and I'm genuinely impressed.
When Maggie comes to pick her up, even the teacher stays to eat a little, nodding in approval at the youngster's precocious talent. We package up the leftovers into a few to-go containers, say our goodbyes, and they start to leave.
"Hold up," I say, as they reach the door of the kitchen. I pick up one last container that they left behind and move toward them. "You forgot one."
Without missing a beat, Chloe says, "That one's for Willow. Tell her you made it for her. She likes food. So if you want her to be your girlfriend, you should do it."
Chloe looks at me with parental gravity, while Maggie shoots me an apologetic, slightly-embarrassed look.
"Yeah. Sure," I say, trying to make it sound sarcastic for Maggie's benefit, though when they turn to leave, I look down at the red lemon-shaped pasta, and feel a strange sense of contentment. Maybe the kid is right. Maybe Willow will appreciate it.
And judging by the way she ran off like Cinderella last night at the club, I feel like I could use all the help I can get.
10
Willow
Of course the investor meeting would be a last minute thing the morning after I've had a night out. What did I expect? A second to breathe? Time to prepare for a massive pitch? No chance. I never should have let Asha talk me into hitting up that second club and drinking those blueberry mojitos. But damn, we had fun-even with the Cole incident fresh in my mind. Then again, maybe all the fun I had was just a futile attempt to erase the memory of what I'd done with him against the wall of that first club.
What got me out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning was a call from Tony telling me he was already on his way to pick me up, and plenty of advice on how I should dress for the meeting. At least I'm too pumped full of anxious adrenaline to dwell on what I did with Cole last night, how badly I wanted him, how I almost lost control …
Half-asleep, the club's music still thumping painfully in my sinuses, I manage to get dressed and leave the house, where Tony is leaning up against his convertible with a broad smile.
"Finally! Sleeping Beauty awakes!"
He hugs me quickly, briefly scans my outfit with an approving nod-the way I'm getting used to people doing-then opens the car door for me to slump into the passenger seat.
"Is this really legit?" I ask as he hops in on the other side and turns on the engine. The second half of a Rihanna record fills the air. "I mean, who arranges meetings this sudden?"
"They're rich, sweetheart," Tony says as he revs the car recklessly out of the parking lot. "They jump on planes-Tokyo, Paris, New York-the way other people ride the metro. They're only in town for today, and we've got to grab the opportunity while we can."
I try to steady my nausea as Tony weaves in between the traffic, the thumping pain behind my eyes loosening a little as the air whips against my face and hair, pressing me back into the seat.
"Still," I say, straining to be heard over the roar of the engine, "we didn't have any time to prepare. Do we have a financial plan? Projections? Cost lists?"
Tony laughs, sending the fear of God into me as he tosses his head back, removing his eyes from the blurred road.
"Oh, honey. They're investors-not accountants. They don't want to have a bunch of numbers spluttered at them. They want an idea, a dream, a vision. People that they can believe in." Tony reaches out and turns my face toward him, my chin in his palm. "And who wouldn't believe in a face like yours?"
"You'd be surprised," I say, through squished cheeks.
Tony laughs easily again and only half-concentrates as he takes a corner at car-tilting speed.
"Look, these people are rich, and if they wanted more money they'd go to a stockbroker, or buy some real estate. But they don't. They want a place they can call their own, something to be proud of. Something fabulous and creative that they can feel they had some part in making."