Georgia's Kitchen by Jenny Nelson Read Free Book Online

overhead, having once read it was impossible to cry while looking up. Only when she was certain her tears wouldn’t fall did she pick herself up and begin the walk home.
    Sally greeted Georgia as she stepped into her apartment, tail wagging, pink tongue lolling happily out of her mouth. Georgia wrapped her arms around Sally’s head, pressing her nose against her dog’s wet, black snout; she had never felt so glad to see anyone. There was no sign of Glenn, no message, no note. Sally nudged her hand and Georgia sank down next to her on the floor. The phone rang.
    “Hello?” She didn’t bother checking caller ID.
    “Hey.” It was Glenn.
    “Glenn. Where are you?” She was ready to forget everything: his coke, her doubts, their problems.
    “I’m over at Ray’s. I think I’m gonna crash here tonight.” Ray was Glenn’s hedge-funder cousin who shared a multimillion-dollar, four-thousand-square-foot Tribeca loft with a tank of exotic fish. Georgia and Glenn had toured the space with him before he made his all-cash offer, and she was quite sure she had visibly salivated over the kitchen: six-burner Wolf range, twin Miele dishwashers, double wall ovens, marble countertops honed from a quarry in England. All this for a guy whose Sub-Zero would never hold more than a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a six-pack of Bud.
    “Are you serious? You’re not coming home?”
    “Yeah. I went back to the apartment while you were out and grabbed some stuff. I need a break, Georgia.”
    For the second time that day, Georgia pointed her chin to the ceiling, willing herself not to shed even one tear. “Hold on. You mean, you’re not coming back?”
    “Not right now.”
    “Because of the coke?”
    “It’s not just the coke, Georgia. I need some time.”
    She swallowed. “Then take it.”
    Georgia replaced the phone on the receiver. She looked into the kitchen, her eyes falling on the pricey Vita-Mix blender Glenn had given her as a makeup gift after their year break. That night they whipped up fresh-mango margaritas and strolled clumsily up Madison Avenue for gelato. It was a balmy spring evening, one of the first of the season, and they had just decided Glenn would move into her apartment. Or rather Glenn had decided and Georgia agreed.
    She frowned. Was that how it was between them? He made the decisions and she went along with whatever he decided?
    Sally rolled over on her back, nudging Georgia’s hand with her paw. “Time,” she said as she reached down to scratch her pooch’s belly. “He says he needs time.” For what, she didn’t know. As far as she could tell, he’d already decided. And maybe she had too.

G inger Rogers and Fred Astaire danced across the screen while Georgia lay on the couch waiting for the delivery guy. As far as thirties musicals went, it didn’t get more glamorous than
Top Hat
. She and Grammy had watched it together a million times, a bowl of popcorn propped on the sofa between them, swooning over debonair Fred and gorgeous Ginger. That night, popcorn wouldn’t cut it. The doorbell rang and Georgia went to answer it, picking up a twenty from the dining-room table.
    Ice cream in hand, she shuffled into the kitchen, swung open the oven door, and pulled out the second sheet of Toll House cookies, baked to back-of-the-package specifications. Sally had followed her in and now looked up expectantly.
    “I’m afraid you’re out on this one, Sals. No chocolate allowed. You know the rules.” She pried off the top of the Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby and stuck in her spoon. “‘Heaven,’” she sang à la Fred Astaire as she took her first bite. “‘I’m in heaven.’” She’d tried convincing Glenn that “Cheek to Cheek” should be their wedding song, but he vetoed it as too cheesy. They still hadn’t agreed on a song for their first dance.
    After scooping nearly all of the ice cream into a mixing bowl, she popped it into the microwave to get it sufficiently slushy. She stuck half a dozen