Georgia's Kitchen Read Online Free PDF

the wall. She nibbled a croissant she’d picked up from Via Quadronno and flipped through the
Times Magazine,
wondering what the Ethicist would think of her conundrum.
    It wasn’t as if Glenn had always been Boy Scout honest with her. Like when he cheated on her. Had the girl—Tammy was her name—not called him, and had he not been too busy opening a bottle of Brunello to take the call, and had Georgia not been standing directly next to the answering machine as the call came, she might never have known. But she did, he was, and she was, which left Georgia no choice but to flee his apartment—thoughnot before throwing a glass of the ruby red wine all over his camel cashmere sweater.
    But things were different now, and not being totally honest was not an option. In just nine weeks the cute guitar-strumming guy with the outsize dreams and the swishy black bangs she’d fallen for all those summers ago would become her
husband
. Things had to be different.
    She finished off her coffee and stood up, tired of waiting. Knowing the kind of night Glenn had had, he’d easily sleep past noon. After dropping Georgia at home, he’d continued uptown to meet his client Diamond Tee. Business, he’d said, and, no, it couldn’t really wait. Too drained to protest, she’d kissed him good-bye. He crept into bed sometime around four.
    A shopping bag stuffed with dry cleaning sat in the front closet, and she grabbed it, adding a pair of Glenn’s pants she picked off the floor. At least he’d managed to peel them off before falling into bed. Sally followed her to the door and Georgia leaned down, clicking on her collar. “Of course you’re coming.”
    A black-haired girl stood behind a computer, her hot-pink nails poised at the keyboard. “Name?” she asked without looking up.
    Georgia spelled her name, last and first, and started sorting through the pile of clothing. A week’s worth of Glenn’s shirts, a couple black sweaters, a top she’d worn to a party. She picked up the pants he’d worn the night before, folding them at the seat and then waist to cuff. A white paper square, no bigger than a packet of dental floss, fell to the counter.
    The girl looked up. “Is that yours?”
    Georgia stared at the packet, then at the girl, then swept her hand across the counter, scooping it up and placing it in her pocket in one fluid motion. “Just have them delivered, okay? Come on, Sal.” The door jingled closed behind her.
    It wasn’t such a big deal. Marco did it. Probably lots of the line cooks too, and definitely some of the waitstaff. Practically everyone in the restaurant industry did a little blow now and again. But she didn’t. And Glenn wasn’t in the restaurant industry. He was a lawyer.
    She paced up and down the little living room, her anger mounting. To think she’d been feeling bad about Marco trying to kiss her while Glenn had probably been snorting coke in bathrooms all over the city. This was no longer a question for the Ethicist, it was a question for a couples counselor.
    The bedroom door creaked open, and Georgia’s shoulders reflexively shot up.
    “Morning,” Glenn said from the hallway.
    “Morning. How are you feeling?”
    “All things considered, not too bad.” He smiled sleepily, too fuzzy to detect her frostiness. “When’s the last time I got to spend a leisurely Saturday morning with my fiancée?” He walked over, wearing the bottom half of the red pinstripe pajamas she’d given him for his birthday, and bent down to give her a kiss.
    She turned so that his kiss caught her cheek. Even after a coke-and-champagne-filled rager, he looked good. Maybe his eyes were a little pouchier, his belly slightly softer, but if she squinted her eyes just so, she still saw the handsome launch-boat driver she met while serving gin and tonics at the Newport Yacht Club. That summer he lived in Levi’s and flip-flops, blasted Phish on his earbuds, and carried his guitar everywhere. That they would get together was