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  PRAISE FOR APPETITE

  “Sheila Grinell’s debut novel Appetite takes us into the heart of a family being torn apart by conflicting beliefs about what constitutes love, marriage, and success. Do parents have the right to try to stop an adult child from marrying if they see disaster looming, or should they back off and wait to pick up the pieces? In this tight, well-written novel, Grinell highlights the conflict between youthful idealism and adult disillusionment in ways that are both moving and thought-provoking.”

  —Mary Mackey, author of the New York Times bestseller A Grand Passion

  “Appetite is the story of the conflict between a boomer couple, Maggie and Paul Adler, and Jenn, their millennial daughter, over the daughter’s impending marriage to an Indian guru. It is an engrossing account of a struggle to find common ground about how life should be lived. Long-held principles can be lost, debased, and degraded over time, sometimes to disastrous effect, while hopeful and idealistic plans for the future remain untried. This intergenerational drama of relationships, both long-established and newly formed, makes for a gripping journey—not only for the characters but for the reader as well. Sheila Grinell has done a splendid job in this fascinating first novel.”

  —Mickey Friedman, author of Hurricane Season

  “In her debut novel, Sheila Grinell weaves a rich and sensual tapestry of individuals held together by devotion and duty. Taut and sexy, Appetite is a story about finding your own way and the magnetic appeal of youth, ambition, and freedom. A fun read that will leave you hungry for more.”

  —Gina Gotsill, co-author of Surviving the Baby Boomer Exodus: Capturing Knowledge for Gen X and Y Employees

  Copyright © 2016 Sheila Grinell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2016

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-022-8 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-023-5 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954338

  Cover design by Julie Metz Ltd./metzdesign.com

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To Niko and his parents

  I’m gonna keep my skillet greasy if I can.

  —Mississippi John Hurt

  Contents

  Fall

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Spring

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  FALL

  ONE

  There are two kinds of people in this world, Maggie Adler thought, those who eat when anxious and those who can’t. She stared at the bran muffin on her plate; two plump raisins poked through the crust. She picked at them like a scab and sipped her tea.

  A year ago her daughter, Jenn, had quit her job and taken off for New Delhi. At first Jenn had written letters. Then she switched to emails that occasionally mentioned a man. Then the man’s name, “Arun, rhymes with moon,” appeared. Then the emails stopped, leaving Maggie in the dark. So she began to worry. Worry welled up whenever her concentration flagged; worry flavored her days.

  Across the table, her friend Ellen said, “So, you don’t like Zumba?” They were at brunch after a two-hour class.

  “I liked the music.”

  Zumba was Ellen’s latest aerobic exercise. Every six months Ellen launched a new campaign for self-improvement, but she never took herself too seriously.

  Maggie said, “I’m worried about Jenn.”

  “Oh, that’s what’s bothering you? For a minute I thought something was wrong.” Ellen spread a glob of butter on her scone. “Come on, Mag. We’ve been over this. Jenn is twenty-five years old and she can take care of herself. Besides, you said she’s coming home.”

  Last week Jenn had sent a one-line email saying she’d be back before Christmas, not one word of explanation. Despite Ellen’s logic, Maggie couldn’t shake the thought that something was wrong. She sipped her tea.

  Ellen chewed as she talked. “You people blessed with a roaring metabolism just don’t appreciate what life is like for the rest of us.”

  Maggie let the comment pass. It suited Ellen to put her in a separate category, to ignore the hours Maggie spent walking the neighborhood, the years of healthy cooking, the continual abstention. When they’d first started exercising together, Maggie had made a point of complimenting Ellen’s lovely skin, such a contrast to her own premature wrinkles. Ellen had tossed the compliment aside, saying she didn’t need flattery. They had been easy together ever since.

  Ellen said, “Time for some fun. What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I’m doing the books for All Saints’.”

  “Again?”

  “Every month.”

  “You are a good soul,” Ellen sighed, licking sugar off her fingers.

  Maggie swept crumbs from the table into her empty teacup and rose. She didn’t wait for Ellen to gather her things.

  “See you next Friday.”

  “Mag, call me.”

  “Sure,” she said, turning away. She pushed arms through the sleeves of her sweat suit jacket, making another dim mental note to fix the zipper.

  She had parked beneath an oak, one of the eight-story trees she so admired in downtown Pelham. A few yellowed leaves lay on her car’s hood and windshield. She brushed them aside mechanically, planning the route she would take to the supermarket, the post office, home. No one waited for her there. No deadline except her own. Service to the church would bring balance to her day, or maybe the right term was “ballast.” She would finish the September books by four and take the accounts to Reverend Stevens before he left at five.

  Behind the wheel, she fished her cell phone out of her gym bag and placed it on the passenger seat. All week since the email, she had been keeping her phone at the ready. New Delhi was ten and a half hours ahead, so if Jenn called in the evening, as she used to do from college, the call might come around now. She pulled onto the street and into the right-turn lane, heading toward the parkway. She drove fast, too fast her husband, Paul, always said, but she knew every turn by heart. They had lived in suburban Pelham since Paul had gotten his own research lab in lower Manhattan and Jenn was in grade school. Maggie had always liked the way the parkway snaked between the trees, between the low, stone fences alongside the roadway. She used to play a game, from home to Jenn’s school without stepping on the brake, using
only the accelerator and the clutch and her sense of rhythm to cover the five miles. Of course, she never played it with Jenn in the car. A mistake would have been disastrous.

  Ahead, the stoplight turned yellow, same as the leaves overhead. How many other parkways in the world were lined with trees and stoplights, she wondered for the umpteenth time as she braked. No clutch in a Prius, or at least none you control. So many things were different now. She and Paul used to be coconspirators, figuring things out together, like how to pay for his education, where to live, how to school Jenn. It had been fun to get by on her salary while he earned his degree; they had been a team up against the odds, plotting the plays.

  Maggie pressed her lips together. Little remained of their conspiracy. Now they might not converse for days at a time. She still made meals for two; he ate the leftovers when he came home. Sometimes when she entered the kitchen to greet him, she would find him standing in front of the fridge, door open, using the fridge light to eat from the plate she had left for him. She would ask him to sit down, offer to heat up the food, or bring him a drink. He usually told her not to bother. Sometimes she didn’t get up when she heard him in the kitchen, keeping her nose in her book. Sometimes she found him asleep in bed when she returned from an evening walk. At night in the king bed, they didn’t need to touch. And to think they once happily shared a single mattress. She yearned to turn the clock back to a simpler time when love enveloped the three of them, and Paul’s research didn’t interfere.

  The light turned green. She stepped on the accelerator and the car advanced soundlessly. Still hard to get used to the electric mode, much as she appreciated it. Ah, that could be her motto: how hard it is to get used to things that should be appreciated. Little things, like the bouquet of peonies that arrived on her birthday, sent, she suspected, by Paul’s assistant. And big things, like Jenn’s taking off for India. Jenn, who’d had a hard time settling in after college but became reanimated studying Vedantic philosophy. If only she hadn’t hooked up with that guru, or lover, or whatever he was. Icy fingers rose up from Maggie’s belly and squeezed her heart.

  The phone chirped. She clutched it, squinting to read the display. Not Jenn. She replaced the phone on the passenger seat and looked up. A van loomed in front of her, taillights flashing. She stomped on the brake, heaved the steering wheel to the right. The tires gripped and screeched.

  The rear of the vehicle ahead zoomed bigger. She couldn’t push the pedal any harder. She couldn’t turn the wheel any farther.

  Bang—she lurched sideways as the Prius’s left wheels lifted off the pavement.

  She felt the car hurtle forward, bouncing and shivering. Metal cracked and crunched. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see.

  Then everything stopped.

  She sat still, taking stock. She felt dizzy. Her heart pounded; her face and chest burned, but no sharp pain. The now-deflated airbag spread in front of her over the steering wheel. On the floor on the passenger side, her gym bag and purse lay overturned, contents spilled. Releasing the seat belt, she opened the door. Slowly, tentatively, she climbed out of the car. The Prius had jammed into the guardrail; the passenger side bore horrible gashes across both doors, and the safety glass in the windows had crazed into hundreds of segments, like a malign spiderweb. Ahead, a van was parked, right rear fender collapsed, left blinker on. A man approached.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.”

  He stopped in front of her. “I saw it in the mirror. You slid along the rail. I called the police. They’re sending an ambulance.”

  “I don’t need an ambulance. I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

  “Yeah, but you should for the insurance.”

  “Insurance?”

  “You’re gonna make a claim, aren’t you?”

  Maggie’s legs trembled. She leaned against her mutilated car and tried to clear her mind. Her neck and shoulders were beginning to ache. She tasted dust in her mouth, saw it on her shirt. No way would she sit for hours in a cold emergency room. She would go to her own doctor if necessary. But first the police would come. And then?

  “May I use your phone?” she asked. “Mine’s in my car.”

  “Sure. Here.”

  Maggie turned away. The man walked around to the front of her car and squatted, examining the damage. She punched in Ellen’s number, got her answering service. She punched in Paul’s number, expecting to reach his assistant, but Paul answered.

  “I’ve been in an accident. No one is hurt, but I can’t drive my car. Can you come for me?”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I glanced down and a car cut in front of me, and I couldn’t stop. I’m on the parkway. The police are on the way.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Please come.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Five, ten minutes ago.”

  “How about the other car?”

  “Paul, just come.”

  “I’m tied up here right now. I’ll get someone to take over. I should be there in less than an hour if there’s no traffic. It’ll take you that long to finish with the police. Okay?”

  She cut off the call, not surprised at his nonchalance, but disappointed nonetheless. He wouldn’t care about the damage to the car, a practical matter he’d delegate to her, but he should care about her discomfort. She didn’t want to stand around for an hour on the parkway. Her shoulder, the one that had been beneath the seat belt, throbbed. Against her will, she began to cry.

  The other driver approached. “Looks worse than it is.”

  She fished a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Her legs would not stop trembling.

  Lights flashed in the distance. “Would the police give me a ride home?” she wondered out loud.

  “They’re not allowed to. Live around here? I’ll take you.”

  “No. I’ll call a cab.”

  “Hey, it’s the least I can do. No problem.”

  A fire engine pulled up, siren squealing, and then a squad car. A wave of embarrassment swept over Maggie; one moment of carelessness had caused so much commotion. But who was to blame for the accident? Maybe the other driver was at fault. She looked at him: under forty, clean-shaven, relaxed. He stepped aside when the officers approached.

  A fireman asked if she was hurt. She said she was fine, truly. Then a policeman stood before her with his back to the roadway, outlined against the midday sun. Automatically, she read the name on his badge: Sergeant Hernandez. She wanted to cooperate perfectly. Well, she really wanted Sergeant Hernandez to tell her she wasn’t at fault. He handed her a form and a pen. She squinted at the paper. It asked for vehicle and insurance numbers. She leaned into her car from the driver’s side, barely reaching the glove compartment, to retrieve her insurance card. She copied the numbers into the appropriate boxes and signed her name. A routine, predictable thing, filling out a form and signing your name. It soothed her. She had stopped trembling.

  While a junior officer paced off the skid marks, the sergeant turned his attention to the driver of the van. When they finished speaking, the driver approached her again. “I’m Brian,” he said, offering his hand.

  She didn’t take it. “Aren’t we adversaries?”

  “We don’t have to be. No one was hurt.”

  She had never been in an accident before. Was this how to gauge it—whether people were injured?

  “There’s no problem,” he said, “as long as you’re okay.”

  Maggie shrugged her shoulders, testing her body.

  “I’m sore but I’m whole.”

  “Glad to hear it. Two weeks in a rental car and everything will be back to normal.” He put his hands in his pockets and leaned against her car, an arm’s length away.

  A perfect stranger, yet she wanted to believe him. Her shoulder burned and her stomach stirred; she needed to keep calm. She looked around her. It was a beautiful day, sunshine overriding the autumn chill. Birds cal
led in the woods behind them, audible over the noise of passing cars. A breeze fanned her cheeks. How ironic that an accident gave her occasion to be still outdoors.

  “No offense,” he said, “but your car won’t be hard to fix.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I used to fool around with cars. Your wheels and chassis are straight. You only need bodywork. The car, that is.”

  Could this man be flirting with her while the police car lights flashed? At another time she might have felt flattered, but now the police commanded attention.

  Brian said, “You should get a pro to check it out.”

  “I intend to.”

  He turned on his heel and jogged to his van. He loped back, tight bodied like a runner, holding a knapsack. Opening the sack, he withdrew a tablet and fiddled with it.

  “Okay, I’ve got a connection. Take a look.” He held the tablet so that she could see the screen: a Prius like hers was pictured in the middle. As he touched it, its outer layers disappeared, revealing the frame. Then the parts zoomed together, and the dealer’s ad spread across the screen. “Prius is pretty tough. So long as the chassis’s not twisted, you can fix the rest, and it’ll drive fine.”

  Maggie felt uncomfortable standing so close to him. She could smell his sweat, feel the heat generated by his muscles. A lean, musky male, less than an arm’s length away. Much younger than she.

  “Why are you being so helpful?”

  “I’m a sucker for sad women.”

  She couldn’t respond; was it so obvious to a complete stranger? She didn’t dare ask how he could tell.

  After a beat, he turned off the computer. They stood in silence as a spate of cars sped by in the far lane.

  The policemen stood talking together, gesturing and nodding their heads. Holding a clipboard, the sergeant approached them. He addressed Maggie. “Looks like you were going pretty fast when he cut in front of you.” Turning to include Brian, “I’m not going to give either one of you a ticket. There are no witnesses.” He separated the layers of a form and handed her the bottom, pink copy, pointing to a long number he had written. “This is the report number. We’ve called for a tow. You’ll need someone to drive you home.” He turned to Brian. “Here’s yours. The report will be ready within twenty-four hours.”