“Do you remember the couple we met at the Lalonde wedding,” Ellen asked, picking up a four-jar gift pack – Tandoori, Balti, two other labels Jack couldn’t read from where he stood – and examining it. She had convinced him to celebrate Diwali this year in support of their daughter Megan’s betrothal to Aarush, a med student from Jaipur. The thought of it gave him heartburn, the food, the possibility of meeting Aarush’s parents and celebrating a Hindu religious festival, penance Ellen exacted for his attitude toward their nuptials. Not that he cared about their religion, or any religion really. But Megan was only twenty-one and finishing her bachelor’s in music therapy. Aarush still had to complete two years of interning.

Now here he was following her around the aisles at Penzey’s Spices.

“Which couple?” he said, looking around the store. He was careful not to lift his arm to view his watch, which might arouse her suspicions. Not a clock on any wall, he thought. How could a store operate without having one clock? 

“Linda Tavares,” she continued talking while staring at the package. “I believe her husband is Roger. We sat at the same table for the reception, and you talked with him for quite a while. She owns a gourmet oil and vinegar shop in Hudson. I’ve been meaning to check it out.”

“Her whole shop is oils and vinegars only?” he said. “That’s about as niche as you can get, isn’t it? Is there a salad bar?” She looked at him squarely and squinted. What? Had he made a faux pas?

“The idea originated in Europe, actually,” she said. “The Netherlands. They’re popping up all over the country now. Hers is the only one in the area, and it’s quite successful. Quite.” 

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s a must-see then,” he mumbled. A thousand pardons, madam, for being happily ignorant of the hottest trend in food marketing. He felt a slight, derisive smile flicker across his lips. “Still, the prices. I imagine there’s a hefty margin on it to cover all her overhead?” She placed the package very deliberately on the shelf, but a frown came over her face. She picked up a larger gift pack of eight and studied the labeling. He feigned innocence. “I mean, it sounds like something your book club would enjoy, doesn’t it? Maybe as an outing.” She look directly at him, her eyebrows arched. Yes, of course, she was giving him the look.  He hadn’t seen enough of that in the last year.

“I wouldn’t mind going,” he cleared his voice. “Not today, though. Remember?” A hint of exasperation bled into his voice at having to remind her – again – that this was Saturday.

“Her place is just a short drive from here,” she said. “In Hudson.” She placed the larger gift pack on the shelf. “Don’t worry, you’ll still make it time for your poker game. Or whatever it is you really do.” Her voice trailed off as she turned to wander down the pepper aisle. 

That’s right, make with the innuendo. He could live like a saint for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t matter. The past was indelible. If it happened once, her mother had said, it was bound to happen again. He decided to not take the bait this time. “So what is served at a Diwali?”

“A variety of foods,” she said. “Puris with unleavened bread. Pakoras. Curry and spiced meat. And sweets, lots of sweets. Confections, really.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said. Spiced meat, how generic. You could butcher an anaconda, throw on enough curry to burn your mouth for days, and call it spiced meat. He had no idea of what any of this food was and he was certain that six months ago, Ellen didn’t either. No doubt she had thrown herself into researching every detail of what a Diwali is in order to make the best impression possible. That was her way in business certainly, and outside of their business, she operated the same. Ellen was a chameleon. No matter what group of people they were with, she changed color to blend in, gain acceptance. She went to the nth degree to make people like her, intuitively said the right thing each time to gain their favor. He couldn’t stomach watching her sometimes. Still, he had to admit, Ellen’s act worked to bring in the business. He did the books, ran all the financials, was Mr. Inside. She was Mrs. Outside, a born salesperson willing to do anything to close a sale. Okay, maybe not anything. She had some principles that he lacked; that was a painful realization. What a disaster it would have been if she had decided to divorce him.

He wondered how the Diwali celebration would turn out if placed a two-inch-thick steak down in front of his daughter’s future in-laws. Would that be a disaster? Or would it be a proper way to end the young couple’s engagement?

– James Wendelken

Author’s Note: “After Saturday’s Brunch” is a sketch of the tenseness and resentment in a couple’s life whose marriage has devolved into a transactional relationship.