Free Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel by Brenda Janowitz

says, smiling as he helps me up from my chaise longue.
    I think but don’t say, I’ll need to drink if I’m going to get through the rest of this trip. And then I do.

 
    Twelve
    Mornings in the Hamptons are different from mornings in New York City. In the city, it’s a hurried affair—a quick shower, throw on clothes that aren’t too wrinkled, grab a bite to eat as you run out the door.
    But here, morning is a ritual. We wake, and slowly get out of bed. I wear actual pajamas that have coordinating robes, so I can be covered up for breakfast. I have slippers. I put them on and then pad into the bathroom. I freshen up, then put on my robe and make my way to the breakfast table.
    Breakfast is always a buffet with two or three choices of hot meals (today: pancakes and scrambled eggs) and a few choices of cold (granola and blueberry muffins). My grandmother’s chef makes coffee to order, even though my grandmother and I drink the same thing every day (she, espresso; me, black coffee). We have three different newspapers to read (the New York Times, the New York Post, and the Washington Post ).
    The staff does not eat with us.
    My grandmother has maintained a large staff for as long as I can remember. There’s Raoul, her driver, and his wife, Martine, who works as housekeeper. In the summers, they live on the top floor of the garage in a small two-bedroom apartment. In the winters, they live in their own house in Queens.
    She had two chefs, both formally trained in the classic French technique, although they could both do any type of food you might like. Alec, the older of the two, had been working for my grandmother since she was married to the Italian race car driver. On their honeymoon, he told my grandmother that he really appreciated home-cooked meals, which my grandmother took to mean that she should hire a chef. Jean-Marie, the younger of the two chefs, came aboard when my grandmother married the Mattress King. He really loved French food—the Mattress King never met a heavy sauce he didn’t like—so Jean-Marie was hired to infuse healthy alternatives into his diet. Alec strenuously objected to a hollandaise with low-fat cream, so he gave my grandmother an ultimatum: it was either Jean-Marie or him. Alec had been with her for years, but my grandmother had fallen in love with Jean-Marie’s avocado salad, so Jean-Marie got to stay on, and Alec left. Also, my grandmother doesn’t take kindly to threats.
    There is one person whose job it is to “run the house.” What that means exactly, I’m not quite sure, but I think Eleanor’s formal title is social secretary (think 1940s screwball comedy starring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn). I think part of her job responsibilities include paying bills and maintaining certain accounts, like the phone and cable, but I could never be sure about that, since my grandmother doesn’t like to talk about money. She’s very good at acquiring it, but doesn’t think it’s seemly to talk about it.
    Eleanor is in charge of the rest of the staff and she loves being in charge. I see her walk around the house, looking down her nose at everything, making sure that each task is done with an eye toward perfection. She often travels with my grandmother, since one of her main responsibilities is to maintain my grandmother’s social calendar.
    There are also two other housekeepers who come in two days a week to keep things clean. My grandmother likes a clean house. When she was married to my grandfather she took her role of suburban housewife very seriously, and takes tremendous pride in her home (or homes, I should say). Even though she no longer does the cleaning herself, she sees no reason why her homes shouldn’t be immaculate.
    Finally, there is a groundskeeper, who lives out at the estate year-round. During the colder months, when my grandmother isn’t here, it’s his job to maintain the grounds and the houses—to make sure that no pipes freeze, that no animals take up