She plucked a piece of dried grass and twirled it between her fingers. The sun broke through the clouds to cast a ray of light over them. She lifted her face to the warmth, her expression beatific, like a cat who’d just found the best chair in the house.
Her lack of interest irritated him, made him want to say something, anything, to get a reaction. “I’m not actually on sabbatical. I got fired from my job.”
That did it.
She sucked in a quick breath, turned. “What?”
He swallowed. “First time I’ve said that out loud. I think this place bewitched me. Or maybe it was you.”
He hadn’t planned to tell her. It was like a reflex. Long stretches of silence were useful in getting people to open up. He’d used that technique often but rarely got caught by it himself.
“When?” The full force of her attention was on him and it hit his bloodstream like a drug. She was genuinely interested, genuinely concerned. Can’t unring that bell, he thought. Might as well make the most of it.
“Last month. Same day Dad fell. In fact, I got your message as I was being escorted off the premises.”
“That explains why you’ve been so laid back about being here. What did you do?” She cringed. “Sorry, I mean, what happened?”
He waved a hand. “You were right the first time. I did something I shouldn’t have. I thought I was someone I’m not. Attempted a story I was not ready for. Tried to be David to the Goliath of the magazine industry.”
“David took down Goliath.”
“Yeah, well it’s in the Bible because it was a hard news item. It shouldn’t have happened. Most Davids of the world fail.”
She reached out and touched his arm, patted it lightly. Before she could withdraw, he caught it, held her hand between his.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
Her eyes were so warm, he could melt into their depths. “I have no idea.”
“This could be an opportunity, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” He’d moved slightly closer to her. Their eyes held. “That sounds like a typical silver-lining kind of response. When God closes a door, he opens a window, everything happens for a reason, yada-yada, ad nauseam. Not really feeling that.”
“No platitudes from me. I just meant . . . you don’t have to worry about getting back to L.A. Roman must be happy you’re free to stay with him longer.”
“I haven’t told him.”
“What? Why not?”
“My father’s favorite words are I told you so. He warned me that Whitey Irving was a snake. I didn’t think it mattered, as long as I did my job. Turns out Dad was right.” Humiliation washed over him again at the memory. “I’ll tell him once I’ve found something else. I’ll spin it that I was looking for a change. He doesn’t need to know the details.”
“I’m so sorry, Jon. Are you okay?” Her voice was like taffy, smooth and sweet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen to it, or taste it.
He forced his thoughts back to her question. Was he okay?
“Sure,” he told her with a wry smile. “I’m fine.”
“Ah, now you’re bored with me.”
He reached out and captured her hand. “Never.”
She looked steadily at him, without withdrawing her hand. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
And he found himself doing that. He hadn’t unloaded a problem onto someone else in ages and he found it incredibly cathartic.
“They fired me over a story, Abby. It’s a good one, one that needs to be told. It’s got it all, scandal, injustice, a powerful man preying on vulnerable young women. But turns out he’s more powerful than I realized. He’s got my magazine—my former magazine—on his payroll. He’s untouchable. And now, since I took a poke, I’m untouchable, too. I might never work again. You might say that’s an opportunity, but it doesn’t feel like it from where I’m sitting.”
Stillness had come over Abby. “I know what that world’s like. You asked me earlier about Richard Arondi. That’s who you were writing about, isn’t it? He’s your Goliath?”
Jon’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes.”
Abby looked out toward the horizon. Her voice was steady but there was a vein of ice running through it. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier. We were on one of his sets. He’s not a nice man.”
“Oh, Abby,” Jon said.
“It’s okay. Neither of us worked directly for him, thank goodness.” She shuddered lightly. “We saw what he was like, though. That’s why we left. You should write that story anyway, Jon.”
“For who? No one will print it. I’m persona non grata, thanks to Irving.”
Her encouragement warmed him, or maybe it was just the overwhelming relief that she and her sister hadn’t fallen prey to Arondi’s appetite.
He wondered if she could point him to more sources but before he could ask, she laid a hand on his arm. She wasn’t looking at him any longer. Slowly, she raised her index finger to her lips. Her eyes darted sideways, and he followed.
A dark-eyed doe stood in the shadows beyond the blackberry bushes, a spotted fawn at her side. They could have been statues, yet there was a tension about them, an awareness that sizzled over the air. They were wild animals, trusting no one. Yet they’d stopped to look at the two humans.
Curious enough to risk exposure.
A crow cawed its harsh, raucous cry overhead and the deer bolted, leaving nothing but quivering shrubbery to give evidence that they’d ever been there.
“She had two fawns, last time I saw her.” Abby spoke with a hushed sadness.
Then she blinked and seemed to come back to herself. “It sucks that you got fired, but looking at it another way, you’re no longer tied to the rigid demands of an editor who, by the sound of it, was not an ideal employer. You’re free to do what you want now.”
He sighed. “Couldn’t resist the silver lining, could you?”
“Hey, I see what I see. I don’t mean to minimize this though, Jon. I know it hurts.”
Her gentle empathy flowed over him like balm. “I’ll stay a bit longer, figure out what to do with Dad. Maybe work up a book proposal. I’ll figure something out.”
She swallowed. “What if you took more than that? What if you stayed for a month or two? Or even the summer?”
“What, with Roman?”
She nodded. “You’ve got the time. I know he’d appreciate it.”
Jon tried to imagine spending a whole summer with his father. Roman had been getting progressively more irritable lately. He forgot to take his medication now and then and snarled when reminded. Jon had to pretend not to see his father drop things or stumble into furniture, mopping up spills and straightening chairs when Roman wasn’t looking.
“He’s tired of having me around. He wants his privacy back.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong about that.”
He eyed her. “Did he tell you he wants me to stick around?”
She inhaled, started to speak, then closed her mouth.
“Abby? What is it?”
“He’s too proud to admit it, but he missed you a lot this past winter. I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty, just that you being here has made him really happy.”
“My father? Really happy? You’ve met him, right?”
Abby punched him lightly on the arm. “Come on. Tell him you’ll stay longer. It would make his day.”
He suspected most of Roman’s bad temper stemmed from embarrassment. Jon felt the same way. He hated witnessing his father’s weakness, but at the same time, he couldn’t imagine leaving him on his own. But trying to get Roman to consider an assisted living facility was like banging his head against concrete.
“Now that the garden hop is finished,” Abby added, “I can get back to looking in on him every day. Help you make sure he eats and takes his medication, does his exercises. In case that part stresses you out.”
Jon thought of his condo, sitting empty in L.A. He could easily sublet it. He could g
o month to month, see how things went. With Abby to help diffuse the tension, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay longer.
He felt a slow smile break over his face. “I think,” he said, “that you just made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
Chapter Twelve
From Abby’s notebook:
Rhubarb is a good source of magnesium, dietary fiber, vitamin C, vitamin K, calcium, potassium, and manganese. It’s very easy to grow and this pie is a delicious way to use it. One pound of raw rhubarb yields about four cups of slices, which cooks down to about ¾ cup rhubarb mash.
RHU-BERRY PIE
Food Processor Pastry:
2½ cups pastry flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons wheat germ
⅔ cup cold, unsalted butter, cut in pieces
2 egg yolks
4 tablespoons ice water
Put flour, salt, and wheat germ into processor bowl. Using steel blade, pulse to blend. Add butter and pulse until it resembles coarse meal. While pulsing, add egg yolks and water. Process only until dough has formed a ball on top of the blade. Remove dough, divide into two balls, wrap and chill for at least a half hour or overnight. Can be made ahead and frozen.
Makes enough for one 10-inch double-crust pie.
Filling:
3 cups rhubarb, sliced ½ inch wide
2½ cups sliced strawberries
⅓ cup packed light brown sugar
⅓ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup cornstarch
¼ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon orange zest
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 large egg, lightly beaten with 1 tablespoon milk
1 tablespoon raw turbinado sugar
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
Mix rhubarb, berries, sugars, cornstarch, salt, orange juice, zest, and vanilla extract together in a large bowl. Set aside.
On a floured work surface, roll out one ball of chilled dough (leave the other one in the refrigerator). Carefully place dough into pie dish, leaving slight overhang. Using a slotted spoon, place the filling into the crust. (Discard excess liquid in the bowl.) Dot the pieces of butter on top of filling.
Remove the other ball of chilled pie dough from the refrigerator and roll into a 12 inch circle. Cover the filling with top crust and cut slits in the top to form steam vents. Trim and crimp edges.
Lightly brush the top of the pie crust with the egg/milk mixture. Sprinkle the top with raw turbinado sugar.
Place the pie onto a large baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes. Turn the temperature down to 350 degrees F and bake for an additional 25–30 minutes. Cover with tin foil if top is browning too quickly.
Allow the pie to cool for 3 full hours at room temperature to allow filling to thicken, before serving.
From Abby’s notebook:
In the Pacific Northwest, rhubarb can be harvested about every four to five weeks beginning in spring, once the stalks have reached 10–15 inches in height.
To harvest rhubarb without damaging the rhizome beneath, stalks should be pulled out, not cut. Grip stalk firmly with index finger inside, at the base. Pull slowly but firmly while twisting as close to base as possible.
Cut off the leaf, leaving a two to three inch “crowfoot” at the end to help retain moisture during storage.
Abby’s teaching station was all set up in the kitchen and she was awaiting the arrival of one guest, a woman named Lydia. She found the woman in the great room, standing at the window, looking out over the view to the ocean. The far-off breakers lent the water an image that, from this distance, undulated gently, like old lace, yellowed with age.
Lydia was thin, with silver hair and sad eyes. It wasn’t her first visit, but they knew little of her, other than that she was from California, and that early retirement had given her the freedom to come and go as she pleased.
She had first stayed with them for a week over Christmas and spent most of her time either in the kennels or the stables. She spoke little, smiled less, and answered questions in such a way as to make clear that hers was a story not yet ready for the telling. Group activities were not her thing, and when she wasn’t with the animals, she could be seen walking the lonely ridges and valleys surrounding Sanctuary Ranch, her head down, her shoulders hunched against the damp, her steps determined as if she had to either keep on or give up entirely and disappear.
Abby understood. They all understood, as a matter of fact. Everyone had secrets and the ranch was a place of safety, where one could start over and be something other than the person they’d been in whatever life they were escaping from.
This visit, Lydia had surprised them all by signing up for Abby’s pie-making lesson. She’d ignored yoga, trail rides, vegetarian cooking, horsemanship 101, canine behavior, and Daphne’s lesson in knife skills, but on her registration form checked off pie baking, with a note that read “as long as Abby’s teaching it.”
Daphne, who’d taught Abby everything she knew about pastry, was affronted. Abby was flattered, if slightly alarmed. It was a lot of pressure.
“I’m ready to start, Lydia.” Abby spoke softly, not wanting to startle the woman. “There’s an apron at the workstation and you can wash up at the sink first.”
Lydia turned her gaze and stared at Abby, as if dragging her thoughts from someplace far, far away. Then she smiled. “Of course. Thank you.”
Abby led Lydia to the lesson area just off the main kitchen. The others had already gathered and nearby, Daphne wielded a large utility knife on a hapless pile of carrots.
As Abby brushed past Daphne, the cook cut her eyes at them. “Have fun.” She punctuated the comment with a vicious chop.
Abby elbowed her. “We will. This way, Lydia.”
Lydia walked past Daphne without a word, and picked up the apron set out for her.
Abby stood in the center of the U-shaped island off the main kitchen and surveyed her students. Besides Lydia, there was a mother, forty-something, and her twenty-something daughter, here to bond over horses and good food. A fit, handsome older gentleman named George, rejoining life after a massive coronary. He appeared to have a crush on Bea, who was here for the third time. She had snow-white hair, perfect makeup, and could ride the toughest of their horses. Abby guessed she’d opened a bottle of wine before class.
Roman and Jon were at her left, sharing a spot. Abby looked at each of her students in turn as she spoke. But she couldn’t tell if she was looking at Jon too much, or not enough. It was distracting, having him here.
But she’d asked for it, hadn’t she?
“‘Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?’” sang Bea. “When I was a girl, cooking and baking and sewing and cleaning were all prerequisites to getting a husband. So I broke the iron, burned the bread, and spent every minute I could in the barn.”
“And did you get a husband?” asked George, sitting next to her.
“Two,” Bea answered, arching an eyebrow at him. “Plus an education, a career, and a couple of kids. Now that I’m finally going to be a grandma, I’m ready to get domestic. Plus, I love pie.”
“What’s not to love?” Abby said.
“The calories?” said Elena, the mother at the far end.
“Nope,” said her daughter, nudging her in the ribs. “We’ll work it all off in the saddle.”
“Exactly,” Abby confirmed. “We work hard in the fresh air, with nature and animals, and when we’re done, we nourish our bodies with healthy, flavorful meals and a few indulgences for our souls.”
She felt Jon’s eyes on her and pulled her thoughts back to the lesson with difficulty. She hadn’t expected to be so distracted by his presence.
“Fat is essential in making pastry,” she said, holding up the container of shortening. “Pie dough is different from bread dough in that when you make bread, you want to develop the gluten into long strands
, which you do by kneading. But flaky pie crust requires as little handling as possible. You want the bits of fat to be layered in the flour mixture, so that when it melts, it creates the crispy flaky layers we all love.”
She dusted flour off her hands. “Too much handling breaks down the fat and makes the dough tough. The more you practice, the sooner you’ll get a feel for the right balance.”
“Balance is important,” Roman said. “But if this is what you do for fun, you need to get out more.”
A chuckle rippled through the group and Abby smiled. “I enjoy baking, Roman. It relaxes me.”
Roman nudged Jon. “She needs help, son.”
“Roman!” Abby’s felt her face go crimson. She couldn’t look at Jon and felt the rest of the class perk up with curiosity. “Let’s get back to the lesson, shall we?”
“You two would make a cute couple,” Bea said. “I vote with Roman.”
“Definitely,” George said, nodding at Roman. “You’re clearly a man of great wisdom.”
Roman laughed, a sound Abby wasn’t sure she’d ever heard before. It rumbled up from his chest in deep, contagious bursts. She was losing control of the group and could feel Daphne watching behind her.
Desperately, she pulled up a series of photographs on her tablet. “We’re going to use a species of apple known as Jonagold,” she said, passing it to Lydia, who sat in the station nearest her. “It’s a cross between a Jonathan and a Golden Delicious and we grow them in our orchard here on the ranch. Jonathans have a honeyed aroma and a sweet-sharp flavor profile that makes them wonderful for pies.”
“Don’t you mean Jonagolds?” George corrected.
“Right.” Abby gave her head a shake. “Jonagolds.”
Bea leaned over the table sniffing in Jon’s direction. “Do Jonathans smell like honey? I’d believe it.”
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