Market Street

by Anita Hughes

  3.

  Cassie pulled up in front of the Edible Schoolyard and tugged on her rubber boots. She loved arriving early, while the students were still in class, chewing on pencils and filling in their workbooks. She walked straight to the shed, selected a spade, and slipped on her gardening gloves.

  The ground was wet and the chickens darted out of their coop as if checking for rain. Cassie chatted with the ducks and watched the hummingbirds extract breakfast from the feeder. The purple broccoli was flowering, and the lemon trees bulged with lemons.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Blake,” a small voice called.

  Cassie turned around and saw Heewon Kim, a sixth-grader who recently transferred from an inner-city school in Oakland.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in math, fretting over logarithms?” Cassie stopped tossing compost and leaned on her shovel.

  “I hate math,” Heewon groaned. She was small for her age, with glossy black hair that fell straight to her shoulders. She wore overalls and old tennis shoes with shredded laces. “I’m not going to use logarithms when I grow up. I want to work in a garden, like you.”

  “Remember, I volunteer. You need a profession and math might be necessary. You don’t want to limit your options.” Cassie smiled.

  “My teacher said I could check on the chickens,” Heewon explained. “I collected six eggs yesterday.”

  “We can make omelets for lunch.” Cassie zipped up her sweater. Thick gray clouds hung low in the sky and the air felt damp. “I want to pull some vegetables before it rains. Will you help me?”

  “Yes, please.” Heewon nodded as if she had been singled out to receive an award.

  “What would go well in an omelet?” Cassie studied the vegetables lined up in neat rows. “How about you pull green onions and mustard greens, and I’ll pick heirloom tomatoes and snow peas for a salad.”

  Cassie and Heewon worked together. Cassie loved the stillness of the garden, the way the students took pride in the fruits and vegetables, as if the schoolyard was their own personal fiefdom. The bell rang and children spilled onto the dirt, jostling one another to claim their favorite spades and shovels.

  “Good morning,” Cassie said loudly, waiting until they were quiet. “I hear your chickens have been laying eggs. Heewon and I thought we’d collect vegetables to make omelets. What are your favorite omelets?”

  A redheaded girl raised her hand. “Ham and cheese.”

  “A classic.” Cassie nodded. “But let’s be more creative. We have so much to choose from: mushrooms, cauliflower, spinach, broccoli. Let’s make omelets you’ve never tried before.”

  “Peanut butter and bacon?” A boy with short brown hair snorted, glancing around to see if his friends appreciated his joke.

  “I don’t know where you’ll find bacon unless you slaughter a pig.” Cassie shook her head. “Everyone pick one vegetable and we’ll pool our resources. Please hurry, I think it’s going to pour.”

  “Awesome,” another boy cheered. “Mud fight!”

  Cassie directed the children. The girls gathered beans and peas, squash and zucchini, filling their baskets with pride. The boys shifted from foot to foot in the corner, waiting for others to do the work.

  “Paolo, Manny, you don’t get lunch unless you help.” She handed them each a basket.

  “My mother gave me one piece of toast for breakfast,” Paolo complained. He had big black eyes and light brown skin. “I grew six inches last year. She doesn’t feed me enough!”

  “You’re not going to faint from doing a little manual labor. You’re the tallest boy here so why don’t you pick lemons? We’ll make lemonade with brown sugar.”

  When the first raindrops landed on the ground, the children’s baskets were full. Cassie ushered them into the industrial-sized kitchen where chopping boards, knives, and large bowls waited on scrubbed counters.

  “How do you get these kids to dig in the mud?” One of the teachers stood at the sink, rinsing spinach leaves. “I can’t make them open their math books unless pictures of Justin Bieber are hidden inside the cover.”

  “You can’t eat fractions.” Cassie pulled off her gloves and washed her hands in the warm water. “That’s why gardens and kids go well together: instant gratification. In twenty minutes the beans they pulled will appear in piping-hot omelets.”

  “You’re the Pied Piper.” The teacher wiped her hands on her apron. “Will you teach my geometry class this afternoon?”

  “Now that sounds scary.” Cassie filled a pot with water and turned on the stove. She surveyed the room. Clusters of girls chopped carrots and green beans. Heewon stood by herself, squeezing lemons into a ceramic bowl. Paulo and Manny made paper airplanes out of napkins.

  “Manny, Paulo, help Heewon with the lemons. Bethany”—she signaled to a tall girl with a neck like a young giraffe—“please help me set the table, our young men left their manners outside.”

  The room quieted as the students cut into their steaming omelets. They scraped the plates clean, drank tall glasses of lemonade, and asked for refills. Cassie rewarded each child with a homemade brownie she had warmed in the kitchen’s double oven. By the time she got in the car she was pleasantly exhausted, longing to stand under a hot shower.

  “Darling, is the weather as miserable on your side of the bay?” Cassie’s mother called as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Alexis wanted me to go to Mexico till March. I should have taken her up on it,” Cassie said laughing. “I haven’t seen the sun since Thanksgiving.”

  “This apartment is frigid. I keep turning the thermostat up and Maria keeps turning it down.” Diana Fenton’s voice was low and throaty.

  Cassie pictured her mother in the library of her Nob Hill penthouse, standing by the window and looking out over her city. Cassie thought San Francisco belonged to her mother ever since she was five and they moved to the top of the tallest building on Sutter Street. Cassie’s father had keeled over from a heart attack on the squash courts. Her mother sold their Pacific Heights home and bought a two-bedroom penthouse with giant balconies and no place for a little girl to play.

  Diana coped with the loss of her husband by devoting herself to Fenton’s. Cassie only got her attention by trailing along to Fenton’s after school, or parking herself in her mother’s library when she needed help with her homework. Diana usually waved her away and said Maria could help her, though Maria’s English was limited to words she used at the neighborhood shops.

  “I’d like you to join me for lunch tomorrow; there’s something I want to discuss with you,” Diana continued.

  Cassie hesitated. “Aidan doesn’t start classes for a couple of weeks.”

  “You can’t come into the city because you’re babysitting your husband? He’s a big boy, Cassie. Noon tomorrow. I’ll have Maria make vegetable paella. You can take Aidan home some in a doggy bag.” Diana hung up before Cassie could reply.

  Cassie pressed the end button and sighed. Aidan and her mother got along by keeping each other at arm’s length. There were so many things about Aidan that Diana didn’t approve of: his age, the fact that he didn’t want more children until Isabel was out of the house, his failure to provide Cassie with the lifestyle she had as a child. Yet Cassie knew her mother admired his wit, his intelligence, and the way he truly loved Cassie.

  * * *

  Cassie nodded to the doorman in her mother’s building and took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. She wore a cream-colored knee-length skirt and a matching cashmere sweater. Cassie examined herself in the elevator mirror, wondering if she would pass her mother’s inspection. She had spent extra time on her makeup, had applied mascara and lipstick, and had tied her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck. Diana expected all young women to dress a certain way, and despite herself Cassie wanted to measure up.

  “Darling, I’m so glad you came.” Diana opened the door. She wore wide cashmere slacks with a thick black belt and black ankle boots. Her blouse was exquisite: turquoise silk with tin
y pearl buttons and large cuffs that hung perfectly at her wrists. Diana carried an enamel cigarette holder with an unlit Virginia Slims cigarette.

  “Aidan is wrestling with a paper he’s submitting to a conference.” Cassie kissed her mother’s cheek and put her purse on an ivory end table.

  Walking into her mother’s apartment was like walking into a modern art museum. Every inch was designed to elicit a reaction. Diana redecorated every two years, employing San Francisco’s brightest design star.

  The penthouse was in its “white phase.” The floors were imported white marble covered with white wool rugs. The fourteen-foot windows were hung with white silk curtains, and the dining table was tinted white glass under a white pendulum chandelier.

  “Darling, sit.” Diana led Cassie to the conversation pit: three artfully arranged love seats under a white canvas in a white gold frame.

  “Mother, I love the flowers.” Cassie glanced around the room. Flowers were everywhere: bunches of lilies in crystal vases, birds-of-paradise in long glass tubes, yellow roses, purple daisies, orchids on end tables, side tables, and on the fireplace mantel.

  “Thank you, darling. I love the white but I felt a bit like I was living in a Swiss clinic. The flowers add drama. Maria complains about having to refresh the water but what else does she have to do? She’s getting lazy.”

  Cassie smiled. Maria had been with her mother for thirty years and Cassie had never seen her without a dust mop in her hand.

  “We’ll have lunch in a minute, but I have something exciting to discuss.” Diana leaned forward on the love seat. “Next birthday I’ll be sixty, God willing. It’s time you came to work at Fenton’s.”

  Cassie gazed at her mother. It was hard to believe Diana would be sixty. Her skin was smooth as alabaster, and she had the hands of a debutante. Diana’s eyes were pale blue like Cassie’s, and she wore her auburn hair in a pageboy cut to her chin.

  “I have a full life, Mother. Working at the Edible Schoolyard and being a professor’s wife keeps me busy.”

  “I adore Alice, she is a dear, dear friend”—Diana waved her cigarette holder in the air—“but you’re mucking around in dirt with schoolchildren. It was fine when you were in your twenties but you’re thirty-two. It’s time to grow up. Fenton’s needs you.”

  * * *

  Cassie leaned back on the white silk cushion and remembered the last time her mother demanded she work at Fenton’s. It was a year after she graduated from Berkeley. Cassie had managed to turn her extra summer into a full year and was still in the first flush of love with Aidan. She kept her studio apartment in North Berkeley because Isabel still coveted Aidan’s undivided attention, but they managed to spend long nights together in his king-sized bed.

  “You’ve been playing for a full year now.” Diana sat at the desk in her office at Fenton’s. “It’s time you came to work.”

  “I’m not sure I want to work at Fenton’s,” Cassie had replied, hearing Aidan’s voice in her head. “Alice is starting an exciting project and I want to be part of it.”

  “Volunteering is fine.” Diana stood up and walked to the window overlooking Union Square. It was spring and the trees were covered in pink buds. Shoppers had shed their winter coats and wore bright colors: lime green dresses, orange pants, canvas loafers instead of knee-high boots. “But Fenton’s is your store.”

  “I love Fenton’s, but I’m not really made for it.” Cassie averted her eyes from her mother. “I don’t have your fashion sense.”

  “Nonsense.” Her mother turned and looked sharply at Cassie. “You’re young, your look will mature. The trick is to surround yourself with people who excel at what they do.”

  * * *

  After that first conversation with her mother, Cassie had driven over the Bay Bridge and gone straight to Aidan’s house. Aidan was in the kitchen, preparing an egg white omelet.

  “Sweetheart”—he kissed her on the mouth—“I picked up a 1996 Rutherford sauvignon blanc. Wait till you taste it.”

  Cassie sat on the stool and watched Aidan crack eggs. Her lower lip trembled. She loved spending Saturdays at the Berkeley Co-op with Aidan, combing the aisles for exotic vegetables. She loved growing spinach and zucchini and giving them to Aidan to use in their dinner.

  “My mother wants me to move back to the city and work at Fenton’s,” she blurted out.

  Aidan put down the spatula and wiped his hands on his apron. He led Cassie onto the deck and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Tell her you can’t do that,” he said.

  “I tried.”

  “Tell her you’re going to be very busy because we’re getting married.”

  Cassie pulled away and looked at Aidan. He was smiling his white, brilliant smile.

  “We are?”

  “We are.” His black eyes flashed. “In the Redwood Grove on campus, followed by an intimate dinner at Chez Panisse.” Aidan got down on one knee and took her hand. “Cassie Fenton, will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  Aidan stood up and kissed her softly on the mouth. “I hear there’s a little bistro serving egg white omelets with a fine Rutherford sauvignon blanc.” He drew her into the kitchen. “I think it’s time to celebrate.”

  * * *

  “Aidan needs me,” Cassie replied. “Working at Fenton’s is all-consuming. You should know.”

  “If that’s a dig that I didn’t give you enough attention as a child, I’m not listening. You had a wonderful childhood: we had front-row seats at the ballet; we ate at all the new restaurants; and you had your pick of clothes from top designers.”

  “I didn’t get to wear them. I was stuck in the Convent uniform every day,” Cassie mumbled.

  “You loved the Convent, you cried at graduation. You and Alexis are still thick as thieves.”

  “Mother, I’m not arguing. I’m just don’t have time to give Fenton’s that kind of attention.”

  “You don’t want to give it your time, but I have an idea I think you will find more interesting than pulling weeds and folding Aidan’s T-shirts.” Diana tapped her cigarette holder on the glass.

  Cassie sighed. “I’m listening.”

  “I went to the opening of a fabulous new restaurant last week, Le Petit Fou. It’s right up your alley: organic everything. I had watercress salad with the dearest little yellow tomatoes. The entrée was organic lamb’s shank on a bed of wild rice with truffles that melted like butter. If I closed my eyes I thought I was eating caviar, not mushrooms.” Diana walked over to the coffee table and examined a vase of purple irises. “The restaurant was divinely decorated: sea green walls and an orange mosaic floor. The tables were covered with some sort of ‘green’ tablecloths, made from recycled dollar bills. Can you imagine? We were eating on money.” Diana pulled an iris out of the vase.

  “Sounds delicious, but what does that have to do with Fenton’s?”

  “I sat at a table with the young architect who designed the space. His name is James Parrish. Lovely man from Chicago, terribly young. I suppose everyone seems young these days.”

  “Mother, I’m getting hungry from all this talk about food.”

  “Wait till I finish. You always were impatient,” Diana huffed. “James works for an architecture firm in Chicago that specializes in interior design for restaurants. His mother is from San Francisco, and she flies out regularly to shop at Fenton’s. He said she has a whole closet of Fenton’s boxes. We started talking about Europe. James spent last summer in England and he raved about Harrods. Then he said the most fascinating thing. He said wouldn’t it be brilliant to have a food emporium on the ground floor of Fenton’s, like Harrods, but have everything organic and locally grown.” Diana paused to let the idea sink in.

  “I said not the ground floor of course, Fenton’s isn’t a supermarket, but the basement has been a dead zone for years. A whole floor dedicated to stationery when no one writes letters anymore.”

  “A food emporium,” Cassie repeated.

>   “Fresh fish caught in the bay, oysters, crab when it’s in season. Counters of vegetables you only find in the farmers market, those cheeses they make in Sonoma that smell so bad they taste good. Wines from Napa Valley, Ghirardelli chocolates, sourdough bread, sauces made by Michael Mina and Thomas Keller. Everything locally produced. And maybe a long counter with stools so you could sample bread and cheese, cut fruit, sliced vegetables. Not a true café because we’d keep the one on the fourth floor. It would have more the feel of a food bazaar, with the salespeople wearing aprons and white caps.”

  Cassie closed her eyes and saw large baskets of vegetables, glass cases filled with goat cheese and baguettes, stands brimming with chocolate-covered strawberries.

  “The design of course is key. It has to be something exceptional, a reason itself to go down the escalator. James drew some sketches. Look.” Diana walked over to an antique desk and picked up a leather binder. She placed it on the coffee table and took out four sheets of paper.

  Cassie leaned forward and looked at the designs. James had drawn a space with a checkered floor, yellow walls, and display cases of all different colors. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, and every counter was filled with vegetables, fruits, loaves of bread, and wedges of cheese.

  “It looks like a Roman orgy,” Cassie said.

  “Exactly!” Diana beamed. “Produce spilling into the aisles, wine bottles lined up like soldiers, oranges and lemons forming pyramids. And I want wonderful smells. Fresh croissants, just-baked apple pie, stinky cheese.”

  “It’s interesting,” Cassie conceded.

  “It’s revolutionary! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Of course all the interior design would be ‘green.’” Diana paced across the marble floor. “James works mainly in Chicago but he doesn’t have another project lined up for a few months. He said he’d consider taking it on.”

  “It would cost a fortune,” Cassie said doubtfully.

  “Reinvention is the key in marketing and I’ve fallen behind. Of course Fenton’s gets the old guard, and the thirtysomethings who need Ferragamo shoes and Chanel bags. But that’s the beauty of young ideas and young energy: James was inspirational.”