The Long Walk Home

by Will North

  Fiona lifted her head and smiled across the table. “On the other hand, his anger seems to have vanished. I doubt he is a danger to anyone anymore, including himself, but I suppose we’ll have to wait and see about that.”

  For a while, silence expanded between them.

  “Fi,” Alec said finally, “I don’t know what to say that would make what has happened better.”

  “Tell me you love me?”

  He looked into her eyes and then grinned.

  “Completely, utterly, deeply, furiously, joyously, and forever. Will that do?”

  “For now,” Fiona said, grinning back.

  “If I can get my daughter to release my bathroom, I’m going to go wash this day off of me,” she continued. “Is there anything I can do here?”

  “Tell me you love me?” Alec echoed.

  Fiona got up, walked around the table, and pressed Alec’s face to her breasts. “More than you can imagine,” she whispered.

  She kissed the top of his head, burying her face in his hair for a moment, and then slipped out of the room.

  Alec went to the sink to scrub the potatoes. He felt spent, but he knew the cooking would revive him; it always did. The pleasure it gave him was beyond explaining. If he’d known about it earlier, he would have had a restaurant, but he knew that was a young man’s game. And he wasn’t a young man anymore. What did he have left, after all? Twenty-five years, perhaps? Two-thirds of his life had already passed. With all his being, he wanted to spend what was left with Fiona.

  He was rinsing the salmon when he heard heels clicking down the front stairs. A moment later, Meaghan entered the kitchen. She was transformed, her face radiant and carefully made up. She was wearing a fitted, button-front, sleeveless dress in a rust brown that complemented her eyes. She’d wrapped several strands of colorful peasant beads around her throat. She was, Alec noticed again, Rose Red to her mother’s Snow White. Alec marveled at the way both mother and daughter bounced back from crises.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Alec laughed. “First of all, you’re dressed far too elegantly to be my sous chef. Second, I have to confess I’m not very good at delegating in the kitchen; I’m usually having too much fun. But here’s something I hope won’t be too taxing. There’s a nice white burgundy open in the fridge; how about you pour us both a glass and keep me company? I’d like that very much.”

  “Which, the wine or the company?”

  Alec stopped what he was doing, looked at her, and chuckled. “You are definitely your mother’s daughter. But the answer is both.”

  Meaghan poured the wine and brought a glass to him as he was pulling the last of the rib bones from the salmon fillet. He set the glistening fish aside, stood a fennel bulb upright on a cutting board, and sliced it lengthwise so a portion of the core remained to hold together each slice.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, really. Some kind of onion?”

  “Well, I have to admit it looks like one, but smell.” Alec held a slice to her nose.

  She scrunched her face. “It smells like licorice.”

  “Right. It’s fennel, also called anise, and there’s a licorice-flavored liqueur called anisette that’s made from its seeds. Anyway, the great thing about fennel is that when you braise it in butter and a bit of broth or salted water, the sharpness disappears and it becomes soft, golden, sweet, and fragrant, the same way a Spanish onion does when you caramelize it. It’s completely transformed.”

  Meaghan stood by him as he worked. “How do you know all this? I mean, how did you learn how to cook like this?”

  “I learned because I love to eat.”

  “So do I, but that doesn’t mean I can cook.”

  “All right, sit down and I’ll tell you how I got started.”

  Meaghan returned to the kitchen table and sipped her wine.

  “Years ago, when I was about sixteen—let’s see, that was back in 1843, as I recall—”

  “Oh, go on!” Meaghan erupted.

  “Okay, but long before you were born, I had an aunt I adored. Actually, she was my father’s second cousin or something, but I had no aunts, so I sort of adopted her. She was, to put it bluntly, an original: smoked like a chimney, cursed like a trooper, drank like a fish. In short, not the sort of person my parents would have approved of, had they really known her character—which means, as an aunt, she was perfect.”

  Alec slid the fennel into a sauté pan with some butter and let the slices brown slowly.

  “Anyway, the year I turned eighteen I got really sick and she volunteered to take care of me during part of my recuperation. I moved into her house for a few weeks and she took it upon herself to become my tutor in worldly matters. She taught me to make her martinis, for example: start with very cold gin, wave the unopened vermouth bottle over the rim of the shaker, swirl with ice, pour, add an olive. She set me up with a beautiful friend of her daughter’s but I was too shy to make a move. One day, after she’d had two or three martinis, she said, ‘I have decided to give you the secret to attracting women, young man. Learn this and learn it well.’ Well, I can tell you, I was all ears. I’ll never forget it. She was peering at me sagely over the rim of her glass, and this is what she said: ‘Learn to cook a few things brilliantly, and learn to iron flawlessly.’”

  Meaghan laughed outright.

  Alec turned to her, grinning. “It’s never failed yet.”

  “But wait! You’ve no wedding band; you’re single!”

  Alec turned away, reduced the heat under the fennel, added a bit of water and salt, and covered the sauté pan. “I wasn’t always.”

  “Oh dear; I’ve said something wrong.”

  “No, no; not at all. It’s just that I was on the mountain scattering my late ex-wife’s ashes when I found your father. She and I ... well, let’s just say we were the best of friends.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, how could you? Anyway, life goes on for the rest of us—just as yours will despite what happened today.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose it will.” She paused for a moment, then recovered. “Right. So what’s next after the fennel thingie?”

  “When it’s softened, the fennel thingie—and I note you used the technical term—will actually be minced to a fine paste and mixed with cream to form a sauce for the poached salmon. But first we need to make the court bouillon.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me again: ‘court bouillon’?”

  Alec grabbed the fish and held it up.

  “Look at this lovely piece of salmon, Scotland’s finest. We wouldn’t cook it in plain water, would we? Of course not,” he ranted. “No, we would poach it gently in a court bouillon!” He slipped back into his normal voice. “Which is nothing more than a broth made with some finely chopped vegetables, herbs, and wine, but the French sounds so fancy.”

  Alec had already arranged the ingredients—a carrot, some onion, parsley, a stem of the fennel. His knife was a blur as he began chopping the parsley.

  “That’s scary-looking,” Meaghan said as the knife flew.

  “Actually, it’s safer than any other way of handling a knife. Here, want to try?”

  She rose and went to the counter where he was working.

  “Your mother has some good knives. This one, with its wide blade and sharp point, is called a chef’s knife. It’s mainly for chopping but I use it more than any other. Take it in your hand.”

  Meaghan gripped it like a hammer.

  “No, move your hand forward. Put your thumb on the left side of the blade’s shank, and your bent forefinger on the right side. See how much more stable it feels?”

  “Um, sort of.”

  “Okay, now take this parsley and hold it down with your left hand, but with your fingers curled inward and the first knuckle of each finger facing the upright blade, even resting against it. That’ll protect your fingertips, see? Now, instead of lifting the knife off the board altogether, ju
st rock it from tip to shank, moving it across the herbs. That’s why the blade is slightly curved, so it can rock. Go ahead, try it.”

  Meaghan did, slowly, picking up speed as she got used to it.

  “That’s so cool!”

  Alec smiled. “End of lesson one: ‘How to Hold the Chef’s Knife.’”

  “Is there more to chop?” she said, brandishing the knife. It was as if she’d just been given a new toy.

  Alec pushed the carrot and fennel greens toward her. “If you slice the carrot lengthwise several times first, it won’t be so thick and will be easier to chop.”

  Meaghan went to work with the concentration of a diamond cutter. When she came to the onion he stopped her.

  “How do you usually chop an onion?” he asked.

  “Slice it, then dice it, then wipe away the tears.”

  “Okay, here’s a suggestion. First, cut the onion in half lengthwise, not crosswise, right down the middle, just like the fennel bulb.”

  Meaghan did so.

  “Now peel back the skin of one of the halves and, with the tip of the knife, make long lengthwise parallel cuts, but not as far down as the core.”

  She followed his advice.

  “Now, turn the half onion a quarter turn and hold it just like you held the carrot sections and chop crossways. What once took many steps now takes only three. Plus, you don’t tear up as much.”

  “I hate when the onion mist gets in my eyes!”

  “Next time, hold your breath when you’re chopping. The mist doesn’t get in your eyes, it gets there through your nose; you breathe it in as you work. That’s what makes your eyes water. End of lesson two: ‘Chopping Onions.’”

  He took the knife from her hand. “Now get out of my way so I can cook.”

  Meaghan giggled, returned to the table, and drank more of her wine. “Thank you, Alec.”

  “Anytime,” he said over his shoulder.

  “No, I mean for everything. Especially finding Daddy and protecting him.”

  Alec turned toward her. “Anyone would have done the same thing, Meaghan.”

  “But maybe not as well.”

  “I suppose that’s one advantage of years; you learn things. Like how to chop an onion ...” And you lose things, too, he thought to himself, thinking of Gwynne and praying he wouldn’t lose Fiona, too.

  Alec sautéed the finely chopped vegetables in a little butter, then added white wine, a bay leaf, salt, pepper, and water. The young woman and the much older man shared the space quietly and companionably, their growing friendship warming the room as if there were a fire glowing in the nonexistent hearth.

  ***

  FIONA STEPPED OUT of her tub, rubbed herself down with the rough linen towel, threw her bathrobe over her shoulders, and climbed up onto her bed, her body flushed pink from the hot bath. She propped her back against the pillows, pulled up her legs, clutched her knees, and stared into nothingness. There was a soft thump on the mattress; Sooty had leaped up to join her.

  In this bed, for years, she had been lonely beyond enduring, though she had endured. In this same bed, only three nights ago, she had been happier than she could ever have imagined. The lover, the partner she had always dreamed of, had come to her, by some miracle, at last. Tomorrow, the husband to whom she had been wed for nearly a quarter century would return home, too, more an invalid than he’d been only a few days before. It was, she thought, as if her horizons had expanded at the expense of his, as if there were a fixed quantity of happiness in the world and if yours increased, someone else’s had to decrease.

  She had sidestepped her daughter’s question this evening—cut her off, in fact. Owen had told Fiona what Gerald had said about her and Alec; she’d wondered if Owen’s face had been red from embarrassment for her or anger with Gerald, and thought again how fond she was of the young man and how confident she was about handing him control of the farm. And she realized she was confident, too, about withholding the truth about Alec from her daughter. When and if Meaghan needed to know, she would tell her. But not now. Possibly never. Between mother and daughter, not everything could or should be shared.

  ***

  WHEN FIONA ENTERED the kitchen a little later, Meaghan was giggling, slightly tipsy from spending an hour sipping white wine.

  “Well,” Fiona huffed, “I can see you have plied my daughter with alcohol. Any chance you might do the same for me?”

  “In the fridge. The chef is too busy to play waiter, too.”

  She smiled at him, gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek, and took the nearly empty bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. She looked at her daughter and noticed how carefully she had dressed for dinner. “You’ve drunk all this?”

  “Mother! He poured half the bottle into the court bouillon!”

  “The what?”

  “You know, minced veg and herbs and wine and stuff.”

  Fiona walked over to where Alec was working. “Teaching my daughter racy French phrases! Sir, I hope your intentions are honorable!”

  “My intentions, madam, are purely culinary,” Alec replied with exaggerated formality. “We have been discussing matters of cuisine, and nothing more, I assure you.”

  “Well, I should certainly hope so,” she said, grinning at her daughter. She hadn’t seen Meaghan so happy in a long time, and she knew it wasn’t the wine.

  “Dinner in moments,” Alec announced. “May I suggest you ladies set the table?”

  Alec had hoped Owen would join them, but he’d seen the lad drive out of the farmyard and down the lane toward the main road as darkness had fallen. He was disappointed, but also impressed: Owen had a sense of timing and knew Meaghan needed breathing room. He wasn’t sure whether he’d have possessed the same wisdom at Owen’s age; it was too far back to remember, anyway.

  Fiona bustled about the kitchen and was suffused with the sense of how right the three of them were together. Alec had confessed to her that he’d always wished he’d had a daughter, and here he and Meaghan were, getting along famously. She had to remind herself that this was not her true family. Once again, she felt guilty about her happiness, but she pushed it aside. This was about the moment: this moment, in this kitchen, on this evening, with these two other individuals, about to share a lovely meal. Be happy with what you have.

  Meaghan had arranged the table settings while Fiona sorted out the serving dishes. Alec, she noticed, had drained the potatoes, put the lid back on the pot, and returned it to the hob.

  “Won’t they burn?”

  “Not unless we forget about them. A few moments more on the hob will evaporate the moisture in the potatoes and leave them dry and fluffy.”

  “Fluffy?”

  “That is the technical term, yes.” Alec had already removed the cooked salmon and strained the poaching liquid, returning the broth to the Aga’s hottest hob to boil down. At the last minute, he swirled in the nearly pureed braised fennel and a small amount of cream, stirring constantly. Next he poured the sauce over the salmon fillet, then threw salt and chopped parsley on the potatoes and scooped them into a serving dish. In a bowl, he dressed bright green boiled and shelled fava beans in olive oil and lemon, then carried the serving dishes to the table.

  “For God’s sake, somebody pour me a glass of wine,” he said, wiping his brow with a kitchen towel.

  They sat.

  “Wow,” Meaghan said.

  Alec lifted his glass. “To David, and to his safe return to this wonderful home.”

  Tears welled in Meaghan’s eyes. Fiona smiled at Alec. She knew he meant every word. She knew he understood their plight. She knew he would do anything for her, even if it hurt him, and she knew this was more heroic than anything he had done on the mountain.

  They clinked glasses and sipped, and dinner began.

  The two women were appreciative and voracious diners and Alec was delighted. They talked about the early spring, the successful lambing, Meaghan’s university courses, the books Alec had written. The conversation was a
t once trivial and intimate. When they were done, Alec pulled the pear tart from the warming oven, but Meaghan begged off, saying she was stuffed and sleepy. Fiona walked with her as far as the stairs to make sure she was all right and returned to find that Alec had placed two thin slices of the tart on plates and managed to find the sherry. She turned off a few of the kitchen lights and they ate quietly together, content simply to be in each other’s company.

  When they were done, Fiona rose. “Tea?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so; it’ll only keep me awake.”

  She walked around the table, hitched up her skirt, threw a leg over Alec, and settled on his lap. “Then how about me?”

  “That would certainly keep me awake, and ensure a good night’s sleep as well.” He held her shoulders and pressed a kiss into the little depression beneath her neck where her collarbones joined, a place he found irresistible on her. He teased the spot with the tip of his tongue and then placed miniature, nipping kisses up along the left side of her neck until he was nibbling on her earlobe. She turned and met his lips with hers. They were gentle, tender kisses. After a few moments, Alec felt her body relax into his.

  “Don’t ever leave me,” Fiona mumbled into his shoulder. “Ever.”

  Alec pulled her closer, but said nothing.

  After a few moments, Fiona sat up and smiled. “We can’t be together tonight, but I want you to know I wish we could.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Mmm. I can tell,” she breathed, feeling his hardness beneath her.

  She kissed him again and rose from his lap. Together, they cleared the table and washed the pots and pans, moving around the kitchen easily, as if they’d had years of practice. When they were done, Fiona turned off the lights and the two of them walked hand in hand to the front hall. Fiona got up on tiptoes and Alec leaned down to kiss her again.

  “Good night, dear man.”

  “Good night, Fi.”

  They parted, and Alec watched Fiona pass through the low door to her rooms before slowly climbing the stairs to his own.

  Fiona lay in bed, emotionally spent but sleepless, and thought about God. Though her grandfather had been an Anglican priest, and she’d been baptized in the faith, she’d never been an especially devout member of the Church. It wasn’t that she was a nonbeliever; she’d just fallen away. She’d been taught that God was her redeemer but she’d never felt that God was an active presence in her life. Now she couldn’t help but wonder whether He was punishing her for having found happiness at last. She had committed adultery. What’s more, she had done it joyfully. She loved Alec with all her heart and knew, at a level deeper than any memorized catechism, that they were meant to be together. Yet no sooner had she reached that certainty, when God—or fate, or something—brought about David’s attempted suicide and now his even greater disability. Perhaps He was punishing them both.