A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Mommy’s soup smells weird.” Danny scrunched his nose as he leaned over Jane’s bowl. Steam rose from ours, but hers was cooler, as I thought heat might hurt her mouth.

  “Rude. It’s supposed to,” Kate said.

  Jane looked up.

  “Not too weird.” I smiled.

  She slowly took a spoonful and swallowed. We waited. She waited. She stared at me as she scooped another bite. We all exhaled.

  “Well?” Danny demanded.

  “I’m okay.” Jane took another bite. She ran her tongue across her upper lip. “It tastes different, but I like it.”

  Zing.

  I quit watching and passed around the loaf of heavy sprouted grain bread I’d baked. Jane dipped a slice into her soup and kept eating. The kids talked about their day and our walk to the park. The whole scene tripped toward normal.

  “Nick dropped by this morning and brought you apples,” I commented.

  “Was I asleep?” Panic tinged Jane’s voice.

  I pursed my lips together, regretting my old habits and my thoughtlessness. You know exactly what will bug her. “No biggie. He said he’ll come by again tomorrow. He’d frozen apples from his tree, so I made them into applesauce for dessert.” Jane’s face fell, and I rushed on, “We read it yesterday in Emma, remember? Mr. Woodhouse urged Miss Bates to eat the baked apples? Now you can.”

  “Only you remember food references. I forget everything.” Jane leaned back in her chair.

  “I love applesauce,” Danny called out. I smiled at him, expecting a perky smile in return, but he looked upset, confused. He was watching his mom.

  “You should have woken me, and he’s a good friend, but he’s doing too much.” She looked down at the table. “I can’t be this needy,” she mumbled.

  Danny looked to his bowl, and Kate threw me a quick glare.

  “It’s okay, Mommy.” She reached out to touch Jane’s hand.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Jane took a deep start-over breath, but it sounded shaky.

  “For goodness’ sake, Jane. You don’t have to do all the heavy lifting alone. You’re not an island.” I stopped talking, flashing my eyes between Jane and Kate.

  “I’m not a charity either.” Jane glared at me before she closed her eyes and didn’t take another bite of soup. She left the table moments later.

  The rest of us ate in silence until the kids drifted away to the basement to finish homework and I cleaned the kitchen.

  Later I sat in the living room flipping channels long after Jane had kissed the kids good night. I was surprised when she came downstairs to join me. I tried again to be genuinely in her corner.

  “You still tuck them in?” I pushed the remote’s Pause button.

  “They love it, and with so much else going on right now, it probably makes them feel more secure. It does me.” She pulled at a thread in the throw blanket. “Thanks for tonight. We don’t sit around the table like that. I’m not up to the cooking, the smelling, or sometimes the conversation. No one seems to be anymore. It was nice.”

  “Danny mentioned that they usually eat in the basement.”

  Jane pushed deeper into the armchair. “I hate that. In such a short time that’s what we’ve become, and it’s not just me. Sometimes it’s too hard to even look at each other. And meals make it all worse. They’re supposed to be happy, sharing times.”

  “Then I’ll handle those for now.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes, assessing my sincerity. I held her gaze and said, “Can I ask you a few more questions?”

  “What about?”

  “What would you eat, if you could have anything in the world?”

  “We’ve been through this. I’m not trying to insult your cooking, and tonight tasted good, but food isn’t my friend right now.” She pulled the blanket tight as if protecting herself from my questions, or from me, and said nothing for a few minutes, but I didn’t restart the television.

  “Fine. I love that beef stew Mom used to make. It sounds good to me, and I actually think about it a lot, but she added cilantro. I couldn’t do that. And I love the idea of chicken potpie. And ham and mustard and a good strong cheese.”

  “A good strong cheese?”

  “Doesn’t it sound nice?” She pursed her lips. “I’d probably throw it up, but it might be worth it.” She caught my eye. “That probably sounds provincial to you, doesn’t it? You cook things far more sophisticated.”

  “Sometimes, but it sounds very Austen.” I smiled. I hadn’t been too far off.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing. It sounds warm and comforting and possibly nutritious. Why no cilantro?”

  “There’s something bitter about it now. It tastes like a fork soaking in lemon dish soap.”

  “Lemons, limes?”

  “They clear out the tastes in my mouth. I like that.”

  “Cilantro bad, but citrus good. Tell me about vinegars.”

  “Blech. And I don’t like lettuce. Thinking about the texture turns my stomach. I made a salad last week and ate all the stuff at the bottom of the bowl—the carrots, celery, avocados, beets, and pistachios. That was good.”

  “Tell me about spices.”

  She shook her heard. “Spices feel weird on my lips, and they get the saliva going and my stomach roils. That’s when the metal taste is the sharpest. I think it’s in my saliva.” Jane rolled her head toward me. “That’s all I’ve got. Can we talk about something else?”

  “I’m only trying to help.” Help us both.

  “I know, but I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling this way, and I’m only at the beginning. I’m already tired of talking about it, thinking about it, living it.” She sat up and stared at me. “This is why you shouldn’t have stayed. I can’t make this right for you. I can’t take on another kid right now. You’ve got to stand on your own.”

  “You don’t make it easy, do you?”

  She raised her voice. “This isn’t about you.”

  “I realize that. I was trying to make it about you. Maybe I didn’t do it well. Maybe I don’t know how . . . but I tried, Jane, so cut me some slack.” I shifted in my armchair. “You know, despite how you feel about me and my ability to help and stick around and show up, you’re not such a great role model. But I’m the one here, the only one. And I’m not another kid, or a cold fish in shiny scales.”

  Jane’s lower lip dropped slightly as I stood and thrust the remote toward her. “Enjoy your show.” She didn’t lift her hand, so I dropped it in her lap and headed up the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  THE NEXT MORNING AFTER THE KIDS RAN TO SCHOOL, late again, I cleaned the kitchen and started a stew while Jane and Nick met in the living room. Foreign words like “Google analytics,” “behavioral targeting,” and “search engine optimization” drifted to me. I turned back to my stew, wishing that good cooking, and not Nick and Jane’s “optimization,” was all that Feast needed to survive.

  I needed out. I needed air and a little exercise. And I had an idea—one that excited me as much as search engines probably energized Nick and Jane. It had come in the fleeting moments as I awoke, during that in-between time when ideas, even brilliance, fill your brain before reality pushes them away. I had fallen asleep devising escape plans, but awoke to recipes and almond flour. I knew somehow that potatoes wouldn’t sit well in Jane’s mouth, but the beef stew she craved would. I only needed almond flour to thicken it.

  So I dismissed my escape plans, cooked the kids scrambled eggs, sent them to school, and braised short ribs before setting them in the slow cooker—because for the first time in months, maybe years, a person, a food, a need, an answer, and an inspiration had melded together and become whole. This is what I was after and it felt close. I simmered with giddiness.

  I stuck my head into the living room. “I need some almond flour. Is there a market nearby? I’d love to walk rather than drive.”

  Nick was packing his messenger bag as Jane replied, “There’s one just past the park you wen
t to yesterday, across the street.”

  “Perfect.” I ducked back out to find a coat.

  “I’m headed that way,” Nick said. “I’ll show you.”

  Jane then turned to Nick. “Thanks for keeping me posted on all this. You don’t have to, you know.”

  “If you tell me to stop I will, but they’re your clients and they feel pretty loyal to you.”

  “That’s so nice.”

  “It’s true.”

  Jane opened the door for Nick, and I silently followed, feeling as if both had forgotten my presence.

  We stepped off the porch before Nick spoke again. “How’s Jane doing, really?”

  “Okay, I think. She’s tired. Cranky. Jane. Hates to feel less than perfect.”

  “Oh.”

  “That was rude.” I glanced over and presented Nick an off-kilter smile. “You must think that’s all I am, too, after yesterday. I was so . . .”

  “New York.”

  “Hey, it’s a great city.”

  “I didn’t say that. I simply implied it has a different vibe. Yesterday I meant that your outfit skewed more Seattle, but then your attitude was all New York.” He chuckled and looked me up and down. “Now you’re Madison Avenue veering to Village chic.”

  “I . . .” My brain completely blanked for a retort until I caught his grin. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “Slightly.”

  “Well, you certainly haven’t caught me at my best. There’s a lot going on right now.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  It took me a second to realize he was referring to Jane. How horrid that I hadn’t been. “Yesterday, when you dropped off the apples, our dad was just leaving, and I’d decided to stay on to help out. Jane wasn’t thrilled with my decision.” I paused and reassessed the morning. “That’s not exactly true. She just didn’t understand it.”

  “You two aren’t close?”

  “She’s eight years older and probably still sees me as ten-year-old Lizzy. That’s the last time we ever spent any real time together. When she left for college, she left for good.”

  “It’s good you’re here then. Maybe this is your chance.”

  “To . . . ?”

  “To get to know each other.”

  The thought pulled at me. It was my chance—my last chance. For Feast, at least. For Jane? I wasn’t sure.

  We passed a Starbucks and I stalled. “I think I’m going to grab a coffee. Thanks for walking with me, but I’ll find it from here.” I stepped in the door without waiting for his reply, and stalled again.

  Nick chuckled behind me. “We Seattleites are hard-core about our coffee.”

  “I’ll say.” I looked around at approximately three thousand square feet of coffee-infused glory divided into four sections, with leather armchairs, couches, a fireplace, tables, cool stools, a kids’ play area, workbenches, a bar, wine, beer . . . an antipasto platter.

  An antipasto platter? In Starbucks?

  “Pick up your jaw and move that way.” Nick lightly pushed me forward.

  I ordered my latte and as I waited for it, I looked around. It was packed. People holding meetings, chats, and children; folks curled up reading books; others chasing kids or reading to them; patrons working on computers. I counted sixty people, and another sixty could fit.

  “Do you want to sit a minute?”

  “I can just go.”

  “I’m going to grab a table.”

  I vacillated just enough.

  “Come on.” He led me through the tables to a place near the window. “So how are you doing with all this?”

  I bit my lip, unsure of what to say.

  “Look, Jane and Peter are good friends, and I love Danny and Kate—she’s my top babysitter—but this can’t be easy on any of you. You won’t betray her if you need to talk. I won’t blab and I won’t judge.”

  We sat and I pondered his offer. “Interesting word. Betray. That’s the problem. We don’t have any loyalty.”

  Nick’s eyes widened.

  “There I go again.” I looked down to my lap. I’d begun to shred the napkin. “It’s just that, like I said, Jane and I have a lot of . . . difficulty . . . between us.”

  He leaned back and nodded as if he had nothing better to do than listen to me—so I continued.

  “I stayed yesterday only partly to help Jane. I also needed a kitchen. I have to work on my cooking.”

  “Women still do that?”

  “Still do what?”

  “ ‘Work on their cooking.’ ” He made quote marks with his fingers. “My mother said she spent the summer before she got married working on her cooking with her grandmother. It’s sweet.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “You didn’t mean that, did you?” Nick scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “That was kinda medieval of me. Continue. You need to learn to cook . . .”

  “Oh, I can cook. I mean I used to be good. Seriously good.” I shook my head. “Anyway, I stayed to help and to cook, but I can’t do either.” I wadded the napkin bits in my fist and moved on to the brown wrapper on my coffee cup. “I saw some sisters at the park yesterday, and I loved the way they cared for each other and played together. They looked close.”

  “I can’t help you there. I’m an only child like Matt.”

  “I wish,” I retorted and clamped my hand over my mouth. Nick stared at me. “See? I didn’t mean that, but I’m mad at her. I’m always mad at her, and that’s horrible. She should get a hall pass, especially now, but I can’t seem to give her one.”

  Nick laughed, letting me off the hook. “Did she like the applesauce?”

  I cringed—as his question put me right back on it. “Not yet, but she will.”

  “Did you use enough sugar? I’m telling you, they’re super tart.”

  “I think so, but I used brown. Do you do that? And I added nutmeg and a touch of salt. People sometimes forget the salt when they use sugar, but the two pair together. I also added a touch of pepper and let them steep in the skins. I think that way is more reminiscent of England’s baked-apple traditions—you know, like the ones described in Austen, even Dickens. He loved his apples. Jane likes that stuff right now, and I thought, before serving it today, I might also add—What?”

  Nick grinned so wide the corners of his eyes almost crinkled shut. “You are a cook. I simply add sugar and mash them.”

  “That works too.” I looked down at the cup’s wrapper. I’d killed it. “I get a little excited about food. I work as a chef in New York, a little restaurant called Feast, fresh farm to table, innovative—at least it used to be. It’s small, and I’ve got a tight menu that I keep close to locally available produce and organic suppliers. I get to play a lot, except for dessert. My pâtissier is a prima donna.” I bit my lip and stopped babbling.

  “Now I feel stupid. I must’ve looked like a complete fool trying to tell you how to cook the apples yesterday.”

  “No. You were being kind. I guess I didn’t like getting caught without my armor.”

  “No one does,” he said, so softly.

  I glanced up. “I should go.” I stood too quickly and lost my bearings.

  Nick darted out of his seat and grabbed my upper arm. “Whoa there. Steady.”

  “All good. Sorry. I made breakfast for the kids this morning and forgot to eat myself.”

  “Grab something and join me. I think I’ll work here awhile.”

  I wavered a moment. Fleeing felt wise, but staying felt right. “I’d like that.”

  I went to the counter, ordered oatmeal, and returned. Nick had pulled out his computer, but it lay shut before him. He watched as I stirred the oatmeal and added the toppings.

  “It’s pathetic when Starbucks can make better oatmeal than a trained chef. I’ve been trying this for Jane’s kids and keep screwing it up.”

  “How much longer do you have to get it right?”

  “A few days here, but another week away from the restaurant.” I took a bite. “How d
id you and Jane start working together?”

  “Peter and I worked at the same agency until it shut its doors a couple years ago. He went on to Microsoft and I started my own firm—social media, PR, and marketing, like Jane, but mostly for small companies. When Jane was diagnosed, Peter suggested she cut back on work. I sense she’s sad about it.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “She’s never mentioned it, but it must be hard. My hope is that she’ll want her clients back someday, so I’m trying to keep her in the loop.”

  “Don’t you want the business?”

  “Not like this.” He swung his head with each word.

  “Of course. I didn’t know exactly what Jane did—definitely not my forte.” I scooped the last bite of oatmeal, chewing the nuts and raisins that had sunk to the bottom. “Ironically, that’s what my restaurant lacks—a media presence, along with a few other things like inspired cooking of late.”

  “If it’s not your forte, hire someone. We’re a dime a dozen out there.”

  “We did. He just started.” I pretended to be absorbed in cleaning my wrappers and mess. There was no way I was going to say more, especially not that Chef Dimples was singularly gifted as both consultant and cook.

  But the pressure of Trent Murray and his giftedness crushed me, and I looked up. “Why? Why does it matter so much? If you’ve got a good product, do things right day in and day out, why isn’t that enough?” My final note revealed my panic.

  Nick leaned back and thought for a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. “Not long ago it was. But there’s more chatter now, and oddly, we want relationships from more than just people.” He leaned forward and spread his hands across to me. You could measure the space between us in inches, not feet.

  “People want to know their movie stars, their artists, their breweries, their auto repair shops . . . their chefs.” He paused and smiled. “Right now I’m working with a woman, one of Jane’s clients, who teaches cooking classes. Those experiences are personal, and people expect to find her approachable, knowledgeable, trustworthy, even kind, before they’ll shell out a hundred bucks for one of her classes.”