“A hundred bucks?”
“And for that hundred bucks her customers demand not only a class but a personal connection to her. That’s where I come in. I find ways for people to feel attached to her and the experience.”
“Attached?” I snorted and covered my mouth to stop the sound. I suspected few people, even Tabitha or Suzanne, felt truly attached to me. “Sorry. That struck me as funny. Sadly funny.”
Nick’s expression flickered.
“No. Not for her, for me . . . I put everything into my food, not necessarily into my customers, and it worked. But right now my cooking is off somehow, and the loyalty isn’t there.”
“Marketing is real and makes a difference, but you’re right that the product is paramount. People expect more from their dollars today.”
“I noticed.”
Chapter 13
SATURDAY MORNING BROUGHT US A CAT IN THE HAT moment. Kate and Danny drooped like Sally and her brother looking out at the rain, waiting for something to happen.
“Okay, you two, into the kitchen.”
“Why?” Danny and his one-word questions.
“I promised you a breakfast surprise and I got distracted. Today’s the day.”
I reached into the freezer and pulled out a glass container.
“Wha—”
“No questions. Sit at the table.”
Both sat silent and wide-eyed as I scooped out breakfast and poured maple syrup on top.
“No way!” Danny cried as I placed the bowls in front of them.
Kate didn’t say a word, just dug in.
“What’s going on?” Jane called from the stairs.
“Breakfast,” we all shouted.
Jane headed straight for the table and leaned over Kate. “Ice cream? Seriously, Lizzy?”
“Bacon ice cream, Mom, with maple syrup.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. I almost laughed at her obvious struggle: Do I yell? Or do I grab a spoon? Yell? Spoon?
I waited.
She reached for a bowl. “This sugar high’s all on you.” Right on the fence. But her compressed smile soothed the sting from her words.
“I’ll take them to Pike Place Market until they crash.”
“Can I come?”
“Of course.” I smiled, feeling a layer of ice thaw in the midst of our frozen breakfast.
Pike Place Market is a Seattle favorite, a national favorite, and cited in plenty of cooking magazines as the oldest continuous farmers’ market in the country. And it lived up to the hype—packed with produce, meats, fish, flowers, handmade goods, and people. The guys at the fish market, who called out a chant before hurling large fish at each other, held us mesmerized. The ones working the crowd seemed oblivious to the shouts of their colleagues behind the counter, then reached out at the last second to catch a soaring twenty-plus-pound salmon or halibut or something else large and slippery right before it smacked a spellbound tourist in the face. There was even a monkfish sitting in the ice and tied to a string, which they pulled from behind the counter whenever anyone touched it. Danny screamed and jumped a foot off the ground.
And the flowers! Huge bouquets bursting with variety and color that would cost well over a hundred dollars in New York cost fifteen here. I bought two enormous ones and handed them to the kids to carry. Danny got completely lost behind his. And the honey! My knees almost buckled as I tasted blueberry honey, raspberry honey, wildflower honey, sunflower honey—I bought six jars without even thinking.
“What are you going to do with all that?” Jane asked.
“I have no idea, but I sense lots of baking, even some infusions. I can take what we don’t use back to New York. Honey carries such local flavor; they’ll be so fresh at Feast.”
While we scoured the market the sun came out, hot and bright. The ground was drying, and I remembered Jane’s list.
“Come on.” I pulled her arm and called to the kids, leading them outside.
“What are you—” Jane stepped onto the pavement and smiled. “Oh . . . this is so odd for April. It feels wonderful.” She took a deep breath and glanced at me, pulling in the corner of her lip as she lifted her face to the sun.
My mind flashed back to a Christmas break when I was about twelve. Jane had come home from college and done something wrong, broken something, I couldn’t recall what, but I remembered that Mom had launched into me. Mid-diatribe I had looked over to Jane and found her pulling in that same corner of her lip—trying to say sorry, but lacking the courage to do it or to take the blame. I smiled as I now began to understand my sister, and I, too, soaked in the sun.
After a moment I opened my eyes and glanced at her. She looked pale. “How are you doing? Time to head home?”
“Can we go to the park?” Danny called.
Jane brightened and turned to me. “They can play, and I’ll show you Madison Park’s cooking store. It’s a good one. You’ll love it.”
When we finally returned home, with honey and flowers from the market and a new silicone whisk from the cooking store, Jane and the kids drifted down to the basement to watch a movie. I wanted to give them some time alone, so I curled up in the living room with a copy of Sense and Sensibility. I felt nervous about opening it, but I couldn’t deny that simply holding the book felt like coming home—and it didn’t hurt.
I had pulled it from Jane’s shelf because I loved the sisters, Elinor and Marianne. The two most famous Austen sisters, after whom we were named, portrayed too intimidating a relationship for me—always had. Lizzy and Jane Bennet understood each other, championed each other without fail, and possessed an unbreakable bond. Even Darcy could not find fault in their relationship or conduct—and he could find fault in most things. But Elinor and Marianne? They had more conflict, rubbed more, barked more . . . They felt more real, more flawed, and yet their bond was as strong, as enduring, and as beautiful.
My thoughts drifted. I had told Jane that I changed my name from Lizzy to Elizabeth in college—as if it was simply the time to grow up. That was a lie. I changed it the moment Mom died. I stood in our kitchen that very evening yelling at my dad about my nickname, my real name, and that it was ridiculous to have ever named us after Jane and Elizabeth Bennet in the first place. I yelled that we were merely derivative characters who were now left with nothing. I yelled that he was nothing. I wanted him to attack; I wanted a fight; I wanted a feeling. He had simply replied, “It was important to your mom.” As if that was a good enough reason . . . for anything, for everything.
But to him it always was, and that commitment had enveloped our family. But when the object of his, and our, devotion was gone, so were the magic, the books, and “Lizzy”—all in a single black moment. I put it all away . . . until now.
The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre . . .
I got lost in the story until I heard a soft tapping on the door. I glanced out the window to find my dad’s truck parked out front.
I hopped up and pulled open the front door. “Welcome back.”
“How are my girls? I’ve worried about you two.”
“You don’t need to worry about us. We’re both still standing.” I reached out to hug him.
He pulled me tight, then released me. “That’s ’cause you’re strong.”
I pulled him out of the swing of the door. “Come in. Come in. Jane’s in the basement with the kids watching a movie. Do you want to head down there?”
“I’d rather sit with you a moment.”
“Sure, I was just in here reading.”
I led him back into the living room and curled up in the chair. He looked at me, around me, then at the book. I felt as lost as he looked.
After a moment he found his voice. “Is she doing well?”
“She’s been pretty wiped. Is that normal?”
“Your mom was during chemo. Do you remember that?”
“Not as well as I thought I did. I seem to reme
mber her pretty upbeat.”
“She was. She changed a lot during that time. She found peace, but she was tired. She didn’t cook like she loved. You did. We used to sit in the family room and read at night. Life got quieter.” Dad pointed to my book.
“When you say it like that, I see it. I don’t know how I didn’t then.”
“You were young, and perhaps we didn’t share as much as we should have.”
Dad had never talked this openly. Perhaps I’d not given him a chance. “Did you know right away? That she wouldn’t make it?”
“The doctors weren’t optimistic from the beginning. The cancer was aggressive, and treatments weren’t what they are now. So, yes, we basically knew.” He found a spot on the wall on which to focus—some things were too difficult for direct eye contact.
But I needed it. I waited until Dad shifted his gaze back to me before speaking. “Watching Jane, I feel like I missed a lot . . . I feel I misread or misjudged things.”
“What you caught was enough.”
“But I placed blame . . . I didn’t know . . .”
Dad shook his head as if trying to stop my sentence, my sideways apology, so I let it fade away. He picked up the pause. “How’s your cooking?”
“She’s eaten the past couple days.”
“I meant how it’s going for you. Is it what you wanted it to be?”
I considered. I hadn’t said much to him about Feast, but I suspected he’d seen more than I intended. “It’s better. That’s part of why I came home—I don’t cook the same right now. It’s a problem, but there have been moments this week when it’s felt alive and I’ve felt like me.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “I love those feelings.”
“I felt that way at the fire station. It’s powerful.” Dad smiled, remembering as well.
I cringed as I recalled a phone conversation from four months earlier. He’d called to tell me the date of his retirement party, after thirty years on the force, and I had made excuses as to why I couldn’t come. I claimed stress, busyness, the flu ravaging the staff, commitments with Paul . . .
I also remembered his reply: “Don’t feel bad you can’t come; it’s not that big a deal. Folks retire every day.”
Until now he’d never mentioned it again. Jane hadn’t let it go, of course, and for a couple weeks I got lovely e-mails from her—cool and precise, the perfect layering of guilt and indignation. So I’d skipped my Christmas visit completely—petty, emotional payback maybe—but still Dad had not said anything or even given me guilt about missing Christmas.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“About what?”
“I should’ve been at your party. I should’ve come home then.” I fidgeted, passing the book from one hand to the other.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He gripped the armchair, leaning forward and pressing his assurance.
I smiled and I knew; it wasn’t.
Chapter 14
ON MONDAY MORNING DAD AND I SAT AT THE KITCHEN table working a crossword. The kids had just left for school—on time—and Jane still slept.
“That’s ‘avenged.’ ”
“You’re good at these.” Dad filled in the word.
“I hate them.”
“You hate crosswords?”
“You have to follow a pattern or a pun sometimes and it’s too precise, but I’m happy to help.”
“Such a sacrifice . . .” Dad chuckled.
I sat back and laughed, watching my dad work each grid of the puzzle. It had been a good weekend. Jane had slept most of it, so Dad and I talked more than we had in years. It was as if coming home, even for that one night, had opened some metaphorical gates and allowed things to be said and felt that weren’t possible on his short visits to New York or mine to Seattle.
“Do you have to leave? It’s been nice having you here.”
Dad reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’ve enjoyed it, too, but it’s time. There are no more lightbulbs to change or windows to clean or cars to detail.”
“You can just rest, you know.”
“I don’t want to hover. Your mom hated that, and I don’t want to do that to Jane. She wouldn’t like it. But I’m glad you decided to stay till Peter gets back. That’s good.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just switched my ticket to fly out of here rather than Portland.”
“It is a big deal—for all of us.” Dad paused, watching me. “You call me tomorrow about her counts, okay? They’re looking at a lot of stuff, but her white blood cell count shows her ability to stave off infection. That’s an important one. You call me.”
“I will. Are you coming back?”
Dad folded his crossword and stood to leave. “Absolutely. I’ll see you before you go.” He crossed to the door and picked up his duffel bag.
I followed. “Why aren’t you waiting to say good-bye to Jane?” I glanced at the clock. “I’m supposed to wake her up soon for a meeting with Nick. She made me promise not to let her oversleep.”
“I often come and not say good-bye when I go. This feels more normal.”
“And sometimes you need normal.” I understood.
He pressed his lips in and nodded, pulling me in for a quick hug and an “I love you, kiddo” before he turned away.
I watched him pull out of the driveway before going to wake Jane. She was already awake and sitting up in bed. The light peeked through the woven shades, and she looked pale, almost ethereal.
“You look like royalty expecting breakfast in bed.”
“You offering?”
“No.” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been sitting here reading. You know, I’ve never done this—relaxed in bed long enough to let the sun come up, and watch it move across the floor and change.”
“I don’t think I ever have. Most people don’t have that kind of time.”
“It’s nice.”
“It’s a relaxing room.” I scooted back against the headboard and looked around.
She had no rug on the floor, just the hardwood, and their bed, a dresser, and two chairs. All proportioned. The wallpaper was cream with tree vines trailing up every few feet, adding life but not clutter or chaos. And the bed coverings were the same cream as the walls. It felt clean, simple, quiet yet warm.
“You know, I will bring you breakfast in bed. This is worth savoring.”
She looked around as well, then turned to me and smiled. “Tomorrow after the kids go to school, bring up coffees and we’ll read before we head to the hospital.”
“It’s a date.”
We sat a little longer; then she got up to shower, and I headed to the kitchen and to my computer. I needed to touch base with Tabitha and Paul, primarily. Feast seemed to be doing well, but I wanted them to feel my absence every day, to know I was working my way back and to believe I was vital to their happiness. So each day I sent recipes, reminders, touch points, and ideas. It felt slightly calculated and impersonal, but it was all I had to offer. Paul employed Lois, his assistant, for the same purpose—it was a game we both played daily.
After covering all my bases, I started a stew for dinner. I’d been studying Peter’s notes each evening, changing my recipes as I came across new information and symptoms. And it worked. Jane had started to eat meals with more consistency and complimented me on the tastes. Her appetite seemed to increase daily. Even the kids had noticed, and mealtime had grown lighter, topped with bits of laughter and fun.
“IT SMELLS BAD IN HERE, AUNT ELIZABETH.” DANNY walked in through the back door after school.
In our short week I’d begun to find Danny’s brusque honesty comforting. I knew where I stood with him.
“Bad?” I couldn’t catch it. Different, yes, but not bad. “Kate?”
Kate dropped her backpack, looked at her brother and back at me. “He’s rude, but right. It’s kinda bad.”
“Well, I made you more cookies, so grab one of those.” I returned to my stew, stirring and thinking. The sudden silence turned me aroun
d again. The kids had vanished with the entire plate of cookies. Oops. I chuckled.
Jane walked in and looked around the room. “I thought I heard the kids.”
“You did, but they stole an entire plate of cookies and bolted.”
“You let them take the whole plate?” Jane scowled and yanked the basement door open.
“Oops again,” I whispered.
“Hey, Elizabeth.”
“Nick?” I spun around. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
The western light slanted in the windows and hit him straight on. It was like seeing someone in high-def. He had stubble across his jaw, and his dark hair curled slightly above his ears. His teeth were perfectly straight, and he had a scar across his chin. It was a good strong chin. And his green eyes laughed at me.
“We had a lot to discuss today.” He smiled and approached. “What are you making?”
“Another stew. I’m so close. I messed one up a few days ago—when I was heading to the Red Apple for the almond flour—but now I’m close. The kids say it smells bad. It’s supposed to be different, but not . . .”
Nick opened his mouth to say something when we heard pounding on the basement steps. He backed away.
“Here are the cookies, Aunt Elizabeth. We only ate two each.” Both Danny and Kate glanced at their mom standing behind them.
Kate spoke up. “We each ate four.”
“I would’ve done the same.”
Jane stepped forward. “Is this dinner? Can I taste?”
I handed her the spoon, and she blew on a bite, then swallowed. I flashed my eyes to Nick, sure that he would be focused on Jane, the moment’s judge and jury, but he was watching me.
“This is for tonight?” Her voice sounded light, even pleased.
“You like it?”
“Nick, come taste this.”
Nick raised his eyebrow to me and stepped to the stove. Jane handed him a clean spoon. He took one bite and stood perfectly still. “It’s . . . interesting.”
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