“What is it anyway?”
“Think thin oatmeal. Probably better than the slop I’ve been force-feeding your kids lately.”
“Do they like it? It sounds good.”
I smiled and turned back to the page. Only Jane.
“Excuse me.” Andy’s mother, Courtney, tapped my shoulder. “Can you watch Andy for a moment? I need to call my daughter.”
“Mom, where am I going to go?” the teenager murmured.
“I’ll feel better.”
Andy opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Sure.” I handed Jane the book and scooted my chair over before he could protest. We sat in awkward silence for a moment.
“Am I doing this right?”
“I’m not sure. Mom blinks less.”
I laughed out loud and then pressed my lips together. Laughter might be forbidden in our dystopian library.
I noticed a deck of playing cards and a water bottle on his side table. “Do you want to play cards?”
“Do you know gin rummy?”
“I do.”
I shuffled the cards and dealt. I held three of a kind and two of another, the beginnings of a winning hand. About ten cards later, Andy slapped down a card—facedown.
“How’d you do that so fast?”
He laid out his hand and grinned as only a teenager can.
“You had what I needed!”
“I know.”
“You did not,” I countered.
“You discarded the four of hearts but not the five; you picked up the ten of spades but let the eight go by; you—”
“You count cards?”
“I don’t think paying attention classifies as ‘counting cards.’ ” He made quote marks with his fingers.
“You’re right, and I never pay attention. It’s always a surprise when I win or lose.”
“You gotta respect your opponent more. I learned that from my brother. He crushes me in Halo every time.”
“I’ll remember that, young Jedi. Wanna play again?”
We played three more—very quick—games before his mom returned. I lost them all.
Courtney sat as I shuffled the cards and replaced them on the table. She opened her mouth to start a conversation. Shut it, looked around, and tried again. “Were you reading Emma?”
I smiled. “We were. Jane likes it, but her head aches when she reads. I hope we weren’t too loud.”
“Not at all. I haven’t read it since college.” She nudged her son. “Does him good to hear it too. I can’t remember the last book he read.”
“Mom.”
“Well?”
“Harry Potter.”
“You were ten!”
“I’ve been busy.” He said it lightly as he flicked the IV line. Courtney blanched. “Mom, it was a joke.”
“I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand against his leg. All small talk ended.
I quietly scooted my seat back to Jane, unsure if I’d caused the moment, contributed to it, or simply witnessed it. Nothing was light in our library; perhaps that’s what made it dystopian—everything turned in a flash to its elemental base, and sometimes it skewed to a dark, frightening edge.
Jane tapped my arm and nodded toward her own IV line. We watched the last drop of red travel to her chest. I put away the book and we waited for Cecilia, who was chatting with Andy. Courtney looked distracted, answering hesitantly and a beat late.
Cecilia came over to flush and unhook Jane.
“I’m cooking some meals for Tyler,” I whispered.
“That’s wonderful.” Her eyes lit up. She held up her finger, instructing me to wait as she closed Jane’s line. She then stood and removed her mask. “I can’t talk with that on.” She grinned for a moment as if the smile had been waiting for release.
“What are you cooking?”
“No idea yet, but Tyler wants twenty meals.”
“Hmm . . . What’d Brian say?”
“Not much. Tyler took the lead, but Brian seems annoyed that I might actually help.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to say more.
Cecilia narrowed her eyes, watching me, as if I were telepathically relaying the conversation by the water fountain.
“It’s hard for family members. Few realize that. They can’t fix the problem or provide the one thing their loved one needs.”
I knew that feeling and moved the conversation around it. “I’d better add tinfoil, Pyrex, and storage containers to my shopping list. I need—”
“Can I help? Tomorrow’s my day off.”
My head sprang up. “Seriously? Would you?” My own enthusiasm surprised me. I shrugged to downplay it. “I could use the help.”
Cecilia beamed, checked herself, and quietly whispered, “Text me what time and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 16
ON THE DRIVE HOME JANE SAT SILENT. WHILE WAITING at a red light, I turned to watch her. She was a million miles away.
“Do you mind that I invited Cecilia?”
“Not at all. She’s really nice.”
“She is . . . Have you ever met someone and wanted to know her? Or is that odd?”
“It’s not odd. That’s how you make friends.”
“Hmm . . . So that’s how you do it,” I quipped and looked back to the road, but Jane didn’t laugh or comment. Quiet filled the car.
“You okay?”
“Peter comes home tomorrow.” Her tone was flat.
“And?”
She sighed.
“I think this is really hard on him,” I said.
“Hard on him? Are you kidding me?”
“Yeah, I mean no.” I bit my lip, considering. “I mean he loves you and he can’t fix you. He didn’t protect you, couldn’t protect you. Doesn’t want to touch you for fear of hurting you but wants to make sure you’re warm and close. He wants to provide for you, but the one thing you need is the one thing he can’t give. It really is just like Cecilia said.”
I glanced at her. Jane’s jaw dropped.
“You weren’t there. Dad was the same way. If you look at Peter, really look at him, you’ll see it.”
From the corner of my eye I could see her slowly shaking her head.
“Don’t believe me, but it’s true.” Feast, Tyler and his meals, cooking . . . too much pressed on me to add Jane and our endless antagonisms to the list. “Just talk to him. Learn his perspective.” Cecilia’s comments about perspective still crashed through my brain.
“So how’d you get to be so smart about men?” she whispered.
I searched for sarcasm and found none. “I’m not. I guess I know men in this particular situation.” I paused, debating how much to tell Jane. We needed new facts, new topics between us. So I dove in. “My most meaningful relationship of late is with my produce vendor—a stubborn sixty-year-old man with lettuces that melt in your mouth and language like a sailor, who calls his wife Sugar Plum and me Little Miss Hard-to-Please. But I adore him.”
I turned the car down Jane’s street. “And then there’s Paul, and I don’t know what we are. He owns Feast and I know he cares about me, but he calculates every move, and in the years I’ve known him he’s gone through two wives. I’d rather not be number four even if he does decide to make a more overt play. And tonight? I have my first real date in over a year, and I had to ask him out. And since this is vacation, it hardly counts. How pathetic is that?”
Jane snorted. “You are Little Miss Hard-to-Please. I like that.”
“That’s your takeaway from all that? Why do I even talk to you?” But I was laughing as well.
“I’m kidding.” Jane reached for my arm and tapped it. “I’m laughing with you, not at you. You asked Nick out?”
“Yes, and I did it horribly.” I looked over to find her grinning. “It’s not like that. Dad lectured me about getting out and getting fresh air, something about creative juices and all that, and Nick’s the only guy around, so I asked him.”
“Doesn’t hurt that he’s super cute.”
�
��He is, isn’t he? His eyes are so green, and I like his hair. It’s got that cowlick sticking up in the front. I keep wanting to smush it down.”
“Okay, part of me feels seventeen and the other part says this is weird. He’s a friend of ours.”
“It’s okay to say another man is cute, Jane.”
“Okay. He is sooo cute.”
“I know.”
We giggled the last two blocks home, forgetting the years, conflict, and cancer between us. Jane, still a little jacked up on steroids, decided to clean the bathrooms, and I planted myself in her kitchen to develop dishes for Tyler. I’d almost finished organizing a week’s worth of meals for him and for Jane when her soft tone interrupted me.
“Do you have any stew left?”
“I didn’t hear you come in.” I glanced at her. “Are you okay?”
“My head is killing me. I may have overdone it with the baseboards.”
“Sit here.” I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and went to the refrigerator. “This’ll take a minute to warm up. Would you like some apple slices?”
“That sounds good.” Jane held her head.
I cut some apple slices, noting that the small breaks didn’t keep reality at bay for long.
“ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT ME TO STAY AND HELP with the kids?” I stood over Jane’s bed.
“You’ve already fed them and managed homework. There’s nothing left. And I want to tuck them in. Go have fun.”
“I really can stay.”
“Are you nervous?” She scooted up against the headboard and laughed as I blushed and backed out of her room. “You are!” she called after me. “Are you changing again?”
“You Seattleites wear jeans and Hunter boots. I can’t do that.” I looked down at my black dress. “But this is too much.”
“Get those fancy black boots of yours and put them over jeans. You’ll look great.”
“The Manolos or the Pradas?”
“How should I know? The black ones.”
“Exactly. And which jeans? The leggings? Or the boot-leg Joe’s and leave them down?”
“Jeans and boots,” she called. “You can’t go wrong.”
I grabbed a pair of skinny jeans, the Pradas, and a black sweater and quickly changed. I paced back to Jane.
“See? You look good.” She nodded. “Where’d all this come from anyway?” She twirled her finger at me.
“All what?”
“We grew up in Oregon. I can’t tell you leggings from jeggings or Prada from Converse—Okay, I can guess that one, but because I know Converse, not Prada.”
“I don’t know. I feel comfortable in specifics. I . . .”
“That sounds more like me. Mom always said you were the creative one, and look at your job—you are.”
“There’s a lot of technique and precision in cooking . . .” There was a hint there—an uncomfortable truth hiding just beyond reach. I flicked it further. “Maybe it’s a New York thing.” I swung my hair over my shoulder. “Do I look satisfactory?”
“You look great.” Jane offered a small smile. “I love your hair. It’s so full and thick. It’s darkened too. I like that.”
“It’s not still blond?” I lifted the ends to look at it. I’d always loved the color; it was the waves I hated. In fact, I once paid hundreds of dollars for thermal straightening and ended up looking like someone had stapled plywood boards to the sides of my face. So now I just tamed the waves as best as I could and remained perpetually disappointed. But the color . . .
“Dark blond. It’s better deeper, shows off some highlights and doesn’t make you look so bland.” Jane touched her hair. “I’m bland, and now it’s thin and . . .” She lifted a section above her ear, revealing a bald spot the size of a baseball.
“Oh.”
“Will you help me shave it?”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow.” She trailed two fingers through it, and the motion’s light tug pulled a surprising amount away. “It’s done.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed, perching myself on the bed. “I’m sorry about dinner tonight.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is. You need to eat. What’d I do wrong?”
“Nothing. My stomach didn’t feel right. Stop stressing about it. You had a lot to do.”
I realized she was right, but not about having too much to manage. I had let minutia steal my focus: I was texting Suzanne, checking on Tabitha, planning Tyler’s meals, managing Paul, daydreaming about my date, joking with the kids . . . I didn’t put any thought or preparation into dinner, but had whipped up a standard favorite and assumed it would fly.
Jane caught my expression. “Please don’t beat yourself up over—There’s the doorbell.”
I stood up and smoothed my sweater. “Don’t wait up,” I teased.
“You have to wake me. I want to hear all the details.”
“It’s dinner, Jane, not prom.”
“It’s a first date. I haven’t had one of those in eighteen years. Please?”
“I’m not even sure it’s that, but sure, I’ll wake you.”
I bounced down the stairs and opened the door.
“Wow.” Nick’s face lit up.
I beamed. “Can you do that again?” I shut the door and pulled it right back open.
“Wow.” He laughed.
“Yeah, that still felt good.”
I shut the door behind me and led Nick off the porch. His car was an older-model Audi station wagon. It fit him—sporty, nice, and clean, quintessentially Mr. Mom.
“Is it okay if we go to La Spiga?” I asked.
“Definitely. It’s one of my favorite places.”
I circled his car to the passenger side. “I read an article that touted their craft cocktails and food pairings. I haven’t done any of that yet at Feast.”
I stepped back as I realized Nick had followed me around the car and was reaching to open the door.
“You’ll love it.”
I smiled and settled in to the seat. He stood guard until I was fully situated. Then he shut the door. Zing.
La Spiga was large and open and exciting. It was housed in what looked like a converted warehouse, with high ceilings, dark wood walls, high-backed booths, and a bar to die for. The lighting fixtures were 1930s industrial with vintage bulbs that showed the filaments and threw off that warm light that makes everyone look better. But the lighting was the only similarity I could find to Feast.
Feast was small, employing the stark white walls and tables to give it some sense of space. La Spiga was huge, playing on mixtures of textures and woods to create warmth. And where I’d put an antique mirror behind the bar, La Spiga had installed clear glass. You could see beyond the bar, beyond the displayed bottles. It gave the sense that if you looked hard enough, long enough, you could see through each bottle into the kitchen and into the magic beyond.
“Are you taking a picture?” Nick whispered.
“I know it’s tacky, but this is too cool.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Nick pointed to the bar. “Do you want to get a table or sit up here and enjoy this?”
“Can we sit here?”
“Definitely.” He held out a stool for me. “I think it’s the best place.”
“What do you recommend?”
Nick shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t get out much.”
I was about to question him, but the bartender came over to take our orders.
“What’s your favorite?” Nick asked him.
“I think my lemon gin infusion is just right. I use it in a French 75 with a hint of basil. Or I’ve got another favorite, a twist on a Manhattan with rye that’s not too sweet. I love that one.”
“Oh . . .”
Nick turned to me. “Do you want to try one of each? You can taste both and pick the one you like best.”
“You sure?”
“It’s your night out.”
I nodded.
The bartender smiled and walked aw
ay.
“What if you don’t like the other one?”
“Of course I will, and they were his favorites. When someone shares like that with you, you go along.”
The drinks soon arrived, and after a sip of each I started to break them down. “Taste this. The basil is fantastic, and do you taste the lemon? He’s right; he didn’t over-infuse. And his simple syrup brings out the fresh note of the basil. You often need a touch of sugar to do that.” I reached for the other drink. “He used good cherries; they’re not too sweet. Do you think he grows his own? They cut the bite, but . . . Taste this.”
Nick smiled. “Do you know your face lights up when you talk about food—or drinks?”
“It does?”
“It does. You lit up like that talking about the apples the other day and then about your stew. It’s beautiful.”
I smiled and ducked my head. I was unused to compliments, and Nick’s perspective—there was no artifice or protection. He listened to people’s opinions, gave of his own apples, took Jane’s clients fully intending to give them back, and now sat looking at me like I was the most beautiful and enchanting woman he knew.
Over starters of Affettati Misti, a cured meat platter, and the Crostini del Poggio Rosso, crostini topped with beef tenderloin and truffle pâte, I found myself interested in Nick beyond just a means to escape another evening flipping channels on Jane’s couch.
“Does Matt live with you full time?” I wondered about his ex-wife, but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“He does. He’s never even met his mom.”
“Never met her? Doesn’t that usually work the other way?”
“We weren’t married. We didn’t even date.” Nick paused and took a deep breath. “We met in a bar and had one night. We didn’t even exchange numbers.” He looked over to catch my expression. I revealed none. “About a month later, she tracked me down through some friends and demanded I pay for her . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Abortion?” I asked gently.
“I told her I had to think about it. I didn’t even know if the kid was mine. She assured me it was, but . . .”
“You didn’t give her the money.”
“I called my mom.”
I blinked. That was not the answer I expected.
“Isn’t that what you do when you screw up?”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 36
