I shrugged.
“I expected the riot act, wanted it. Then I would have gotten what I deserved—or the beginnings of it—but she didn’t yell. She was silent for the longest time, and then she said, ‘Do whatever you must to keep that baby. There’s no other option.’ And I knew she was right. I wanted to run, bury my head in the sand, or do anything else to make it go away. But she was right.”
Nick rubbed his chin. It was free of the five o’clock shadow I’d noted every other time we’d met. He’d shaved for our date—that made me smile inside.
“So I called Rebecca and I begged. She was furious, said it was her body and I couldn’t control her, but I kept begging. She actually took a paternity test to get me off her back. I love the irony of that.” He paused. “Did you know they stick this huge needle into the uterus to do that?”
I cringed.
“Too much information. Sorry.” He took a bite of crostini. “Anyway, I was the dad so I kept begging. Time ticked away and she didn’t get an abortion. I moved into a cheaper apartment, got another job, helped her with the medical bills, and a few months later she handed me Matt.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“Sorta. She showed up a couple years ago. She’d lost her job to downsizing and came to check us out. I got the impression she wanted to stay with us, but my agency was shutting down, Matt had the flu, and I was pretty stressed. I wasn’t all that nice to her, and she didn’t even stay to see Matt. That was the last I heard, so I expect she’s still in San Francisco. I have no desire to keep in touch.”
We sat silent for a moment.
“That was a lot, wasn’t it?” Nick chuckled lightly.
“More than I expected.”
He ran his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ve got to stop doing that.” He opened his eyes. “I can’t tell you how many first dates I’ve ruined with that story.”
“I’ll be gone soon; you’re okay with me. But why tell it if it’s uncomfortable?”
He sat still, considering. “That’s why. I don’t want to forget what I did and the cost. I love Matt, don’t get me wrong, and I wouldn’t change a hair on his head or a second of his life. He’s the greatest blessing ever given me, but just because he’s a blessing doesn’t mean I didn’t screw up.”
“You might want to let yourself off that hook. Seems you did good to me.”
“Maybe.” He shook his head. “How’s Jane doing?”
I suppressed a smile because I would have changed the subject too. “Okay, I think. She ate some this past week. I didn’t screw up every meal. And her numbers were up today. She was so relieved she almost cried. I didn’t realize how much that pressed on her until she walked out of the oncologist’s office. When our mom was sick, she never shared that kinda stuff. I’m beginning to think I missed a lot back then.”
“Your mom had cancer?”
“She died in the spring of my senior year in high school.”
“I didn’t know. This must be horrible for Jane.”
I nodded and took a sip of my drink. The moment should have been spent feeling sorry for Jane, but I was struggling. I was jealous that Nick thought of Jane first; I didn’t want to share that link to our mother. I felt again like that seventeen-year-old who kept calling, wanting to talk, wanting to reach out, wanting an older sister and a guide. The return call never came.
“I’m so sorry,” Nick whispered across my thoughts.
I shook my head. “It’s okay. I got lost there a moment, didn’t I?” I popped a piece of salami into my mouth to end the moment and collect myself.
NICK PARKED HIS CAR IN JANE’S DRIVEWAY.
“Thanks for taking me out tonight. I’m actually embarrassed I asked you. I hope I didn’t put you on the spot.”
“Not at all. As I said, I enjoyed it.” Nick settled back in to the seat. “I don’t date much because I don’t want to introduce Matt to women who aren’t going to be in his life. But he knows you through Jane’s family, so it was an easy evening out with no worries or expectations.” Nick chuckled. “For me or for him.”
I nodded. “Well, thank you.” I got out of the car, knowing I should feel pleased but trending toward disappointed instead.
Chapter 17
THE NEXT MORNING JANE AND I SAT AT THE COUNTER arranging the day and forming a schedule to best utilize her ovens and burners. As I cut an apple, my cell phone beeped with a text: WANT TO TAKE A WALK?
Jane looked up. “You’re blushing. Is it Paul?”
“I am absolutely not blushing.”
“Well?”
“Nick.”
She laughed, small and careful. “Nick? You just went out last night.”
“He was easy to talk to. I had fun.” I looked at her smug expression. “I’m just glad he did too. He wants to take a walk.” I focused on my phone and texted back: GOING TO THE GROCERY STORE. DO YOU WANT TO COME?
YES. I’LL DRIVE IF YOU WANT.
SEE YOU IN TEN?
I’LL BE THERE.
I’ll be there. I smiled. I’ll be there—when you call, when you’re hurt, when you’re sick, when you’re lonely, when life is overwhelming, when you’re scared. I’ll be there. What an amazing thought. I chuckled—he’d only offered to drive to the grocery store.
“What’s funny?”
“My imagination.” I didn’t elaborate. “He’s coming in ten minutes to take me to the grocery store, so I’ve got to finish. What have we not considered? Anything you want to add?” I crossed the kitchen, pulled a soft-boiled egg out of the water, and put it in front of her with a spoon and the apple slices.
“No. I’ll put all your Pyrex in the dishwasher while you’re gone.”
“Thanks.” I went to the hall to grab a coat.
Jane called after me. “He must like you. I can’t drag Peter to a grocery store.”
“Nick’s a single dad. Doubt he has the luxury of avoiding it.”
“I’m sure that’s it.”
A blush warmed my cheeks. The last boy I had felt giddy over was Spencer O’Neil in the fifth grade. Nick had made his intentions, or lack thereof, crystal clear. We were friends. He was hardly worth a blush.
Nevertheless he arrived right on time, and I still dashed for the door like a fifth grader. Jane trailed me into the hallway.
I swung around. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see Nick.”
I raised an eyebrow as I yanked open the door. “Hi, come on in.” I turned back to Jane, slightly amused and thoroughly annoyed. “Do you need something, Jane?”
She ignored me. “First my consulting business, then dinner with my sister, and now the grocery store. Are you coming to cook with us this afternoon too?”
I caught the edge in Jane’s voice and glanced at Nick. If he’d caught any undertones, he was ignoring them.
“Holding down the fort for a good friend, enjoyed dinner with a new friend, and I’m out of milk. But I don’t have time to cook today, so no, I won’t be joining you.”
Jane’s expression clouded. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“Bye, Jane.” I grabbed my bag.
“I’m going to eat.” She padded back to the kitchen.
I turned and gently pushed Nick out the door. He called behind his shoulder, “Bye, Jane.” As we walked to his car, he touched my arm. “Is she okay?”
“She coming down off tons of steroids and is full of chemo drugs, so I doubt it. I suspect she can’t decide if you’re the enemy, competition, a friend, or my new boyfriend.”
“That was fast.”
“What?” I stopped. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was talking about Jane.”
“Because you couldn’t possibly like me, right, New York?”
“Not in a million years.” I laughed.
“I’ll remember that.”
His mood was light and playful, and the banter lasted a few moments before we veered off into Jane’s chemotherapy treatment. I found myself telling him more than I usually share—not ju
st about what happens in the Infusion Center, but how I felt about it. I described reading to Jane, losing at cards to Andy, talking to Tyler, Brian’s attitude, offering to cook . . . everything.
As I recounted it, I felt myself shift. Andy and Tyler seemed to matter more to me than our time spent together warranted, and I recognized a bubbly anticipation welling up inside me, the same feeling I’d had when I opened the door for Nick the night before, the same feeling that carried me through opening Feast.
“That’s an amazing thing you’re doing for him—and what an idea for a business. Cooking meals for people in difficult circumstances, like illness, chemo, or injuries.”
“It’s a favor, not a business.”
“For you. But someone should do this. This town has the medical community to support it, and that’s if you concentrated on cancer patients alone. If you expanded—”
My tingling anticipation cooled as my heart launched into my throat. “Hey, it’s mine. Besides, it may not work.”
“It will because it’s a way to meet people’s needs, reach them through food—and not just anyone, but people who are vulnerable. It’s a gift and it’s all there—an unmet need, an untapped market in an affluent town.”
I could feel him crunching numbers and devising marketing plans beside me as I considered his word gift. The idea suddenly felt different, new and terrifyingly close—like my nerves were on fire.
“You okay? You’ve gone all still.”
“I’m fine.” I sat there feeling a foreign wonder, hoping it would stay. “I can do this. I can cook something he’ll eat.”
Nick glanced over. “I’m sure you can.” He pulled in to the parking lot. “Do you want to give me some of your list or wander together?”
“Let’s wander together, if you have the time?”
“Definitely.”
We started in produce. It’s my favorite section, but it can be the hardest too—because vegetables carry a whole variety of tastes, aftertastes, acids, sugars, textures . . . Nothing can make you gag faster than a vegetable turned sour in your mouth or your stomach.
But I needed tons of them because nothing delivers vitamins, minerals, fibers, and nutrients in such digestible ways. Beets, radishes, carrots, kale, and spinach had worked for Jane. I wanted to expand my list to broccoli, red and green cabbages, and other dark greens. I even played with the idea of baby roasted brussels sprouts—strong taste, even sometimes bitter, but if prepared right, that very element could appeal to Jane and Tyler. Olive oiled, salted, peppered, and broiled—it might remind them of popcorn with a sharp tang and a nutritional wallop on the side.
I also wanted to welcome Peter home with a cake. The family needed a celebration. I bought coconut and almond flour and selected a fresh coconut, thinking the kids could help shred it. And finally a brick of dark artisan chocolate—one I could shave myself. It was one of my secret pleasures and one my pâtissier never let me indulge.
An hour and a half later, we found ourselves in the checkout line. My mind raced with the logistics of getting everything done and of how to include Kate, Danny, and even Cecilia.
“Elizabeth?”
“Hmm . . . sorry. My head’s already in the kitchen.”
“I can understand that. But . . . can I take you out again?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’m busy with a school function for Matt tomorrow night. What about Friday?”
“Peter’ll be home. They could use the time alone.”
“Good. Seven p.m.—again.”
Chapter 18
JANE’S KITCHEN FACED WEST, SO IT FELT COOL, WITH NO direct light yet, and its huge glass doors opened onto a patio, making it feel open and expansive. I unpacked the groceries, sorted them, emptied the dishwasher, and turned the ovens to four hundred. I was ready.
“This is beautiful.” Cecilia looked around. “My apartment’s kitchen is a bloated hallway, but I don’t cook so it doesn’t bug me.”
“You’ll cook today.”
“Where’s Jane?”
“She went up for a nap right before you arrived.”
“Good for her. What are we making?”
“I thought we’d repeat what worked for Jane this past week. Some of the flavors are altered, so I think we’d better put Brian’s portions in separate containers before we add the final seasonings.”
“You’re cooking for Brian too?”
“Tyler asked for meals for both of them.”
“Good.” Cecilia looked down at the recipe in front of her and started cracking eggs. “It’s nice he’s working remotely to be with him, but—”
“He’s a jerk, Cecilia.”
She threw me a startled glance. “I think it’s more than that. I think Brian hurts in deeper ways than Tyler.”
“Well, Tyler looks nervous around him. Brian kept casting him glances while we were talking, and he’s so angry. Do you think you could talk to him?”
“About what?”
“The first time I came with Jane, you said something about perspective, and it helped. She stopped fighting with you. And it bounced around my mind for days. Maybe that’s what Brian needs—a change in perspective. He can’t be helping Tyler always scowling like that.”
“I just shared my experience. And maybe he doesn’t scowl when it’s just the two of them.”
“I bet he does. You should talk to him.”
“I can try . . .” She whisked the eggs. “He may not hear me. He has this idea that Tyler’s his burden rather than a blessing, that his cancer is an aberration in their lives rather than a part of them, and that it’s all somehow directed at him . . .”
I didn’t reply because she wasn’t talking to me. She was sorting Brian, his motivations and his needs—very much the way I dissected recipes. I walked over to the island where I’d splayed Jane’s cookbooks and printouts from the Internet.
Cecilia motioned to the recipe. “What am I making anyway?”
“It’s basically a quiche without the crust. I got the idea from The Pickwick Papers. Dickens loved his breakfasts; he put a good one in almost every book. I figured he wasn’t too beyond Austen to be relevant.”
“Austen?”
“Jane Austen. Jane the sister, not the author, likes things that feel comfortable and safe. Right now she’d live in Regency England if you’d deliver the Red Devil there. So I’ve drawn my food inspirations from that cuisine, as mentioned in the books. She downed a bowl of gruel yesterday afternoon like it was her heart’s greatest desire.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It’s just thin, almost pureed oatmeal. I added some spices and flavors to counteract the metal taste in her mouth and some ground almonds to up its nutritional content, and she ate every bite.”
“Wow. I never thought about food like that, but it makes sense. You aren’t a different person when you read versus when you eat or do anything else—everything in us does intersect, I guess . . .” Cecilia’s voice drifted away as she thought, and a blush suffused her face. “Put it that way, I see why I eat terribly. I love American teenage food, and it fits with my soft spot for eighties teen movies. You know, Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink . . . I even dress like that when I feel sad. Austen’s much more intellectual.”
“That’s Jane. If it makes you feel better, I read only cookbooks, and they really shouldn’t count as real books.” I thought for a moment. “But I never forget a food reference.”
“Never?”
I shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
“Sixteen Candles?”
“The cake, of course. Oh, but there’s that quiche dinner too. See? Sixteen Candles and Dickens—all about breakfast.”
“Under the Tuscan Sun?”
“Never read it, but I’m assuming a ton of Italian?”
“That was obvious.” Cecilia smiled. “What’s your favorite food reference?”
“I’ve got two. I think the best opening line in literature is Peter Mayle’s A Year in Proven
ce. ‘The year began with lunch.’ All books and all years should begin that way.”
“And the other?”
“ ‘Coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscressandwhichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—’ ”
“That’s too much!” She laughed.
“That’s exactly what Mole said. But Rat said, ‘It’s only what I always take on these little excursions, and the other animals are always telling me that I’m a mean beast and cut it VERY fine!’ ” I grinned. “I love that line.”
“What’s that even from?”
“The Wind in the Willows. It’s the best picnic ever.” I pulled the meats from the refrigerator.
“I like a good picnic.” Cecilia checked the recipe in front of her and added the cheese and dill. “So what else are we making?”
“I altered a wonderful chicken curry recipe that came to England in the early 1800s—it’s now got more vegetables and should freeze beautifully. Right here.” I pointed to a recipe. “And let’s add broccoli. Great nutrients and carbs.”
I moved down the island, pointing to another recipe. “These are smoothie recipes for snacks. I’ve got melons and other fruits to soften the greens in them. We’ll blend them thick and vacuum-seal them. Then Tyler can add water, remix, and they’ll be perfect.”
“How many different things are we making?”
“About twelve.”
Cecilia giggled. “I haven’t made twelve meals in the last year.”
“We’ll be fine. I make more than that in ten minutes.”
“If you say so . . . You’re the chef.”
I grinned again. It felt right—I was the chef.
We were whipping more eggs for a second breakfast dish when Jane joined us. “Are you two cooking up a storm?”
“We’re cooking up something.” I reached over to stay Cecilia’s hand. “I think all the air’s gone back out.”
She shrugged. “I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No biggie.” I set her to chopping a slaw while I finished the eggs.
Jane sat at the island, and we worked quietly and comfortably for the next few hours, sharing tidbits of our lives and snatches of food.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 37
