“You said Jane didn’t have one.”
“Jane doesn’t have a lot of things.”
“Your tone said this one mattered.”
I took a deep breath and blinked to hide my emotions as I pulled out the heavy marble mortar and laid it on the counter, running my hand all over it. It was cool, smooth, and perfect—and used. I reached back in and found the pestle wrapped at the bottom of the bag—an oversize wood one, my favorite kind, worn soft and smooth.
“This is yours.”
“It is. The woman at the store said it takes weeks to properly break one in, and she only had marble pestles anyway. I don’t like those. So I figured perhaps mine was best.”
“Won’t you miss it?”
“It’s in good hands.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Wait one sec.” I held up a finger. “Don’t say a word.” Hope and excitement bubbled inside. I reached for a box from Jane’s cabinet and sifted through some spices that I’d collected at Whole Foods, Melrose Market, and Pike Place Market over the past couple weeks. It was difficult to open the pouches with one hand.
“Can I help you?”
“Shh . . . I can get it.” I pinched cumin, coriander, and sweet paprika. I laid my left arm across the mortar to hold it in place and ground the mixture gently. I smelled it and added black pepper and salt. So close. I tore a few leaves of thyme and cilantro and rolled them in gently.
“What are you—?”
“Stop talking,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and lifted the mortar, smelling. I added a touch more coriander and rolled the tip of a mint leaf in my fingers to release only the oils. I then touched the spices and stirred again. “Done.” I held the bowl to him.
“That smells good. Earthy, spicy. What gives it that clean scent?”
“The cilantro you brought for Jane with the slightest hint of mint oil.”
He smelled it again. “What’s it for?”
“It’s you. That’s what you smell like, to me at least.” I shrugged, embarrassed. Only Tabitha knew I did this when I was trying to figure someone out. When I had attempted one for Trent, it had morphed into an angry diatribe that burned my eyes.
I gently pulled the mortar from Nick’s hands and carried it to the compost bin. Nick reached for me.
“What are you doing?”
“Pitching it. I’m not going to use it.” I rested it in the sink to brush the spices from it.
“Stop.” He grabbed for my hand. “Don’t. Please . . . Put it in a baggie. I want to keep it.”
“You can’t use it.” I shook my head. “It’ll clash when heated, especially with the fresh leaves I added.”
“I won’t. Promise. But I want to keep it.”
I handed him the mortar and found a baggie. He quickly brushed the mixture in and tucked the bag into his back jeans pocket.
“Have you ever blended what you think represents you?”
“I wouldn’t know how.”
“What’s your favorite spice?”
“Hmm . . . It changes all the time.” I dug around in my box. “I found a blend the other day I really liked. Feast has no cultural root, but even so, I never cook Indian, so I don’t come across this every day.” I pulled out a pouch and opened it for him.
“I like that.” He sniffed again.
“I think it reflects my mood lately. It’s a regional blend called Garam Masala, so you can find endless permutations, but they’re all earthy, subdued, almost sad—a mixture of peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon, black-and-white cumin seeds, and black, brown, and green cardamom pods. This is the brightest iteration I’ve found. It pushes the green cardamom more and has a fresh kick at the end. Maybe that’s what I want to happen in me.”
“I like the fresh kick.” Nick smiled and dropped a quick kiss on my cheek. “Shall we go enjoy our picnic?”
I pointed to the basket resting on the table.
“You have a basket and everything.” He laughed.
“Jane did.”
We walked out the front door and headed to the park. It was in the midsixties and perfectly sunny. Huge white clouds puffed above, and Lake Washington lay still and serene.
“I thought it rained here all the time, even more than in Hood River.”
“This is unusual. Look, the Big Man is out.” Nick pointed across the lake.
“The Big Man?”
“Mount Rainier. That’s what I call him. When he’s out, he dominates the landscape.” Nick led me to a bench and set the basket between us. “What do you have in here?”
“ ‘Today I’m a mean beast and I cut it very fine.’ ” I reached in and grabbed two bottles of San Pellegrino and the tubs of chicken salad, handing one of each to Nick. “It’s a line from The Wind in the Willows about a particularly splendid picnic.”
I reached back into the basket and dug around. “There’s also a box of crackers, some really nice cheeses, apple slices . . . and cookies. Save room for the cookies.”
“You did all this?”
“Of course.”
“One-handed?”
“I didn’t say it didn’t take all morning.”
Nick stared at me a moment, then shifted his eyes out to the lake. After a moment, he turned back to me. “This is really nice.”
“Let’s hope it tastes as good.”
Nick popped open the lid of his Pyrex container and waited for me to do the same. I handed him a fork and motioned to him to take the first bite.
“What’s in this? It’s my favorite chicken salad ever.” He shoved in another bite.
“I thought you’d like it. It’s got cherry tomatoes, chickpeas, red onion, radish, cucumber . . . salt, olives, olive oil . . . feta cheese . . . and lemon juice.” I dug around in mine. “And red bell peppers. I couldn’t remember those. And some herbs.”
“It tastes Greek. I love Greek food.”
“I figured as much.”
Nick slanted his eyes at me. “I know I never mentioned that.”
“Your books. You love Greek tragedies, and the walls of your house—they’re all clean, white. You art is modern, southern European, even Greek, in its colors. It all goes together.” I took a bite and continued. “Cecilia helped me think that through. I was cooking for Jane, then Tyler, and I mentioned their books. She basically said that all our interests form our totality. We can’t be divided up. And even though I’d been leaning that direction, it became clear. I began to know how to cook for them when I focused on the whole person—what made them smile, what they clung to when scared or insecure, even what paintings are on their walls or books on their shelves.” I shoved another bite into my mouth, embarrassed that I’d started to babble.
Nick smiled at me. “I love it when you do that.”
“What?”
“Get all excited. Your face turns pink and your eyes light up. I’ve only seen it when you talk about food. I may need more time to find other topics that cause that reaction.”
I ducked my head and shoved in another bite—and almost choked.
“Seems I found one.”
Reality stepped in front of me. “I wish you did have more time, but Peter comes home tonight.”
“What’s Peter got to do with it?”
“I need to go. Peter hopped the first flight after I texted him about Jane last night—and they need to be together as a family.” I lifted my left hand up, now wrapped only in a thin gauze. “I can get these stiches out in New York.”
“I thought we had more time.”
His “we” surprised me. “I have a few more days off, but it’s time now.”
Nick grabbed my forearm. “Stay. Take those few days. Cook. Be with Jane and Kate and Danny and Peter . . . and me. Stay.”
“But you said yourself that—”
“Forget what I said. Forget it all. Please.” He caught my eyes and held them. “Just stay. As long as you can.”
Without breaking eye contact I heard myself answer. “Okay.”
<
br /> Chapter 31
THREE NIGHTS LATER FOUND JANE AND ME STANDING in her closet debating clothing. She was on her fifth outfit.
“Why don’t you wear the first dress?” I held it out to her.
“No one wears dresses, and I’ve lost weight. It doesn’t hang right. I’ll stick with these jeans.”
“It looked wonderful.” I threw the dress on the bed. “At least put heels on.”
“Flats are more practical.”
“Then the leggings will be cuter with the flats.”
“I think I like the jeans.”
“Absolutely.” I rolled my eyes. “Can I make any more suggestions?”
She finally decided on jeans, a light blue blouse with a fitted cardigan, blue ballet flats, and a silver necklace of mine that I forced around her neck. It played beautifully against the navy scarf on her head.
We moved on to makeup, and her first attempt was terrifying. We stood shell-shocked before the mirror.
“I hardly put any on.”
“Without hair or eyebrows or eyelashes, I guess blush stands out more.”
“I’ll say.” She laughed.
I detected a note of hysteria. “No, it’s funny. You will not cry.”
She snorted. “Now you sound like me.”
“That’s why I should’ve gone home by now.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t.” She looked back to the mirror and rubbed off the blush. “I wish I had a wig.”
“Ugh . . . Really? That would look odd.”
“I look odd now. I’d escape notice in a wig.”
“I doubt it. I think it’d be horrid. Besides, you look good.”
“You look better.”
“It’s the skirt. I’m telling you dresses and skirts never lead you astray.” I twirled. “I got this at a fantastic consignment store. You wouldn’t believe what women in New York sell for pennies the next season. Tory Burch.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Jane turned from the mirror and stared at me. “I’m nervous.”
“You’ve been married for sixteen years. You’ve been on a few dates with Peter.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want to be the person I’m becoming. I’m angry all the time. I want to go out tonight and laugh and have fun and feel alive. What if I can’t?”
“You will.” I touched her head. “Let the rest go. Mom once said God was there to hold what was too heavy to carry.”
“I never heard that.”
“She said it at the end.” I leaned against the sink. “She said a lot at the end that’s only coming back to me now . . . Going through this with you brings it back.”
“That’s no fun.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m remembering that time, but in a new way. I can recall how she used to curl up with me on the couch and tell stories and share her thoughts, her faith, her perspective, really—and her joy. She had joy, Jane. I’d forgotten that. I never carried that with me. I only carried the pain.”
We turned at a knock on the door. Kate opened it and peeked her head in. “Dad said to hurry up.”
I laughed. “Tell him we’re coming.” I looked back at Jane. “Take a deep breath and let’s go have fun.”
As we headed down the stairs, Peter smiled up at Jane, and her face lit up at the expression in his eyes. Kate and Danny were somewhere else in the house. I wished they’d been there to see that moment.
“You sure you two don’t want to go out alone?”
There was a moment of silence before Peter spoke up. “While that would be great,” he said, with a glance over at Jane, “I’d like to see Nick and thank him. He really helped me out this time. And you? I can’t tell you what it’s meant to have you here.”
I savored Peter’s compliment as we drove to Nick’s.
He met me on his porch. “Perfect timing. The sitter just arrived.”
“Sorry it’s earlier than we planned and there are more people.”
Nick reached for my hand. “This is great. Peter and I haven’t hung out in a while. I’m looking forward to it.”
We climbed in to the backseat, and Peter turned around. “Where to?”
“I made reservations at Luc, but I think we should head to Capitol Cider on Pike instead. Elizabeth’s been telling me about what Jane likes to eat, and their menu has a lot of gluten-free, slow-cooked food. And they have good ciders. And shuffleboard.”
Jane twisted in the front seat. “Shuffleboard?”
“Exactly.” Nick turned to me and winked.
At the restaurant, we found a booth and piled in. Peter and Nick started bantering about old friends and work happenings while Jane and I listened.
Jane grew quiet, her face drawn. I wondered if she hurt or was too tired, or if this was a mistake.
“It was ballsy going out on your own,” Peter commented.
“Agreed, but all in all, the timing was good. The economy put everyone in flux, and folks were looking for new, more modestly priced work. It opened the field.”
Peter rubbed his chin. “True. I couldn’t have done it, but in-house is sure different. There’s no getting around that.”
Nick chuckled. “Microsoft is different.”
“That too.”
The waiter came to take our orders, but Jane simply shook her head.
I reached for her hand, which rested on the table. “Can I order something for you? There are a few things I think would taste good.”
She shook her head again. I turned to the waiter. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Is this too much tonight?” Peter put his arm around Jane’s shoulder. “What’s up?”
“It’s just . . . You get to talk about work. I liked my work too. I’m stuck, I hate it, and you . . .” Jane waved her hands, letting the gesture finish the sentence.
“I shut down your business.” Peter sank into the booth.
“I—” Nick opened his mouth.
“—play shuffleboard,” I interjected and pushed him out of the booth. He caught himself before falling off the edge as I hurtled after him and corralled him to the shuffleboard.
He stopped and turned into me. Our faces were inches apart. “I’ll give them back. I don’t need the clients. I thought she wanted this.”
“Offer it later; this isn’t about her work.” I looked back. Jane sat with her arms crossed, her head down. Peter slumped next to her. “This is about a whole lot of stuff and maybe nothing more than fear. Social media is the least of it.”
“I feel really bad.”
I reached for the puck. “Don’t. Let’s play a game, and then we’ll go back.”
Nick glanced back and forth from the booth to the shuffleboard for a few seconds before committing.
We returned fifteen minutes later to find a subdued but happier couple. Peter was holding Jane’s hand in his lap, and she was leaning toward him, no longer away. I could tell there had been tears, but she was smiling and looked beautiful.
“Have we held up the ordering?” I asked as I slid in.
“Not at all. Fish and chips all around. Is that good with you two?”
Nick sat down. “Definitely. Did you order the special sauce? I think Elizabeth will love it.”
“What is it?”
“I read it’s a pickled sauce. Getting great reviews.” He smiled, slowly and deliberately, before turning to Jane. “Jane . . .” He spread his hands across the table in offering. “Your clients are yours. They miss you. I’m doing my best for them, but the minute you say you’re ready, I’ll step away.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I couldn’t handle them right now, and you’ve kept me in the loop on my schedule and my terms. That’s more than I could’ve asked for.” Jane bit her lip and threw a glance to Peter. “This wasn’t really about that. I simply don’t like where I am right now.”
“But you won’t be in this place much longer.” Nick’s voice asked for an answer, a commitment.
“I won’t.
You’re right.”
When we arrived back at Nick’s, I decided to play the proper date and walk Nick to the door, but as we got out he took my hand and leaned back in to the car. “Do you mind leaving her here? I’ll get her home.”
“Not at all.” Peter waved and drove away.
“I figured they could use a few minutes, and it’s a gorgeous night. Can I walk you home?”
“I’d love that.”
After half a block, Nick pulled me to a stop. “Okay, what is it? You’re grinning ear to ear.”
“Isn’t that the craziest thing? I never do that.”
“Never?”
“Never. I don’t think I’ve felt this light since I was sixteen. There’s a picture on my bedside table—I saw it when I was home a few weeks ago, and my smile stunned me. It was so bright. I think that must have been the last time I felt that way. But as tough as this month has been, I’ve got that same feeling and I’m cooking and my hand doesn’t hurt and . . . I’m smiling.”
He took my hand and resumed walking. “I love that you feel that way. Don’t let it go. Most of the time, I’m so busy I can’t tell how I feel. But not these last few weeks. They’ve been really special.” He looked down at me and smiled. “How did we become friends?”
“It was all your fault,” I laughed. “I wasn’t interested.”
“I doubt that.”
I could hear the smile in his voice and decided not to reply, just hold his hand, walk, and enjoy the night.
Chapter 32
DR. CHUN POSTPONED JANE’S CHEMO BY THREE DAYS TO let her body heal. At first she was quiet and sullen, then came the Decadron tablets and she was sizzling. In a single day we cooked up a feast that would have put Miss Havisham’s to shame—the one on her wedding day, not the rat-infested mess we find years later. We also planted Nick’s cuttings, cleaned the garage, and organized Peter’s study. I wasn’t certain he’d appreciate that last effort. And, now, having gotten the green light from Dr. Chun, we were headed back to the Infusion Center.
“Why isn’t Peter here today?”
“He asked, but you leave in a few days so I gave him another day off.”
“Fine. Don’t go toxic again.”
Jane let out a small laugh that ended in a breathy hiccup. “I’ll try not to.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 46
