by Dianne Dixon
Her grandfather’s response was gentle. “Your mother probably would have put great value on somebody kissing her cheek today. She was hurting, sugar. She was about to bury her mama.”
“But does that mean she can’t think before she opens her mouth? Grandpa, I’m only twenty-seven, and you want to know what she told me?” Morgan did a perfect imitation of her mother’s breathy, girlish voice. “‘Honey, I’ve decided to buy a plot in that pretty cemetery where they’re putting Grandma MaryJoy, so that when I die, I’ll be close to her. And I’m wondering…would you like me to buy one for you, too? That way, just in case, we’d always be sure that at the end you’ll have a place with…well, you know…with me, and with the people who love you.’”
Morgan’s grandfather suppressed a smile. “I do see where it had its share of clumsy in it, but I don’t think she meant it one bit mean.”
“What she meant was she thinks there’s no guy on earth who will ever want to share a life with me.”
“That’s not necessarily true.”
“She didn’t offer to buy Ali a grave.”
“Well, honey, Ali has Matt and—”
That ripped it. Morgan couldn’t listen to another word. She was already leaving the room. And as she left, she clearly understood that although the fight was over, the destruction was just beginning.
A fundamental part of Morgan had changed.
She’d spent a lifetime shrinking from her mother’s criticism, living in Ali’s shadow, and always being second best.
The funeral and its aftermath were the small, final straws that had broken something inside Morgan.
Something that wanted to do damage.
• • •
After Morgan left the kitchen and went upstairs into the bedroom where she’d been staying, she locked the door and sat on the side of the bed. In the dark. Thinking.
Ali got to be Grandma MaryJoy’s favorite. Ali got Matt, and they got engaged. Ali got to be homecoming queen and valedictorian. Ali always gets whatever she wants…and it isn’t right. Nobody should get everything they want.
For a split second, Morgan was picturing herself with Ali. At the top of a steep flight of stairs. Her hands were on Ali’s back, and she was shoving her, hard. Watching Ali plummet and slam onto the ground below. Imagining the awful scream. And the sweet freedom.
When the fantasy faded, the part of Morgan that was crazy with hurt reached for the phone—scrolling to a private number Ali had called months ago. When her own phone hadn’t been working and she’d used Morgan’s.
“Restaurant Z. What do you want?” The rumbling voice that answered the call crackled with New York impatience.
Morgan’s hands were shaking, her mouth dry. This wasn’t killing Ali by pushing her down a flight of stairs, but it was close. “Is this Zev Tilden?”
“You’re calling in the middle of my dinner service. Who the hell is this?”
Morgan was so nervous she could barely speak. “This is Ali. Ali Spencer. And, um, I really appreciate the chance to intern with you. Sorry for the short notice. I know I’m supposed to be there next week, but I’m not coming. Give my place to whoever was your second choice. I get that you’re a famous chef, and Z is a good restaurant, but—”
“People wait months for a reservation, and you’re bailing on the chance to cook here? Are you fucking nuts?”
“My grandmother just died. I’m a little upset right now.”
“Guess what? I don’t give a rat’s ass. You just blew the opportunity of a lifetime. You’re a fuckin’ rookie. Get off my phone.”
As soon as Morgan ended the call, she walked across the hall to the bathroom. Opened the toilet. And jackknifed over it, vomiting in guilty bursts that burned like battery acid.
Then she felt better.
She’d made Ali pay some dues.
Ali
After Morgan’s departure, Ali had stayed in the kitchen with Matt.
Ali’s grandfather went to sit on the porch outside.
And her mother came to sit at the kitchen table.
Matt filled a plate with leftover roast chicken and salad and the rosemary bread, while Ali was saying, “Poor Morgan. Don’t be mad at her, Mom. It’s just—”
“It’s just Morgan being Morgan.” Her mother changed the subject, taking a bite of the food Matt had just put in front of her and telling Ali, “This is delicious, honey. You have an incredible talent.”
Ali’s mother then turned her attention to Matt, holding his gaze as if trying to make up her mind about him. Finally, she said, “You understand no family is perfect, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Matt said. “I do.”
There was something in Matt’s expression that was difficult for Ali to read. And something in her mother’s smile that was equally unreadable.
“You seem to be a good man,” Ali’s mother said. “That usually comes from having been a good boy. Is that what you’ve always been, Matt?”
“Not always.” He quickly turned his attention to a vase of condolence flowers on the kitchen counter. “That’s a really beautiful arrangement.”
And Ali said, “It’s from Jon and Nikki, the couple from Boston I introduced you to at the funeral. I was their kids’ nanny one summer when I was in college.”
That magical summer was an experience Ali had never forgotten. “Jon and Nikki took me to Europe with them. It was incredible.”
“It changed everything about the way Ali cooked,” her mother said.
The story, Ali’s excitement, was tumbling out. “Matt, in France, in the hills of Mougins, there were freshly picked lettuces, tomatoes warm from the vine, and white wine that tasted like ripe pears. In England and Scotland, there were scones laced with currants and honey, and salmon done to absolute perfection. In Italy, rosemary and lavender and olives. And in Spain, there were flavors that danced on my tongue.”
Ali stopped and smiled. “That trip made me want to cook in a way that’s vibrant, connected to the earth, to make food that feeds the body and the soul… Wait, that reminds me. I have a new idea about the logo for the restaurant.”
Her mother looked up, surprised. “What restaurant?”
“For right now, Mom, it’s the one I’m opening in my dreams. But I’ll find a way to change that. As soon as I can.” Ali snatched a pencil and paper from the kitchen counter and began a quick sketch.
Matt reached across the table, slowing the movement of her pencil. He leaned in, his voice low so only Ali could hear. “Al, we’ve talked about this. I’m going to do my best. But we won’t have the money for this. Not for a long time.”
“Do you two want some privacy?” Ali’s mother asked.
“No, Mom. It’s fine. Matt’s just worried I don’t understand that trying to have my own restaurant is a big deal and it’ll be hard.” Ali looked at Matt, wanting to reassure him. “But I’m on my way. I can feel it. Things are starting to line up. Do you have any idea how many people applied for that apprenticeship at Z in New York? And I got it! I know it’s only for three months, but if I impress Zev Tilden, he’ll tell people and they’ll listen. Who knows what’ll happen? Somebody might want to back me, help me go out on my own.”
“Al, it’s a great dream, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work out that way.” Anxiety was coming off Matt in waves.
“Don’t worry,” Ali told him. “It doesn’t matter. The things I’ll learn about food, working with Zev Tilden… It’ll be priceless, a game changer for me.” Ali snuggled close to Matt. “Everything that happens at Z will add to the momentum we already have. You’re a great teacher and a fabulous writer. You won’t be an assistant professor forever. And just because you met me in Williams-Sonoma selling Bundt pans and doing cooking demonstrations doesn’t mean that’s where I’m going to stay for the rest of my life. Together, we’ll be fine.”
Matt looked
down. Took a breath, as if he were about to say something.
And in the silence, Ali’s mother told her, “It’s time you let go of this boy, Ali. At least for now. It’s late, and he has a long drive ahead of him.” She stood up and began to gather the dishes. “I’m glad you came, Matt, and that you were here with Ali for the funeral. It’s good you understand the obligations of family.”
Her mother’s tone had been mild, but there was a wary look in her eyes. It was giving Ali the feeling there was something about Matt that her mother wasn’t quite comfortable with.
• • •
It was late, and Ali knew she should go upstairs, get some sleep. But the funeral and the blowup with Morgan had exhausted her, and she stayed lying on the sofa in her grandfather’s den, watching TV. She reached for the remote and caught sight of her mother passing through the room, heading toward the back porch.
The expression on her mother’s face was strange to the point of being spooky. Ali immediately got up from the sofa and hurried to an open window, one that would give her a clear view of the porch.
“Kitchen’s all cleaned up,” her mother was saying.
Ali’s grandfather, who was sitting at the top of the porch steps, scooted over to make room for his daughter. “I’d have been happy to help.”
“I know, Dad. But I wanted to give myself time to think.”
Ali’s mother sat down beside him. He moved a little closer and peered at her. “I recognize that look, kitten. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s Ali’s fiancé, Matt.”
Ali held her breath, waiting to hear what would come next. There was an odd tone in her mother’s voice.
“I suspect there’re things about himself that Matt doesn’t want anybody to know.”
“What kind of things, honey?” Ali’s grandfather asked. “Good? Or bad?”
“That’s the problem. It could go either way.”
Seventy-five miles from BerryBlue Farm,
later in that soft summer night.
Violence.
A stifled scream.
The smell of night-blooming jasmine.
And a shred of amber-colored silk.
Ali
On the morning after the funeral, Ali and Morgan made the two-and-a-half-hour trip from the farm in Maine to their mother’s house in Providence, Rhode Island, in absolute silence—the fallout from the previous night’s fight and Morgan’s ugly outburst in the farmhouse kitchen.
When Ali angled her car into their mother’s driveway and switched off the engine, she turned toward the passenger seat. Morgan was tapping the control buttons on the car door, repeatedly sliding the window open, then thumping it closed. “Whatever this is, I don’t have time,” Ali said. “I’m moonlighting at the catering company tonight, supervising a huge reception. I need to get over there and start setting up.”
Morgan wasn’t paying attention; she was looking out the car window, enchanted. Her smile spontaneous, and her eyes sparkling. “Ali. Look. Over there, in that shaft of light by the roses…those hummingbirds. It’s like poetry. Aren’t they just the most beautifully delicate things you’ve ever seen?”
Ali couldn’t understand why Morgan spent most of her time being abrasive when, at her core, she was incredibly sweet. There’s so much that’s special about you, and you’re determined to bury it, Ali thought. You’re smart. You’re pretty. You could do anything you want. The world’s just waiting for you to come out and play.
But Morgan had already turned away from the window, instinctively shrinking down, going back to being small and blank.
It was like watching a self-defeating magic trick. Ali couldn’t bear to look at it.
Morgan’s focus had moved to their mother’s gray-shingled home with its neat lawn and colorful flower beds. “You have no idea how tough it is…being forced to live in that house.”
Ali didn’t have the strength to get into this right now. She reached over and pressed the latch on Morgan’s seat belt, sending the belt zipping into a slot near the passenger window.
Morgan ignored the gesture.
“If it’s so awful being with Mom,” Ali said, “why don’t you stop whining about it and find a way to move out?”
“The museum where I was working…it closed. Do you think I wanted that to happen? I know I need money in order to move out, but museum jobs aren’t that easy to find. And for your information, I’ve interviewed for one I think I’m pretty close to getting.” Morgan looked back at the hummingbirds, her voice a little less sharp. “And I wasn’t whining.”
“You were, too,” Ali insisted.
Morgan shot back with a pouty “Was not.” It came out comically high-pitched, like a little kid being silly.
“Were, too.” Ali said it softly, under her breath.
Morgan fought it—then gave in to a smile. “Was not.”
The tension between them retreated.
And without looking at Ali, Morgan got out of the car and walked toward the house.
Morgan was happy, moving with an innocent, bouncing stride. It reminded Ali of how it used to be with her and Morgan, of how it had always been—this dance between exasperation and delight.
• • •
Ali’s catering job turned out to be a book signing for a visiting novelist. The house where it was being held was huge and lavishly decorated. The guests were a cross-section of country clubbers and college professors. It made for interesting bits of overheard conversation—everything from the pros and cons of Brazilian butt lifts to the contact information for an expensive New York City call girl to the theoretical connection between Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and the rise of the Third Reich.
The author being honored was Aidan Blake, a good-looking Australian in his midforties. For most of the evening, he’d been busy chatting, autographing books, and drinking wine. And—as Ali was acutely aware—he’d also been busy watching her.
After the party got underway, Ali slipped out of her kitchen supervisor uniform into her head of catering attire: a chic, open-backed, black cocktail dress. No matter where she was in the room, she could sense Aidan Blake keeping track of what she was doing and who she was talking to. Ali was flattered. Aidan Blake was a very attractive man.
At one point, while Ali was walking past him, she overheard the party’s hostess murmur, “Darling, you’re an Aussie, not a Brit. Don’t waste time with good manners and longing looks. Get on with it. Let the girl know what you want.”
When Ali crossed his path, Aidan stepped closer, obviously intending to intercept her. But just as he was about to make his move, they both noticed that a late-arriving guest had entered the room.
In unison, they called out his name. “Matt!”
Aidan gave Ali a surprised grin. “Right, then. You first.”
“I’m his fiancée.”
Aidan’s interest in Ali was lusty and unembarrassed, so intense it made her a little uncomfortable. She took a step back, widening the distance between them. “Your turn. How do you know Matt?”
“I had the young man as a grad student four years ago when I was writer in residence at the college where he’s teaching now—”
Matt joined them, finishing Aidan’s sentence. “But, more than simply being outstanding student and pretty good instructor, we were brilliant drinking buddies.”
Matt give Aidan a friendly slap on the back while Aidan grabbed him in a bear hug. Both of them were tall. Both were off-the-charts good-looking. But they were polar opposites. Matt was in his thirties, golden haired and blue eyed, with the lean, graceful physique of a prep-school tennis champ. Aidan was ten years older, with hair and eyes so dark they were almost black, and a body that was rugged and muscular, like a cowboy’s.
When Matt finished greeting Aidan, he asked Ali, “What are you doing here? I thought you were working a catering gig tonight.�
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“I am. This is it,” Ali told him. “When you said you were going to a book signing, I pictured you on a folding chair in the back room of a half-empty bookstore.”
“That’s where these things usually happen.” Matt chuckled and turned to Aidan. “I have to know… How did you manage to end up peddling your wares in a high-rent establishment like this?”
Aidan’s tone was light, mischievous. “During my period in writing residence, I boffed the hostess.” He leaned in close and told Ali, “She was quite taken with being taken by a Hollywood screenwriter.”
Ali stepped back a little more, putting a safe distance between them. “So novels aren’t what you usually write?”
“What I usually write is high-voltage crap designed to keep the hairy asses of adolescent males firmly planted in cinema seats.”
“He writes action movies. Blockbusters. He’s a big deal in Hollywood, very powerful,” Matt explained.
“Now, however, I’m reborn as a novelist. And I want to go out and be celebrated.” Aidan draped his arm across Matt’s shoulders, then pointed at Ali. “But only if you come with us. I am, at least for tonight, in love with you.”
Ali narrowed her eyes and shook her head, wanting him to know she wasn’t playing his flirtatious game. “You guys go ahead. I need to stay and close up in the kitchen.” She gave Matt a lingering kiss. “Call me. Let me know where you two decide to go.” As she moved away, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I’ll catch up with you.”
But Ali never did catch up with Matt that night. It was as if Matt vanished after he walked out of the party.
What caused him to disappear was a single sentence: I want to make you pay.
Matt
After leaving the book event, Matt parted company with Aidan almost immediately. They made plans to meet later. Aidan needed to go to his hotel to see his publicist; Matt needed to stop by his office at the college to pick up a textbook he wanted to review for one of his upcoming fall courses.
