by Susan Wiggs
She laughed. “Secret Sauce? Really?”
“Hey, I don’t write that stuff.”
“The reviewer makes a good point. The sauce is key.”
“I think so, too.”
“Your truffle honey is lovely. The flavor is completely subtle, but without it, the dish is just another yummy sandwich.”
“Exactly. You get it. I love that you get it. How does a film student know so much about cooking?”
“My first love,” Annie said. “My grandmother is the greatest cook I know, and she believes every recipe has a key ingredient. The one that defines it. In fact, I was thinking I would call my project The Key Ingredient.”
“I like it,” he said. “I like the way your mind works.”
Annie’s mind was not working. It was playing. Back to work, Annie.
“What else can I tell you about?” he asked, turning to face her on the sofa.
“Whatever you like,” she said. “I want to know what drives you, what excites and inspires you.”
He took the small glass of grappa from her and set it on the coffee table. He leaned in toward her and held her face between his hands. “You,” he said quietly, gazing into her face. “You excite me. You inspire me.”
“Martin.” Her heart sank. She didn’t want to flirt with him. She wanted to film him.
He shifted back, palms out, all innocence. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Actually, I can. Seriously, if this is going to work, we need to act as colleagues. Professionals. When a filmmaker gets too involved with the subject, the film is doomed.”
“Did they teach you that in school?”
“Yes, and I learned from experience. Freshman year, I did a short piece on a bike messenger who got injured on the job, and I felt really sorry for him. My film turned out maudlin and terrible. So I need to stay detached.”
He picked up his glass and saluted her. “Right. Good luck with that.”
“Martin.”
He offered his aw-shucks grin. “Okay, back to work. I know what you’re asking. I’m inspired when someone gets me, the way you do. When someone understands that I’m not just making sandwiches in the park. I’m excited when someone makes me feel right about what I’m doing.”
“Oh.” She was flustered by his sincerity. “In that case, I’m glad to help.”
She could tell Martin was looking at her lips. She could tell he wanted to kiss her. It was flattering, and she kind of wanted him to. It was rare for her to feel this kind of attraction.
Yet she had to pull back, reminding herself that kissing would only complicate matters. Martin Harlow was supposed to be her senior project, not her boyfriend.
And yet for the first time in forever, she started to think there could be life after Fletcher Wyndham.
15
Now
I’m ready to go home.” Annie addressed the care team assembled at the conference table. Her parents were present as well, sitting side by side as they eyed her anxiously. She wished they would relax and quit looking at her as if she had a bomb duct-taped to her chest.
“You’ve all helped me enormously,” she said, and a lump rose in her throat. “Far more than I’ll ever know, since I slept through most of it.”
Smiles and nods all around.
“Now it’s time to be on my own.” She sounded like an inmate trying to convince the parole board to let her out. Her fate was up to a committee of people who purported to know what was best for her.
The doctor, social worker, various therapists and nurses regarded her with kindness. Yet she could tell they were skeptical. She could read their expressions now without referring to the feelings chart with the round faces on it. Wasn’t that a sign of progress?
“I like your confidence,” Dr. King said. He was awesome. No one had expected her to emerge from the coma. Most patients in her situation existed in a frightening twilight state, never fully returning to themselves. But Dr. King had not given up on her. Annie had defied the odds, and she gave credit to this team.
“I want to get better. I am better.” She looked around the table. “‘Better’ isn’t the same as going back to exactly the person I was. I can’t swear I was all that great in the first place.”
“You were you. And now it’s time to let go of the person you were. Try to recognize the new person emerging from all this, and welcome her. It’s a process. A grieving process. Not a literal death, but a loss.”
The comment hit Annie in a way she was completely unprepared for. The former Annie was gone. Who was she now? Who did she want to be?
Life anew. What a concept. She felt excitement and then fear. And then many more fears. This was her new normal, they said. The trouble was, “normal” simply felt strange. Unfamiliar. Beginnings were like that, weren’t they?
“It’s the start of a journey,” said Dr. King. “It’s filled with opportunities you might not have envisioned before.”
“I don’t know what I envisioned. There’s still so much I don’t remember.”
“You don’t have to worry about remembering every little thing. The past you is gone. You’re born again, but with a superpower—you have the benefit of prior knowledge. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel every time you want to make a move.”
She let out a long, slow breath, then faced her parents. “So. What do you think of the new me?”
“We’ve always thought you were amazing. The new you is even more amazing,” said her mother.
Mrs. Rowe, the social worker, spoke up, reporting that Annie had a safe and supportive environment to return to—her childhood home in Switchback, where her parents and brother would look after her.
“Parent,” Annie corrected her, aiming a pointed look at her father. “My mom is single.”
“I’m here for you, too, Annie,” said her father, his eyes softening as he seemed to absorb the wound.
“Your father will be a part of this as well.” Mrs. Rowe put on a pair of reading glasses and checked one of her papers. “Ethan Lickenfelt, isn’t that correct?”
Annie’s father nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Your role is described here as emotional and financial support, companionship, and strength-training support.”
“That’s correct,” he said. A light sheen of sweat formed on his forehead.
“So in other words, all the stuff he didn’t do when I was a kid,” Annie said.
Her father winced. “I thought you had memory problems.”
“The family will continue with regular counseling appointments,” Mrs. Rowe told the group, aiming a pointed look at Annie.
“My favorite,” she said.
“Humor and sarcasm are excellent coping mechanisms,” the staff psychologist said to Annie. “Don’t let them mask your struggle.”
“I want to help,” her father said quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you needed me, but I’m here now. I’m staying with my folks in Milton. They’re getting on in years, so I’ll be taking over their business.”
Annie paused, absorbing this. The idea of his living and working close by was simply . . . confusing. She looked at her mother. “Did you know about this plan?”
Her mom clutched her purse in her lap in a death grip. “He told me this morning.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I—yes. We want you to have as much support as we can give you.”
Her father sent Mom a grateful look. “We’re all committed to giving Annie everything she needs.”
“Wow,” said Annie. “It’s like some cheesy movie where the estranged parents come back together for the sake of their dying child, and discover they love each other once again.”
“That’s not funny,” said her mother. But surprisingly, color bloomed in her cheeks.
At the end of the meeting, they all agreed that Annie was ready to be discharged, provided her family delivered on their promise to continue her therapy at home. She felt a jumble of emotions—gratitude, tre
pidation, and a low-grade grief she didn’t understand. She thanked everyone, doled out hugs, accepted their good wishes, posed for pictures.
“Your life is going to be amazing,” Dr. King said. “The next move is up to you.”
“I have no idea what move I want to make.”
“You don’t have to recognize what is in front of you, not yet. In time, everything will come into focus. How long this takes is different for everyone. Be patient with yourself. Reach out to the ones who love you. I’m excited to see you build the life you want.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I’ll work on it,” she said softly. Now that she remembered her career in California, she knew she had to go back to it, but it seemed impossible at this point. She needed to get stronger. She needed her family.
After everyone left, Annie and her parents went back to her room. She stood in the middle of the floor and turned around slowly. The walls had been stripped of the artwork and cards, the daily notices and schedule. The bed was stripped down to its waterproof mattress. Her life was stripped down to this moment.
Her stomach gave a little flip of panic as she thought about how long she had been here in this cocoon, walled off from the world like Aurora, dead asleep in her enchanted tower. The difference being, Aurora had woken up to Prince Charming. Annie had woken up to divorce papers.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed her parents down the hall to the parking lot.
“All righty, then,” Mom chirped, her brightness failing to mask a shadow of concern. “Let’s get going.”
“You want to ride shotgun?” asked Dad, holding open the front passenger door. “You always wanted to ride shotgun when you were a kid.”
I’m not a kid, she thought. But she said, “Sure, if that’s okay with you, Mom.”
“Of course.”
Dad turned on the radio, probably to chase away the silence. The drive to Switchback bombarded her with memories. Having both parents in the car triggered a slew of long-forgotten images. End-of-summer trips to and from the city to buy school clothes. Class outings to the Robert Frost farm and the Calvin Coolidge homestead. Holiday trips to Burlington or Montpelier at Christmas for performances of The Nutcracker Suite and Handel’s Messiah. Joyous drives to the hospital to see Kyle and Beth’s babies. The past flashed by Annie like the scenery through the car window. Home. She was going home. It wasn’t just a place.
And the town wasn’t just a town. The covered bridge spanning the river bore a fresh coat of barn-red paint, its passageway opening in welcome. This town, with its tree-lined streets and old brick and wooden buildings, had been the backdrop of her childhood. She was flooded by nostalgia at the sight of the library and schools, the shops and riverside park with its arched footbridge, the bandstand in the park where she’d sat with her friends on a blanket and listened to summer concerts, the sports fields and stadium where she’d spent every Friday night in autumn, cheering on the Wildcats.
Her nerves eased as they made their way up the mountain. She instantly connected with the painted house where she had grown up. It was surrounded by gardens and orchards and the sugarbush as far as the eye could see. The beauty of it made her chest ache. Why had she left this place?
She’d followed a dream—to New York. And then to L.A., each part of her journey taking her farther away—to another place. Another life. Another home.
Which place was home? The town house in Laurel Canyon? It was bright and sleek and modern, with a gourmet kitchen and a deck extending from the master bedroom with a view of the city in the distance. When they were just getting settled in L.A., she and Martin practically had to sell a kidney in order to get the place.
They’d been happy there, hadn’t they? She recalled having friends over for happy hour, hanging one of her mother’s paintings, shower sex, picking out furniture. She’d made a life with a man who’d given up on her and shipped her back to her mother. Should she contact him? See if he’d changed his mind now that she’d woken up?
Something inside her shrank from that idea. Not yet.
But where was home? The place in L.A. or here in Switchback?
She walked into the farmhouse kitchen on her own two feet, hearing the familiar creak and snap of the screen door behind her. With one great inhaled breath, she knew what home was.
Just the sight of the large, scrubbed table brought back echoes of the past, moments of joy and tragedy and everything in between: We’re getting a divorce. Your brother’s getting married. Your grandfather died. You won a blue ribbon at the state fair. You’ve been accepted to NYU.
This was where her deepest memories resided.
She remembered loving Gran and losing her. She remembered losing Fletcher, winning him back, and then losing him for good. But of course, that hadn’t lasted. Gran had gone, and Annie and Fletcher had fallen apart, and she had moved on.
To Martin. She had trusted Martin. She had given him her dream. But while she was sleeping, she had lost him, too.
16
Then
Annie was soaring when she realized her documentary was nearly done. She had shot hours and hours of raw footage of Martin, had taken hundreds of still shots of him, his craft, his world. When it came to Martin Harlow talking about himself and his work, there was no dearth of material. Yet he managed to be compelling, whether talking about foraging for ramps and morels in the springtime, or finding the perfect presentation for a simple dish. He was as generous with his time as he was with his cooking.
She disappeared into the project, editing late into the night, culling through the hours of footage and splicing together the story with his words, ambient noise, music, street scenes, clips from their drive up the Hudson Valley, touring organic farms. The making of this film became more than simply an assignment. While working on the final cut, she hit a creative zone she’d never found before. Going for hours without stopping, she was fevered, almost high. She had no sense of time passing, and when her mobile phone rang at five in the morning one day, she realized she had been up all night. She found her phone too late and missed the call, but there was a message from her mother: “Gran is sick. You need to come home.”
Annie slept in her grandmother’s bed that night, the way she had as a little girl when she was lonely in her own bed. The room was down the hall from the one she’d occupied as a child. And just like when she was young, she would lie amid the downy comforters and pillows while she and Gran talked about life and food, and family and dreams.
This time, there was a special poignancy to their conversation. Gran’s illness had come suddenly and she was in hospice care, refusing categorically to try invasive and risky treatments. She was determined to exit her life the same way she had lived it—on her own terms, in her own time. She was extremely frail, but the lively light in her eyes still glimmered when she gazed into Annie’s face. “You’re very special to me,” Gran said. “I know you’re aware of that, but I still want to make sure you hear those words.”
“Aw, Gran.” Annie had been fighting tears from the moment she’d boarded the train from New York. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” she said with a gentle smile. “Keep me in your heart, and you’ll always know where to find me.” With a trembling, paper-light hand, she stroked Annie’s hair. “And yes, I know it’s not the same. Nothing stays the same, ever.”
“I hate that.”
“No, you don’t. Big changes are what keep us moving forward.”
“Aw, Gran,” she said again. “I don’t even have the words for how sad I am.”
“Then think of the wonderful times. What a beautiful life I’ve had. So full of everything important. It’s still beautiful today.”
“I’m glad you can say that,” Annie said. “I’m glad I’m part of it.”
Another smile, sweet and tired. “It’s lovely to see you going for your dreams.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Going for my dreams?” Annie’s voice wavered. She was
losing the one person who truly understood her. The idea frightened her so much. “This is the only place in the world that feels like home to me. But when I think about what I want for myself, it takes me far away from here.”
“Ah,” said Gran with a slow, sage nod. “These choices aren’t always easy, but the answers will come. Be patient with yourself. Listen to yourself.”
Annie offered a wobbly smile. The advice sounded remarkably similar to what Professor Rosen had told her. “I would, but I keep contradicting myself.”
“I was very unsure of myself when I married your grandfather and moved up from Boston. In those days, it was like going to a foreign land. I didn’t know if I would fit in here in the northern woods. I had no idea whether or not I would love living on a farm and making sugar, or if I would find friends. As it turned out, I found my whole life here, all I ever wanted, and many things I didn’t know I wanted.”
“How did you know Grandpa was the one? I mean, you had your whole life in Boston. Your family and friends. And then you met a farmer from Vermont . . . He must have seemed so different from everyone you knew.”
“He was. Making a life with him seemed so unlikely for a city girl. And then I had a key moment. Do you know what that is?”
“A key moment. Tell me.”
“That’s the moment when everything changes. There’s before, and then after. And once a key moment occurs, there’s no going back to before. You make a choice, and it’s like ringing a bell. You can’t unring it. A key moment is a feeling. Your heart tells you. The point is, you have to pay attention.”
“Do I not do that?” Annie sighed. “A key moment. I will have to look for one.”
“Then I have no doubt you will find it.”
“I’m not even sure I am going to like the things I want,” Annie confessed. “I’ve loved everything about my studies. I’ve learned so much. I have big ideas and ambitions.” She smoothed the quilt over Gran’s shoulder, feeling the delicate, birdlike bones underneath. “Things like that keep me busy. But sometimes I get so lonely I ache all the way to my bones. I have friends, it’s true. So many of them are pairing off now that we’re through school. Three of my roommates are already engaged.”
