Family Tree

by Susan Wiggs

  “It’s nine. We need to clear the room,” Royston announced. “Good work, everybody. We’ll all sail through finals.”

  “Your lips to God’s ear,” Moe said.

  Martin walked out with her. “I want to buy you a drink.”

  “Just one,” she said. “I need to prepare my notes for the evaluation committee.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about. It looked perfect to me.” He took her to a dim, divey place not far from her dorm and ordered her a rye old-fashioned, which was her go-to cocktail since he’d introduced her to it. When the drinks came, he raised his glass. “You rocked it, Annie. I knew you would, but that was even better than I thought it would be.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  He leaned toward her. “I could kiss you.”

  Oh. She took a quick sip of her drink, the sweet sting of the rye warming her throat. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I’m real good at it,” he said with a charming smile.

  Yes, she thought, he probably was. “I’m sort of . . . I started . . . I’m seeing somebody. I mean, a guy—”

  “Someone new?”

  She felt shy, protective of what had started to bloom between her and Fletcher. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. They had a history together, but it was a broken one. “Yes, and no. A guy I used to know. Back home.”

  He sighed. “Is it serious?”

  “Serious enough for me to say I’m not going to be kissing you tonight.”

  “Shit. That’s serious for sure.”

  “We’ll see.” To change the subject, she handed him a USB stick with the final cut on it. “All yours,” she said.

  “Great. After seeing this, my family will finally quit worrying that I’m panhandling in the streets of New York. Another question. Can I show this to my agent?”

  “An agent. You have an agent?”

  “Sure. He’s a talent agent. I took some acting classes when I first came here.”

  “You wanted to act?”

  “Naw. But I wanted to learn some tricks of the trade. I signed with a guy who reps several TV chefs. They were my idols, growing up. I’d like to show your film to Al.”

  “Well, of course.” Annie was surprised and pleased. An industry professional was going to look at her work. “You can use the film any way you like. There are a couple of trailers and previews, and a short demo reel with some highlights. I gave you a lot of still photos, too. You could put them on your website.”

  “Sweet,” he said. “You are so damn sweet, Annie Rush. Whoever that guy back home is, I hope he appreciates you.”

  The inevitable phone call came. Gran was gone. She had passed quietly one night in springtime, and Annie’s world shifted on its axis. The pain of this grief was like nothing she had ever felt before. There was nothing to compare it to, though she tried, because she wanted to convince herself that she would survive. She’d been devastated at the loss of her grandfather; she had raged and struggled through her parents’ divorce, but this ran so much deeper. A piece of her had been lost, leaving a gaping, unhealed void. There were some moments when the sadness sat like an actual weight upon her chest, so heavy she could scarcely breathe.

  The only time she felt normal was when she was in Fletcher’s arms. He was her soft place to fall, the one she could turn to and pour out her heart. “It’s impossible,” she confessed to him on the day of the memorial service, attended by at least a hundred friends and neighbors. “I had no idea it would be impossible to say good-bye to the love and joy and hope we had. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

  “Maybe dying is awesome,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s like Club Med.”

  She laughed through her tears. “Stop it.”

  “Club Dead.”

  “You’re awful.”

  “I know I am. I know.” He didn’t tell her to be strong, that she could cope and carry on, but he held her gently, helped her breathe, and showed her that it was possible to move from one moment to the next without completely falling apart. Everyone else offered sympathy, but Fletcher offered his heart.

  Although it seemed impossible to find joy in the depths of her grief, Annie sensed that this was what Gran had been trying to tell her all along. She finally understood. This hurt she felt was the price of loving with her whole heart. But having Gran in her life had been worth every moment of pain.

  And something happened as she sobbed in Fletcher’s arms. She felt an unexpected, piercing joy.

  This, then, was Gran’s parting gift to Annie. To find happiness even in the deepest sorrow. This wrenching sadness showed her how important Fletcher was, how vital.

  In time, the grief turned into a dull ache with occasional flares of agony. It was like a fading bruise Annie forgot about until she bumped into a memory. Gran. It was the little moments that pierced most sharply, the remembrance of a smile, a gesture, a soft-voiced phrase.

  Despite the pain, Annie did what Gran would have wanted for her. She pulled herself together and looked forward. She knew the best way to honor her grandmother was to create an amazing life. That was what Gran had wanted for her all along.

  There was one problem with this. What did that life look like?

  The week before commencement, Annie’s phone rang. “It’s Joel Rosen,” said the caller.

  “Oh, Professor Rosen. Hi.”

  “Annie, I need to set up a meeting with you. It’s about your senior thesis.”

  She felt a thrum of nervousness in her chest. Was the evaluation a bad one? Had she screwed up? Violated some principle or other? Chosen a topic no one would take seriously?

  “Of course,” she said, and braced herself. Rosen was never effusive. His praise tended to be measured, his criticism pointed and sometimes harsh. She prided herself on having a tough skin, but this project was meant to be her crowning achievement. She had poured everything she had into it, all she’d learned and the things she believed would show the art and craft she’d learned over the past four years.

  She arrived at Rosen’s office five minutes early, and walked in to a surprise. Professor Rosen wasn’t alone. The three men stood as she paused in the doorway.

  “Martin,” she said, catching her breath. “What are—” She cut herself off, remembering her manners. She wiped her palms on the sides of her jeans. “Professor Rosen,” she said, then turned to the stranger next to Martin. “I’m Annie Rush.”

  The man smiled and shook her hand. “Alvin Danziger. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I told you about Al,” said Martin. “My agent.” Martin was nicely dressed in dark jeans and a crisply pressed shirt under a sport coat. His hair was styled, and he was looking very Matthew McConaughey. His agent was chubby and sharp-eyed, dressed in somewhat shabby trousers and a striped shirt. He hardly resembled the titan of industry she had pictured when Martin had told her about him.

  Mr. Danziger set up a laptop on a low table in the office.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, flustered. Then she turned to Joel Rosen. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s have a seat.” Rosen gestured at the sofa-and-wing-back-chair grouping by the desk. “This type of meeting usually features nicer beverages, but we wanted to set this up right away.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Your film, of course,” said Alvin. “I love it,” he quickly added. “And that’s not an exaggeration. If anything, it’s an understatement.”

  “Well,” she said, unable to keep herself from smiling. “I’m flattered.”

  “Get used to it.”

  “No, don’t,” Professor Rosen quickly chimed in. He’d always told his students to worry when the flattery started.

  She grinned at them both, and gave them both the same answer. “Okay.”

  “Here’s what’s going on,” Alvin told her. “Your film—along with the clips and stills you gave Marty—has been online for less than a week.”

  “Online,” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

  �
�We put it on Martin’s website, with links to Facebook, and that new site called YouTube, and some other networking channels.”

  She had taken classes on media and the ever-expanding social network. It was a vast, unexplored territory, a new medium, but no one had a clear understanding of its power.

  “I see,” she said. “I told Martin he could use the material any way he wants.”

  “So check it out. Here’s what I did.” Alvin clicked the keyboard. “Or rather, I hired an expert to do it. This chart shows the progression of unique page views.”

  She leaned forward and scanned the chart. “Wow, a thousand views. That’s so cool.”

  Rosen shook his head while Martin sat back on the sofa and grinned with delight. “Look again,” said Rosen. “It’s not a thousand.”

  She leaned closer, studied the chart, and gasped in shock. “Holy smokes. Each unit stands for a thousand views. So are you saying my film has had a million views? That’s incredible.”

  “It’s awesome,” Martin stated. “By now, the number has probably doubled. It’s going up exponentially.”

  She tried to picture strangers sitting in front of their computers, watching her documentary. Looking at the photos she’d taken. A million strangers.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “this is good, right?”

  “This is great,” Al said. “Your film is a hit.”

  “My e-mail is exploding,” Martin added. “I’ve had everything from job offers to marriage proposals. And some other crazy proposals, too.”

  She felt dazed. Her chest nearly burst with pride. “That’s fantastic. All these people looking at my film. It’s unbelievable.” She laughed. “Martin, you are never going to keep up with the demand for your confit.”

  “It’s gone way beyond that,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  For the first time since she’d known him, Professor Rosen broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “Brace yourself, Ms. Rush. The ride is about to begin.”

  “What do you mean? Sorry, this is all pretty new to me.”

  “What he means is, there’s been interest from a production company,” said Mr. Danziger. “Serious interest. A production company called Atlantis is partnering with a new network focused on food and lifestyles. They’re looking for fresh talent and shows aimed at a young demographic. After seeing your short—and particularly after seeing the number of views online—the company executives want a meeting. In L.A. As soon as possible.”

  “A meeting.” Annie felt goose bumps. “What does that mean?”

  “Just that. They want to meet with you and Marty to talk about creating a show.”

  “A show?” Annie realized she was echoing him, probably sounding like the rank amateur she was. “Like, a television show?”

  Martin laughed aloud. “You got it, babe.”

  Annie was beside herself. She couldn’t keep from throwing her arms around Joel Rosen and giving him a hug. “This is a dream come true,” she said. “It can’t be this easy.”

  He laughed and patted her on the back. “Trust me. It’s not.”

  The moment she left Rosen’s office, Annie called Fletcher with her news.

  “I’m amazed but not surprised,” he said. “And totally proud of you. Way to go, Annie.”

  “Thanks. My head is spinning. Spinning! Professor Rosen said it would be quite a ride. I didn’t realize it would be like a Tilt-A-Whirl.”

  He laughed. “You always liked a wild ride. Remember the carnival in Stowe, the summer after high school?”

  “I was the only one who didn’t get sick on the Looping Madhouse.” She sighed. “I wish you were coming to California with us.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “Feels like it’s been raining up here since 1968.”

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “Ditto.”

  “I’m coming home after this trip.”

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he told her. “But I’ll wait. You’re gonna knock them dead out there.”

  Annie arrived in Switchback late at night, dragging her luggage into the house, buoyed by excitement. It was too late to call Fletcher, but her mother was still up, eager to hear the news.

  “I don’t know where to start,” Annie said. “It feels as if I just hopped on a speeding train. Everything is happening so fast.”

  Her mother beamed at her. “I’m thrilled for you,” she said. “And so impressed. I want to hear everything.” They curled up on the sofa together, nursing mugs of tea in front of a roaring fire. It was hard to believe she’d left the hot glare of Southern California only this morning. The long journey home had taken her from L.A. to New York to Burlington, and the production company had hired a car to drive her up to Switchback. A production company. A hired car. It was a whole new world for Annie.

  Exhausted and elated, she described the dizzying rounds of meetings in California. The network was a start-up, but it was funded by a giant media company. Atlantis Productions wanted to work with her and Martin to develop a new, fresh take on the ever-popular cooking show. No more chatty chefs in kitchens putting together premeasured ingredients out of prep bowls. They wanted to expand on her idea of taking the production to the streets. They wanted a pilot with an option for more episodes.

  A few days before, she was a newly minted graduate. She now had an agent and an entertainment attorney. She even had a job title—producer.

  “I can’t even believe I’m saying it, Mom. It’s barely real to me.”

  “Believe it, Annie. You’ve worked so hard for this. You deserve it.” Mom reached over and brushed her forehead with a gentle touch. “Gran would be proud of you. But she wouldn’t be surprised. She always believed in you, a hundred percent.” Her eyes misted. “God, I miss her.”

  Annie took her mother’s hand. “So do I. It must be even harder for you.”

  “I’m an orphan. What a strange, awful feeling.”

  “Oh, Mommy. I’m so sorry.” It wrenched Annie’s heart to see her mother looking so lost. “How can I help?”

  Mom squeezed her hand. “You’re helping. You have no idea how much. We’ll be all right. She’d want us to be all right.”

  As Professor Rosen had warned her, plunging into a television production wasn’t going to be easy. For Annie, the hardest part was the conversation with Fletcher.

  GreenTree Garage and Scooter Works had undergone dramatic changes since Sanford’s settlement. She found Fletcher there, not working in his coveralls, but wearing jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt. In the garage area, four young guys were working on scooters while a man with an Italian accent talked to them. To Annie’s surprise, Fletcher was talking with her sister-in-law, Beth.

  When he saw Annie, he offered a smile that made her heart skip a beat. “She’s back,” he said, pulling her into a hug and burying his nose in her hair. “Damn, girl, I missed you.”

  “Same here,” she whispered, then stepped back and greeted Beth. “Let me guess,” she said. “Your students are combining Italian with auto mechanics.”

  “Good guess,” said Beth, then laughed at Annie’s expression. “Fletcher and his dad were kind enough to sponsor the program. The school and the garage put together a voc ed initiative. We’ve started a training program for kids wanting to learn mechanics. Speaking of which, I’d better go supervise.” She excused herself and went into the garage.

  “You’re sponsoring a program?” Annie asked Fletcher.

  “Dad and I are. Seems like a good way to help out the community.”

  “Beth must be so grateful. She’s always scrambling for funding and looking for options for her students.”

  Fletcher took her hand and walked over to a shiny dark blue roadster. “Let’s go for a drive. I want to hear all about your trip.”

  She didn’t know much about cars, but the power of the engine was palpable as he drove away from town. She gave a little squeal as he opened it up on the highway.

  “You like?” he asked, sending a grin her wa
y.

  “I do. You’re living large, Fletcher Wyndham.”

  “It’s my dad’s. The settlement is for him, not me.” He downshifted and took a curve with smooth expertise. “Yeah. I am. It still feels strange to me sometimes.”

  “I’m happy for you and your dad. What happened was terrible, and I’m proud of you for turning it all around.”

  “Wait until you see the house he bought.”

  A few minutes later, he turned up a long driveway flanked by blooming meadows. The house was ultramodern, built of glass and stone, set into the brow of a hill overlooking a valley to the west. There was a multicar garage, a trout stream and pond, and an enclosed pool and hot tub. “This is amazing,” Annie said, getting out of the car.

  “It was built by a Turkish guy who made a fortune in yogurt,” said Fletcher.

  “I’d heard about that, but I’ve never been up here.”

  “Dad bought it already furnished, seeing how we’ve never really owned furniture before. Never owned a home, for that matter.”

  She sent him a sharp glance. “It’s great,” she said. “Wow, life has changed so much for your dad. Mostly for the better, I hope.”

  “He’s making the most of the settlement. I might end up with a stepmother who’s a tire model with a Russian accent, but I can’t complain.”

  “A tire model?”

  “You know, the bikini blondes on the tire posters they send out to garages.”

  She laughed.

  “You think I’m kidding? Wait until you meet Olga.”

  “I’m sure she’s very nice,” Annie said. “Is your dad here?”

  He checked his watch. “Hope not.” He slipped one arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “I want you all to myself.”

  She caught her breath, and her skin started to tingle. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go inside.”

  There was a ravenous quality to their lovemaking. It was a little scary, how much she craved his touch. It was like needing the next breath of air—elemental, vital, sustaining. There were things he knew about her and places he found that no one else had ever come close to. They made love three times, the first frenzied encounter in the foyer against the door, in a moment so urgent they barely made it inside. Afterward, he took her to his bedroom and made slow, sweet love to her on a ridiculously large, comfy bed. A bit later, they watched her film in the media room and he made love to her again.