by Dana Bate
“So what’s the word?” he says. “Heading back to the motherland already?”
“I’m taking a quick side trip to Paris first, but I’ll be home next week.”
“What the heck happened? I thought things were good over there. Couldn’t take any more fish and chips?”
“Something like that . . .”
“So what’s next?”
“I’m working on a book proposal.”
“A book? Like a cookbook?”
“Sort of. More like a memoir with recipes.”
“Whose memoir?”
“Mine.”
“Yours?” I try not to bristle at my father’s blatant shock. “You’re only twenty-eight. What the heck do you have to write about?”
“It’s about Mom and me and growing up in Ypsi, and what it’s like to be a cookbook ghostwriter.”
My dad hums, as if he is the great arbiter of memoir proposals. “I guess it could be interesting,” he says. “Does anyone besides your friends and family actually want to read about that?”
“My agent seems to think so.”
“Your agent?” My dad whistles. “Well, excuuuuse me.”
“It’s not as fancy as it sounds.”
“Really? Because it sounds pretty impressive. Then again, most of the stuff you do sounds impressive to me.”
This is possibly the nicest thing my dad has said to me in the past twenty years. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.”
“When would this book come out?”
“I have to sell it first. After I finish the proposal, my agent is going to pitch it to a few editors, and . . . we’ll see. Hopefully one of them will want to publish it.”
“You’re saying you don’t have a job or a book deal?”
“Correct.”
“Then how are you affording a trip to Paris? Last I checked, that wasn’t exactly the cheapest destination. . . .”
“I made enough money from this job to pay for a quick trip. I’m only staying five days.”
“Must have paid well, huh?”
“Well enough.”
Larry’s deposits finally came through two days ago, after he resolved the series of problems, including lost paperwork and routing number typos. Since Natasha fired me, I worried I’d never see a penny from her, but to my relief, she agreed to pay me for the work I’d completed. Whether this was her idea or Hugh’s influence—or possibly another screwup by Larry—I’ll never know, but my bank account is now a lot fuller than it was three months ago. I’ll never get the full $200,000 stipulated in the contract, but considering the circumstances, I’m not complaining.
“You planning to write this book from Ypsi, then?”
“Not sure. That’s where I’ll probably finish the proposal, but after that we’ll see. Maybe I’ll move near Meg in Ann Arbor. Or maybe I’ll go someplace totally different, like Portland or New Orleans or Boston.”
“Keeping your options open, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“Good for you. Your mom would have liked that.”
I smile at the mention of my mom, the words in her letter replaying in my mind. She was right: I needed to leave the Midwest, at least for a little while. What she probably didn’t realize was that doing so would make me appreciate what I’d left behind.
“Speaking of Mom, I wanted to apologize for giving you such a hard time about Irene O’Malley. I spoke with Stevie, and he said you seem happy lately.”
“Happy’s a bit strong . . .”
“Happier, then.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. But don’t worry. Irene isn’t sleeping in your bed anymore.”
My stomach turns as I flash back to Stevie’s e-mail about the snakes. “Oh . . . ? Why not?”
“Well, it’s your bed, and I figured you might be coming back at some point. And anyway, you didn’t seem too thrilled about the idea.”
“I was kind of getting used to it.”
“Really? Because it sure didn’t sound that way last time we talked.”
“I guess I was worried she was taking advantage of you.”
“Listen, I’m no dummy. I thought she might be, too. But you know what? I didn’t care. I missed the companionship. Having somebody in the house. I hadn’t lived alone for almost forty years, Kelly. I either had roommates or your mom, and when I didn’t have either . . . well, it was weird. Being all by myself with my thoughts—I didn’t like it. Not one bit.”
“Then it’s good she was there for you.”
“It was. And I realized . . . well, I kinda like her. She’s not so bad. She’s actually kinda nice to have around.” He catches himself. “God, your mom is probably rolling in her grave.”
“I wouldn’t rule it out.”
He sighs. “The thing is, Irene makes me feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s not like I’m going to marry her or anything. She’s just keeping me company. Your mom was the love of my life, and she always will be. Full stop. But your mom’s been gone four months now, and I know her better than anyone. She might have hated the idea of Irene and me spending time together, but that’s because she loved me and wanted me for herself. Well, she’s gone now, Kelly. And she’s not coming back. And sometimes we don’t have to listen to voices from beyond the grave. Sometimes we have to listen to the voices in our hearts.”
His words echo in my ears, and my eyes fill with tears. This is the most profound thing my father has said since . . . well, ever, as far as I can recall, and whether that’s down to Irene or my mother’s ghost or some secret depths he’s managed to plumb, I’m glad for it. I brush away the tears with the back of my hand, wondering if my heart still has a voice, and if it does, if I have the courage to hear it.
“So where is she sleeping now, if she’s not in my bed?”
“At her own place. She still comes by to check on me a fair amount, and she’s signed up for a massage class, so that should work out real well for me. She has remarkably strong hands, and when she works them the right way—”
“That’ll do, thank you,” I say, cutting him off.
“Suit yourself.”
I glance at my watch. “Hey, Dad? I hate to do this, but if I don’t leave in the next two minutes, I’m going to miss my train.”
“Then by all means . . .”
“I’ll e-mail you from Paris, and I’ll call from Heathrow before my flight.”
“Okeydokey. Don’t let me hold back the Madigan world traveler.”
I laugh. “You sound good, Dad. Really good.”
“I sound how I sound.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
“Couldn’t stop if I tried.”
“Good. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Oh, but real quick before you go—I’m considering getting a pet. A dog. Maybe a black Lab or something like that. What do you think?”
A grin crosses my face as I remember the words in my mom’s letter. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Yeah? Okay, good. Then it’s settled. You can tell your brother to take his crazy ideas and stick them where the sun don’t shine.”
“Crazy ideas?”
“About pets.”
“What about them?”
He sighs into the phone, as if merely speaking the idea out loud is too ridiculous, even for him. “I don’t know,” he says. “Something about snakes . . .”
As I wait on the platform at St. Pancras, I glance up at the arched glass roof, which is traversed by wrought-iron beams and rises some one hundred feet from the ground. Light pours in, drenching me in the shimmering evening sun, and as people rush around me, I close my eyes and soak up the noise bouncing off the rafters.
“Now boarding, the 19:01 train to Paris Gare du Nord . . .”
I snap out of my trance and push through the open doors, taking a window seat in the second car from the front. I watch throngs of busy travelers scurry along the platform and wonder where they are heading. I decide the man in the tai
lored navy suit is rushing home to see his family after a busy day of meetings in Paris, and the teenage girls running toward my train are about to visit France for the first time. I’ve always loved creating stories for other people—it’s what I’ve always done, it’s what I’m good at—but now, as I sit on the train, I wonder what story I am creating for myself. Who am I? Where am I headed?
“This seat taken?”
I look up, and my eyes land on a stocky young man with thick brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. “Nope. All yours.”
He hesitates for a moment, gripping his bag in his hand. “It’s . . . Kelly, isn’t it?”
I hold my breath as I try to place his round face and broad shoulders. “Sorry . . . do I know you?”
He reaches out his hand. “James. We met at The Blind Pig last month. With your friend Jess?”
“Oh—right, of course. I’m sorry. A lot has happened since that night.”
“No worries. You spent most of the time chatting to my mate, Harry, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember me.”
My cheeks flush at the mention of Harry’s name. Oh, God. What must James think of me? What must Harry think of me? I never did hear from him.
James gestures toward the aisle seat. “You’re sure you don’t mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all.”
I scoot closer to the window, as if to make room, even though there is plenty of space between us. He plops into the seat and pulls a well-worn book from his bag.
“Harry and I were actually supposed to meet up a few times,” I say, “but I kept having to cancel because my boss was a little crazy.”
“Maybe you’ll have better luck in Paris, then.”
“Sorry?”
“In Paris. I’m meeting up with Harry and some other mates from uni. Sort of a sendoff before Harry moves to the States at the end of the summer.”
“He got the fellowship at Harvard?”
James looks surprised. “How did you know about that?”
“We talked about it at The Blind Pig. He wasn’t sure he’d get it—or that he’d take it.”
“Well, he did, and he is.”
“That’s amazing. Tell him I say congrats.”
“Tell him yourself. I’m sure he’d love to see you.” James leans in conspiratorially. “He’d kill me for telling you this, but he was really disappointed when you kept canceling. He figured you weren’t interested.”
“No—really, it wasn’t that at all. My boss kept changing her plans, and then life sort of . . . spiraled out of control. But I’d love to meet up with him—with all of you. I’ll be on my own.”
“Brilliant. I’ll let him know. You have his number?”
“Unless he’s changed it.”
“Nope. Same as always.” He grins. “We all thought he turned you off with talk of trade subsidies or globalization.”
“No—at least not yet.”
James laughs. “He always was a bit of a swot. But a lovable one.”
“What’s a swot?”
“Think Hermione Granger. Number-one student. Eager to please. Loves learning for learning’s sake.”
“In that case, I think I might be a bit of a swot, too.”
“Then maybe this really is a match made in heaven. . . .”
I smile. “Maybe it is.”
“All aboard!”
Our heads snap up as the last passengers hurry to their seats. The doors close, and the train lurches forward, gaining speed as it pulls out of the station. We chug past the crowd on the platform, the faces blurring together as the engine accelerates, toward Paris, toward the future, toward the unknown. James takes a deep breath and raises his eyebrows expectantly as the car fills with the hum of the wheels against the track. “Here’s to adventure, eh?”
My eyes linger on his, and for a moment, I feel as if my mother is on the train with me, her presence so full and real that I half expect to turn around and see her sitting in the seat behind me. Adventure. I’d thought that was what the past three months had been about—England, Natasha, Hugh—but maybe it’s this. Maybe my adventure is now. Maybe this is just the beginning. And maybe it doesn’t have to end. A chill races up my spine as the train whooshes down the track, pressing onward at great speed.
“To adventure,” I say, and though I can’t be sure, I swear I hear someone behind me humming “Dancing Queen.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, a big thank-you to my editors: Esi Sogah at Kensington and Dominic Wakeford at Little, Brown. Working with the two of you is such a joy. And thanks to the rest of my publishing team: Jane Nutter, Vida Engstrand, Kristine Noble, and Steven Zacharius at Kensington, and Grace Vincent, James Gurbutt, and the entire team at Little, Brown. And a massive thank-you to Hazel Orme—who copyedited the U.K. edition—you are, truly, the best copy editor on the planet.
Thanks to Scott Miller and Sylvie Rosokoff at Trident for your continued hard work. I am so lucky to have both of you in my corner.
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the cookbook ghostwriters who were kind enough to answer my phone calls and e-mails and respond to my many questions. You know who you are, and I am forever grateful.
I am also hugely grateful to Marie Hughes Chough for giving me a primer on growing up in Ypsilanti. Your detailed accounts of Ypsi life were beyond helpful. And thank you for your mom’s spaghetti salad recipe—a crucial part of the book!
This novel would still be a messy draft on my computer if it weren’t for the help of my early readers. Thanks to Sophie McKenzie for your British insights, and to Mandi Schweitzer for writing a note that transformed the book.
For the first time, I let my mom read a draft of one of my books, and I’m so glad I did. Thanks, Mom, for your useful advice and unconditional support—and know that I will be calling on you again in the future! And thanks to my dad for continuing to spread the word about my books. You are a great publicist and an even greater dad.
Thanks to my brother, Brian, for continuing to make me laugh. Maybe one day I’ll be as funny in writing as you are in person.
A huge thank-you to Alice Pooran—I never would have made my deadline if it hadn’t been for your help.
And finally to Roger and Alex: Thank you both for inspiring me to be a better writer, wife, mother, and person. You have utterly transformed my life, and I love you.
Keep reading for
recipes from
Too Many Cooks
Spaghetti Salad
Serves 10–12
This recipe was given to me by my friend Marie, who grew up in Ypsilanti. The original recipe calls for 6 teaspoons of Accent seasoning salt, which is just monosodium glutamate (MSG) and which some may have trouble finding. If you can’t or don’t want to use it, just season with additional salt to taste.
Ingredients
1 pound vermicelli/thin spaghetti
1 large green pepper, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
1 large sweet onion, diced
1 cup diced Swiss cheese
1 cup diced ham
8 teaspoons sour cream
2 cups Miracle Whip
4 teaspoons sugar
8 teaspoons apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pepper
6 teaspoons Accent seasoning or salt
Cook the vermicelli according to the package instructions, until al dente. Drain. Combine the pasta with the green pepper, celery, onion, cheese, and ham. Toss together.
In a separate bowl, mix together the sour cream, Miracle Whip, sugar, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper, and Accent (if using). Add the dressing to the pasta and vegetables and refrigerate at least three hours before serving.
Banana Bread
Makes one loaf
This isn’t the prettiest banana bread, but it might be the tastiest. I compared and tweaked many recipes until I came up with this one. It develops a lovely, crunchy crust, which disappears upon storing, but the flavor on
ly improves. Use the ripest bananas you can find—the blacker the better.
Ingredients
1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup sugar
½ cup light brown sugar
3 eggs
1 cups mashed ripe banana (about 3 or 4)
cup full-fat Greek yogurt
1 teaspoon vanilla
Preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan and line the bottom with a piece of parchment paper long enough to drape over the sides.
In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
In a large bowl, beat the butter with the sugars until fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, and vanilla and mix until combined. Pour in the dry ingredients and mix on low speed just until the dry ingredients disappear.
Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 60–70 minutes, until the top is browned and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let the loaf cool in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then run a knife around the edges of the pan to loosen it. Using the parchment to help you, lift the banana bread from the pan, and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Store for up to three days.
Chocolate Mousse
Serves 10 or more
My mom has been making a version of this mousse for years, and everyone always loves it. She usually pours it into a springform pan lined with sponge ladyfingers so that it’s more like a charlotte, but I’ve also served it as a traditional mousse and people go crazy for it.
Ingredients
1 pound semisweet chocolate, chopped
3 ounces unsalted butter, softened
3 eggs, separated, at room temperature
