Kristy's Big News

by Ann M. Martin

  “Sandwiches would be fine,” I said. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  Patrick grinned. “It’s no trouble. We brought this from the Greenhouse.”

  “The greenhouse? A plant place?” asked Sam.

  “No. It’s a restaurant,” said Zoey. “With lots of plants and great food.” She gave my father a fond look. “Especially now that we have the right chef.”

  As she spoke, she unwrapped plates and lined them up on the counter. Patrick took ingredients out of the refrigerator and began to chop something.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “We’ll sit at the counter,” said Zoey. “Patrick and I have already eaten, but we’ll have coffee with you. Why don’t you set out plates and glasses and silverware?”

  Relieved not to be idle, I took charge, giving Charlie the silverware so he’d have to do something other than stand there and glower. I assigned Sam the job of getting glasses and filling them with ice and water.

  “Very organized,” Patrick observed.

  “It’s something Kristy is famous for,” Charlie said. “Everyone who knows her knows that.”

  “I seem to remember that she had definite ideas about the way things worked,” Patrick said easily. He smiled at me and continued. “Not like her old man. But I’ve improved with age. One of the first rules of cooking is ‘clean up as you go along.’ ”

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing Patrick in the kitchen. But now he moved with assurance. In no time at all we were sitting in front of plates heaped with salad and what Patrick called California chicken sandwiches, made with grilled chicken and homemade mayonnaise on dark, rosemary-scented bread. The salad had avocado and something called jicama and all kinds of different lettuces that I didn’t recognize. The dressing, Zoey told us, was the Greenhouse special dressing.

  It was awfully fancy for a “simple” lunch, and it was delicious.

  “When did you learn to cook?” asked Charlie. I wondered if he’d also tried to remember Patrick in the kitchen and failed.

  “Yeah. This is decent. It was nice of you to stop by the restaurant and pick it up for us,” Sam said.

  “No problem,” said Zoey. “It’s my restaurant.”

  “And I’m not just a good cook now, I’m the chef,” Patrick added.

  “Chef,” I repeated blankly.

  “Chef,” Patrick said. “You know, those guys with white hats that you see on television. Only I don’t wear the white hat.”

  “At the restaurant?” I asked. “The Greenhouse?”

  “That’s the one. I know the boss.” He smiled at Zoey.

  “I thought you were a sportswriter,” Sam said, forgetting he was still chewing a bite of sandwich.

  Patrick shrugged. “I changed my mind. Oh, I still do a little freelance writing, but my career wasn’t exactly big-time.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything.

  “It wasn’t my idea, actually,” Patrick said. “I did an article on a football player who had wrecked his knees and gone to the Culinary Institute of America out here. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I’m in cooking school at night, just for the heck of it. That’s when I met Zoey. She was taking a restaurant management course.”

  We’d finished lunch. Zoey jumped to her feet. “Why don’t you show everyone to their rooms, Patrick, and I’ll clean up. Then we can take a little tour of Sausalito.”

  * * *

  Sausalito, Zoey told us, had started out as a little fishing village. Now it was every bit the bustling tourist town that it looked, but it was still fun to walk around and see the sights. And Patrick made an excellent tour guide. We ended the afternoon at the Greenhouse, which was set back on a hill just above the town. We drank mugs of mochaccino with whipped cream, and even Charlie seemed to relax. He talked easily enough to Zoey about school and his car.

  But he fell silent when Patrick proudly showed off the kitchen and introduced us to the sous-chef, Juanita Alvarez, who was there checking on deliveries.

  “What does a sous-chef do, exactly?” I asked.

  “It’s like being the assistant chef,” said Juanita. “I’m in charge of cutting things up, getting ingredients ready, stuff like that.”

  “Tonight you’re the chef in charge,” Patrick said. “Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” Juanita said. Someone pushed through the back door with an enormous stack of boxes labeled CERTIFIED ORGANIC, and Juanita began flipping through the papers on her clipboard. “Welcome to California,” she called over her shoulder as she took the invoice from the delivery person.

  “We’re having dinner a little late tonight,” said Zoey. “I’m going to stay at the restaurant for a while. I’ll be home about eight or so, when things start to slow down, and we’ll eat then.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. The more I was around Zoey, the more I liked her — even though I felt vaguely guilty about it. But I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  * * *

  We offered to help with dinner, but after he let us set the table, Patrick sent us out to explore the winding roads of his neighborhood. We walked on the wide gravel shoulder because there weren’t any sidewalks. Most of the time, we only knew where houses were by the mailboxes at the end of curved driveways. The houses themselves were set back among the trees, out of sight.

  We walked without talking much, whether from tiredness or a sense of being overwhelmed, it was hard to say. When the sun was beginning to go down, we headed back to Patrick’s house. As we trudged up the back steps, we could see the table, candles glowing softly. Harp music was playing, and Zoey’s car was back.

  Patrick looked up as we walked in. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Wash your hands, then dinner is served.”

  The table was massive and round. Patrick sat in the chair closest to the kitchen. Zoey insisted on taking the chair with its back to the window, so that the rest of us could enjoy the view.

  “Maybe one day this week we’ll go into San Francisco,” she told us as we ate.

  “Cool,” said Sam.

  We were silent for a little while, concentrating on the elegant dinner Patrick had prepared. “This is good,” I offered at last.

  “Pasta primavera,” said Patrick. “Simple and basic and good for you.”

  “It looks like pasta with a bunch of vegetables,” Sam said.

  “Got it in one,” Patrick answered. “That’s what it is.”

  Looking around the table, I couldn’t help comparing this with the family dinner we’d had the week before, the one that Patrick’s phone call had interrupted. The noise of conversation and the chink of plates and forks and the easy informality back home contrasted sharply with the candlelit table at which I now sat, where everyone — or almost everyone — seemed to be on their best behavior. The only thing the two meals had in common was food with an unfamiliar name.

  “We have a lot to do before this Saturday,” Zoey said. “Unless you guys brought your own tuxedos.”

  “Tuxedos,” repeated Sam in a horrified voice. He turned accusing eyes toward Patrick. “You didn’t say anything about tuxedos.”

  Patrick laughed. “Well, it’s going to be a formal wedding, small but elegant. Six o’clock in the evening … so I want you guys to have tuxes, and Kristy, Zoey’ll take you shopping for a smashing new dress.”

  “A new dress?” I croaked, caught by surprise. “But I brought a dress.” I didn’t add that I’d brought my only dress. Who needs more than one?

  But Patrick didn’t pay me any heed. He rolled on, full of plans. “And I need you two guys to give me moral support. I haven’t even rented a tux for me yet.”

  I studied Patrick as he talked. He was being majorly charming. He launched into a story about a borrowed tuxedo that he’d worn to an awards ceremony, and how he’d split the seat of the pants right before he’d had to go up on the stage. I couldn’t help but laugh. Charlie even grinned a little. Patrick was working hard to put us all at ease, to make us enjoy ourselves — and to
make us like him. Was this a new Patrick I was seeing? Or was it the same old Patrick who had walked out on his family without seeming to care at all? He’d been charming then too, I remembered.

  “Plus, I have another announcement,” Patrick said, looking like a self-important little kid.

  “Now?” Zoey began. “Oh, Patrick, do you think …”

  His eyes flashed with annoyance and I saw the corners of his mouth go down. “Yes, I do, Zoey,” he said, like a brat.

  That was another side of Patrick I remembered as well, that quick sharpness whenever he didn’t get his way or when, as a child, I’d been slow to understand what he’d been trying to teach me.

  Just as suddenly, the moment of temper was gone and Patrick was grinning broadly. “I want you guys, Sam, Charlie, to be my best men at the wedding. I know it’s a little unusual to have two, but hey, you’re my sons.”

  What about David Michael? I wondered. Patrick had a third son. Had he forgotten?

  Sam said, “Really? What do we have to do?”

  “Stand with me in front of the minister, make sure I don’t faint or lose the ring. And look terrific in your tuxes.”

  “Cool,” said Sam. “I’m in.”

  “No,” said Charlie flatly. “You’ll have to make do with only one of your three sons.”

  Charlie had not forgotten David Michael either.

  He took another bite of pasta and chewed fiercely. We all stared at him.

  I saw that flash of anger in my father’s face again. Zoey intervened before he could speak. “Are you sure, Charlie? Why don’t you think about it before you make a decision?”

  Deliberately, Charlie put down his fork. He pushed his chair back and stood up. His face was stern, and once again he looked much older than his seventeen years.

  Patrick had regained a grip on his temper. He said, “Hey, do your old man a favor, will you? I promise I won’t ask you to do it again.”

  “No,” said Charlie. I saw Patrick’s eyes narrow. But I also saw the hurt look that crossed his face.

  “Charlie,” he said, in a softer, almost pleading voice.

  Charlie said, “What right do you have to ask me to be your best man? You left when I was ten, in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Asking me to be your best man isn’t going to make us good buddies. And it’s not going to make you into the father you’ve never been to me. Or to Sam or David Michael, in case you’ve forgotten him.”

  “That’s enough!” Patrick said, no trace of pleading or sadness in his voice now. “Your behavior is way out of line.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Charlie. “You’re the one who behaved badly. But of course that probably slipped your mind.” He dropped his napkin by his plate and stomped down the hall to the bedroom.

  Charlie was making a habit of stomping away from the dinner table, I thought drowsily as I woke up the next morning. But Zoey had been cool about it. She’d said, “Well, give him time and some space. Maybe he’ll change his mind,” and then she had changed the subject. Sam and I had followed her lead and soon I’d found myself genuinely interested in her descriptions of life in the restaurant business.

  Patrick had not taken it so easily. He showed his anger throughout dinner, remaining tight-lipped and monosyllabic in his answers when we tried to include him in the conversation. It wasn’t until dessert that he had loosened up again.

  I climbed out of bed and peered out my window. Wow, what a gloomy day, I thought. Only then did I catch a glimpse of silvery pink, low on the horizon, and realize how early it must be. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 8:30 in the morning Stoneybrook time, but only 5:30 A.M. Sausalito time. The thought that I was actually up at such an amazingly early hour suddenly made me sleepy. Yawning so hugely I thought my jaws would crack, I crawled back into bed.

  When I awoke again, it was to the sound of a voice, loud and off-key, singing, “Time to shop, time to shop, time to sho-o-o-o-op!” A moment later, I heard a tap on my door and then Zoey’s voice saying, “Kristy? Time to wake up.”

  Downstairs, I found Patrick, Zoey, Charlie, and Sam. Zoey smiled at me over the cup of coffee she was cradling in her hands. “Charlie tells me that you’re not much for dresses,” she said.

  “Uh,” I replied. “Well …”

  “Nonsense,” said Patrick. “What woman doesn’t like to shop for clothes?”

  “Plenty of women, Patrick,” said Zoey. “In fact, you spend more time shopping for clothes than I do, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Wow. Zoey didn’t take any guff from Patrick, I thought. I expected to see the quick snap of anger in his eyes, especially when Sam gave a muffled snort. But Patrick only grinned at Zoey, and all I could see in his eyes was affection. “Possibly you are right. Who am I to argue with so beautiful a lady?”

  Zoey rolled her eyes and then said to me, “Don’t worry, Kristy. We’ll make this as quick and painless as possible.”

  Charlie declined to join us, as I had known he would. “You don’t have to look at tuxes,” Patrick urged. “Do a little sightseeing.”

  “Thanks,” said Charlie. “But I want to catch up on my reading.”

  “Reading?” said Sam, looking at Charlie as if he had dropped in from Mars. He and I both knew that the only things Charlie ever read were The Sporting News and the sports pages of the newspaper.

  “My summer reading,” said Charlie.

  “You brought a book with you?” Sam persisted.

  Charlie reddened. Before he could answer, Zoey said, “Well, if you get bored with your book, we have plenty of others. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” said Charlie. He added, somewhat grudgingly, “Have fun.”

  To my surprise, I did. When we reached the shops of Sausalito, Patrick insisted we “synchronize watches.” We agreed to meet back at the house in two hours (and I tried not to groan out loud at the prospect of shopping, for a dress, for two whole hours). Then Zoey and I were off.

  I’d opted for jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, tucked in, the neat but casual statement. Zoey was wearing baggy khaki pants and a bright green crocheted vest over a yellow-and-blue-striped cotton chemise. Heavy espadrilles with colorful ribbons were on her feet. Her only jewelry was a ring with a small, square-cut emerald that hung on a gold chain around her neck. It was a look that suited her and showed a flair that reminded me of Claudia, the fashion arbiter and designer of the BSC.

  Our first stop was a fancy dress shop. “Nothing pink or blue for you,” Zoey said immediately, to my relief. “And you need a simple line, I think. A slip dress, maybe, but with a little more substance.”

  “Okay,” I said. These were the sorts of words that Claudia and Stacey, a New York fashion statement herself, sometimes tossed around at BSC meetings. I just hoped a slip dress didn’t mean I would be going around in my underwear like last year’s rock star.

  I won’t say it was easy, exactly. I mean, I was totally embarrassed when I got stuck in one dress that wrapped and tied in about six places. I couldn’t figure out how to finish tying it, and I couldn’t untie it either.

  After a long struggle during which, fortunately, I didn’t rip anything, I gave up. “Help,” I yelled from the dressing room.

  No one answered. Would I have to lurch out into the store, tied up like a Christmas gift reject?

  “Help!” I yelled again, more loudly.

  “Kristy?”

  “Zoey,” I said. “Could you give me a hand in here?”

  The dressing room door opened. To her credit, Zoey didn’t laugh. But I could see the smile in her eyes.

  “If you get me out of this thing, you can laugh,” I told her.

  “Okay,” said Zoey. She unwound me, then sat down on the little stool in the dressing room and roared.

  I had to laugh too. It was pretty funny.

  Fortunately, we weren’t tied up in dress shopping much longer (ha-ha). In fact, with Zoey’s expert guidance, we found a dress at the second shop we went to. And it
was velvety (wow — even I was impressed), colored a deep burgundy. And it didn’t look like a slip to me, with its regular neckline, right at my collarbone, and short sleeves that showed off my tanned arms. Zoey complimented me on them. “Strong,” she observed. “With good muscles. I know women who exercise madly to have arms like that.”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Well, I do exercise a lot, I guess. I mean, I like to play softball.”

  We agreed that the dress was perfect, and before I knew it, I was standing on the sidewalk a free woman. Well, practically. Zoey said we still had to find some shoes but declared that we deserved a break first.

  We strolled through the town and I thought about the fact that, so far, shopping hadn’t been as painful an ordeal as I had expected. I liked Zoey more and more.

  We found a seat on the wharf overlooking the water and sat down. Zoey stretched her legs out and said, “This is such a luxury. Sometimes I feel as if I’m on my feet twenty-four/seven at the restaurant.” Her hand went up to the ring on the gold chain and she slid it back and forth absently.

  “That’s a nice ring,” I said.

  She smiled. “My engagement ring. I wear it on a chain because I got out of the habit of wearing rings after I lost a few zillion of them by taking them off and putting them down while I worked in kitchens. At least one was kneaded into bread dough and was never seen again.” She looked down at the ring. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Your father has excellent taste, if I do say so myself.”

  “I guess,” I said, not sure what to say.

  Zoey turned to look at me. “This situation can’t be easy for you, Kristy.”

  “Uh, well,” I said. “I guess not. I mean, not exactly.”

  “You know what? My father has been married four times.” She laughed. “You could say, in one sense, that he’s the marrying kind. He just had his fourth wedding a few months ago.”

  “Did you go?”

  “I catered it,” said Zoey. “It turned out to be fun, in a weird way. But I’ll tell you, even when you hit forty, it isn’t easy seeing your dad marrying a woman who isn’t your mom, no matter how nice she is.”