I hesitated. John’s mom, Cheryl, had worked like a dog to provide for her boys: second jobs, third shifts, whatever she had to do. No one to pick up the slack, ever. Except John. He was only nine when Cheryl started to leave him alone to watch his brother. Too much responsibility, I’d always thought, for such a little boy.
But he was willing to help. If I was willing to accept it.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “if you see something that needs doing, you could just . . . do it? Like the other night, when you took the kids up for their bath without asking. That was really thoughtful.”
John stared at me a moment. He nodded once, confident now that he had a mission. A plan. “I could help with the Christmas shopping. Buy presents for the kids.”
I blinked. Christmas shopping? But why not? Did I really think it would stunt our children’s development if John bought them a toy?
“That would be great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Great,” John repeated. He gave me a coffee-flavored peck. “We’ll see you later.”
“Bye, my babies! Have fun.”
It was good for the twins to get away from me sometimes, I told myself as I pulled out of the driveway. To have special bonding time with their daddy. It was good for John.
Maybe it would be good for me, too.
* * *
At the farmers’ market, the pumpkins and tomatoes had been replaced by apples, pecans, and first-frost collards, sweet from the cold. Jars of local honey and pickled okra gleamed on makeshift shelves. The tree farmers and Boy Scouts were doing brisk business in Fraser firs and wreaths, loading trees into pickups, securing car trunks with cord. The fresh pine scent swept over me, sharp as memory.
Two weeks until Christmas. I still needed to buy our tree. Or maybe two trees, one for our house and one for the farm.
Maybe Jo would help decorate when she got home, I thought hopefully, setting up my stall. Part of me wanted to have everything ready for my sisters’ homecoming, to make Christmas for them the way our mother always had, to hang the star on the barn and the wreath on the door. Put candles in the windows and strings of lights everywhere, looping over the crepe myrtle and azalea bushes, twining the banister and railings of the porch until the house glowed inside and out.
The Saturday morning shoppers streamed past my stall, oblivious to the whiteboard sign with prices lettered in my mother’s handwriting. Ignoring me, except to ask sometimes, kindly, how my mother was doing.
“Better, thank you,” I lied.
Except she wasn’t. Not really. Since the fall, her pain seemed worse, and she complained about the way the meds made her feel, lethargic and then irritable. The doctor had ordered a narcotic patch “to even things out.” But it was too soon to tell if it was working.
I rearranged the display by the cashbox, jars of chèvre marinating in golden olive oil. They looked nice, peppercorns studding the white cheese like little jewels. When Amy was younger—twelve or thirteen—she used to decorate the jars for the farmers’ market. I remembered her at the dining room table, earnestly tying quilting scraps with bits of ribbon around the lids. But Amy was in Paris.
Somebody called my name. Carl Stewart, the sweet potato farmer, a feed cap pulled over his reddish hair.
“Hey, Carl. What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you only sold in organic grocery stores now.”
He flashed a smile. “I’m a single farmer. Where else am I going to meet hot women?”
I laughed.
“Anyway, local and organic is what it’s all about. You don’t get more local and organic than the farmers’ market.” He ran an assessing eye over my stall, as practiced and inoffensive as the look he’d given me. “How’s business?”
“A little slow,” I admitted. “Maybe I should hand out lollipops. Like at the bank.”
“Not lollipops, samples.”
“I was hoping to sell cheese, not give it away.”
“Just a taste.” Carl winked. “Show them what they’re missing. Got any crackers?”
“Crackers? No. But . . .” I watched across the way as Connie of Cupcake Confections handed a cookie to a toddler in a stroller. Samples. What a good idea. “Maybe I have something better.”
* * *
That’s two baguettes and a loaf of walnut bread,” Connie said a few minutes later. “You want me to throw in a couple of these little plastic knives?”
“That would be wonderful, thanks! What do I owe you?”
“Please.” Connie waved my money away. “If you hadn’t talked me through my loan application, I’d still be baking cupcakes in my kitchen. Tell your momma I said hi. And if anybody asks, you got your bread from Connie’s.”
Not everybody who took a sample bought cheese. But gradually a sort of line formed. The pile of bills in the cashbox grew.
“Meg, my dear, what are you doing here?”
Aunt Phee, wearing coral lipstick and a sweater set from Talbots. Her little dog stuck its head out of her bag, a matching bow in its topknot.
I tugged on the hem of my hoodie. Tucked my hair behind my ears. “Hey, Aunt Phee. Miss Wanda. I’m filling in for Momma today.”
“Selling cheese,” Aunt Phee said, in the tone somebody else might have used for Pushing drugs.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sniffed and fed a sample to Polly. “I’d think you’d have better things to do on a pretty Saturday morning.”
Aunt Phee wanted her grandnieces in Junior League, not toiling on the farm. “I’m helping out while Momma’s in rehab,” I said. “It might be another month, the doctor said.”
“Bless her heart,” Miss Wanda said.
“Your poor father,” Aunt Phee said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t you mean, poor mother?”
Aunt Phee’s mouth puckered like the end of a coral balloon. “Abby has plenty of people making sure she rests. Bringing her little meals on trays. Who’s looking after Ashton?”
I could have argued that my father was a grown man, perfectly capable of looking after himself.
But of course he never had. A son of privilege, he’d grown up cared for by devoted domestics at Oak Hill, the big white house that belonged now to Aunt Phee. Yes, he had turned his back on his family’s wealth to go into the ministry. He’d given up a comfortable living to serve in Iraq. But his basic needs had always been provided for by his congregation. By the army. By his wife.
By me.
“I’m doing my best,” I said.
“And how is your dear husband?” Miss Wanda asked.
“He’s home today. Taking care of the twins.”
“They grow up so fast,” Miss Wanda said. “When are you having more?”
I felt a twitch of sympathy for Jo. “That’s all anybody ever asks,” my sister had complained on one of her visits home. “‘When are you getting married? When are you having kids?’ Like my only purpose in life is to procreate.”
I summoned a smile. “We’re not in any rush. When it happens, it happens.”
The Yorkie whined, eyes fixed on the plate of cheese. “You don’t want to wait too long,” Aunt Phee said, feeding another sample to her dog. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“No kidding. I feel like I’m dying standing here.”
Aunt Phee emitted a snort of laughter, surprising us both.
“Did you want to buy any cheese today?” I asked, changing the subject.
“If the good Lord wanted us to eat cheese from goats, He would never have created cows.”
“Polly seems to like it,” I said.
Aunt Phee humphed. “I guess we could take some of that chèvre. You tell your father to come for dinner,” she said as I wrapped it up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Need another baguette?” Carl asked.
I looked over my dwindli
ng pile of samples. “I can’t leave my stall.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
While I was counting money, Belle, Sallie’s sister, surfaced from the crowd, her young children in tow. “Meg! I didn’t realize you worked here.”
“Just helping out Momma. Is this Logan? And Harper!” I smiled warmly at the kids. The little girl scuffed the toe of her pink UGGs on the ground. “You guys have gotten so big! Would you like to taste the cheese?”
Brightening, the child reached for a sample.
“No, no, Harper. She’s not allowed to have cheese. Too much F-A-T,” Belle explained, spelling the word out like something obscene. “Logan can have a piece, though.”
The girl’s face turned red. I smiled pleasantly at Belle, aware of Carl, hovering with the bread. “If you want a healthy snack for your children, you can’t do better than goat cheese. Goat’s milk is lower in fat than cow’s milk. High in protein. And of course natural cheese doesn’t have all those nasty emulsifiers and extenders and hydrogenated oils you find in other cheese products.”
“How do you know all that?” Belle asked.
I’d looked it up on Google. “You forget, I grew up on a farm.”
“We-ell . . . I suppose a little taste wouldn’t hurt.”
I handed the kids samples and was rewarded with shy smiles.
“I’ll see you at Sallie’s tonight?” Belle asked.
I nodded. “Looking forward to it. I thought I’d bring some of the marinated feta.”
“Oh, I think she’s got the food covered.” Belle laughed. “Although, why not? We big girls need our healthy snacks, too.”
“I always had fantasies about dating a farmer’s daughter,” Carl said when she’d gone.
I laughed. “Oh, please.”
“It’s true.” He shifted out of my way so I could slice more bread. “I had a terrible crush on you in high school.”
“You didn’t even know me in high school.”
“You didn’t know me. I was only a freshman. Everybody knew you—the pretty senior on the homecoming court.”
I turned my head, surprised and suddenly uncertain.
He winked. “Not that I would have done anything about it then.”
I blushed. Not that I would do anything about it now. But it was nice to be, well, remembered. Noticed.
“So how about it?” Carl asked.
I stared at him blankly.
“The job,” he said. “Doing our books. It’s yours if you want it.”
Temptation tugged. I’d always liked adding things up. Numbers in columns. Problems with solutions. I shook my head. “I’ve never kept books for a business before. You must know somebody more qualified.”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “There’s just me now, and I can’t run the farm and do all the paperwork.”
“I’m sorry,” I said regretfully. “Between the twins . . . and Momma . . . I really don’t have the time.”
“Could you at least maybe take a look? Ma’s got her own special system, half on the computer and half paper files, and I can’t make heads or tails out of any of it.”
I smiled. “Sure, I could do that. Help you get organized.”
“Great.” He beamed. “That’s just great. When can you start?”
“After the holidays?” I suggested.
“Whatever suits you. Unless you want to start now, earn a little Christmas money.”
“Oh, you don’t need to pay me.”
“Sure I do. You’re doing me a big favor.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Held out my hand instead. “It’s a deal.”
He took my hand, tugged me forward, and kissed my cheek.
“Mommy, Mommy!” DJ and Daisy came darting through the legs of shoppers, holding up their adorable little arms. Where were their jackets?
“Hello, my babies.” I stepped away from Carl. “Where did you come from?”
“Daddy brung us.”
“We’re Christmas tree shopping,” John said.
I came around the table to give hugs. Raised my face for a brief, marital kiss. “What a nice surprise!” A memory stole over me like winter sunlight, John and me, shopping together for our first tree. Making love on the rug on Christmas morning, surrounded by tissue paper and the scent of pine. “Thanks for buying the tree. That’s one more thing off my list!”
John offered a hand to Carl, sizing him up. “I don’t think we’ve met. John Brooke.”
“Carl Stewart.”
They gripped hands a little too long, like arm wrestlers testing the competition.
“Carl has a farm stand, too. Over there.” I stood, waving vaguely in the direction of the river. “He’s been helping me.”
“So I see.” John gave me a level look. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I said.
“I’m just being nice so she’ll come work for me,” Carl said.
“Can I try that stuff in the jar?” a man asked.
“Marinated feta. Absolutely.” I twisted open a lid. “It’s a great appetizer. Or on salads.”
He bought two jars of feta. I tucked his money into the cashbox. Almost out of singles, I noticed. I should have brought more.
“Come with us, Mommy,” Daisy said.
“I wish I could, sweetie.” Without her barrettes, her butchered bangs made her look like a little hedgehog. I smoothed back her hair, smooching her forehead.
“Mommy’s busy,” John said. “We’ll get out of your way.”
“You’re not in the way.”
A woman layered in scarves and sweaters, her feet in sandals—very earthy, very arty—picked up a log of chèvre. “Excuse me, is this cheese organic?”
I looked to Carl for guidance.
“Probably not certified organic,” he said. “But humanely farmed and pasture grazed, am I right?”
I smiled at him gratefully. “Yes. And it’s local.”
“Cheese is cheese,” her husband said.
He was talking about my mother’s cheese. “Actually, cheese is an expression of the place where it’s made. Like wine. So a cheese made from local goats has a flavor you can’t get anywhere else.”
“I’ll take two,” the woman said.
I wrapped the cheese, tucked their money into the cashbox.
A familiar wail jerked my head up. “Mommy, Mommy!”
“Mommy’s busy.” John had hefted Daisy in his arms and was holding DJ firmly by the hand. “Let’s go.”
“I’m never too busy for my babies,” I protested. “I have to work, that’s all.”
“Right.” His gaze flicked to Carl. “Say good-bye, kids.”
“Bye, Mommy!”
“Bye!”
“Bye, my sweeties!” I gave them big, smacking kisses. “Ooh, your arms are cold. Where are your coats?”
DJ wriggled. “No coat.”
“It’s not that cold out,” John said.
“You’re right.” I started to unzip my hoodie. “Here, why don’t you—”
“Meg, they’re fine. Keep your sweatshirt. We’ll only be out a little while. You’re here all day.”
“Not all day,” I protested. “I’ll be home this afternoon. We’re going to Sallie’s tonight.”
He looked at me a long moment. Leaning forward, he kissed me, a quick, skimpy kiss like the punctuation at the end of a sentence. A period, not an exclamation point. “See you at home.”
I watched them go, three blond heads disappearing into the crowd.
CHAPTER 9
Jo
Iwriggled my toes in Wonder Woman socks under my alcove table. It was Saturday morning, and I was putting the finishing touches on my blog. The topic—family meal—was sure to appeal to my New York hipster foodie audience. I’d post
ed the recipes I’d made last night next to surreptitious photos of hotel pans heaped with food.
I’d wanted my dishes to wow Chef, to prove to him I was worthy of his trust. But for most of the staff, family meal was the main—sometimes the only—meal they got all day.
“Why are we here?” Chef had asked me.
“To feed people.”
I’d noticed that when the other chefs cooked, they prepared something hearty and filling, a pasta or a stew. So, resisting the urge to impress Chef with my technique (Ha. Like that was ever going to happen), I’d made comfort food from my childhood: smothered chicken, corn bread, and greens.
“This is fucking great, babe,” Lucas had said, digging in.
Ray, the sous, had been less enthusiastic. “I would have blanched the collards,” he said. But I noticed he took two helpings.
Too bad I didn’t get a picture of that. No photos of the crew gathered like a big, happy, dysfunctional family around the table, dishwashers and back runners, cooks and servers, checking their phones, joking and talking in a mix of English and Spanish. I couldn’t post anything that would identify them. Or me.
Unless someone recognized the food. But I hadn’t photographed all the dishes, I reassured myself. No one was going to identify Gusto based on a chicken recipe that wasn’t even on the menu.
I added a call to action at the bottom of my blog—What do YOU cook for a crowd?—before reading it over. Strategic content? Check. Long-tail keywords optimized for search? Check. Links to advertisers and related posts? Check and check. I’d learned a lot since those long-ago stories scribbled in my attic room. Or even since my first blog posts, written when I was still giddy with freedom, drunk on New York, swept off my feet by the experience of working in my first real restaurant kitchen under a Michelin-starred chef. Hungry: Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple was my love letter to the food scene in the city, written with all the sizzle of service and the freshness of infatuation.
But lately I’d had this nagging sense of . . . I don’t know. Something missing. As if I’d read everything before, on my own or someone else’s blog. The thought filled me with mild panic.
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