I think about Janice knowing Jane, and Enrique finding me the job. What if I had never opened that door? I wouldn’t be standing here. The psychic was right—all our decisions are connected.
I notice a framed picture of a younger Jane, walking on what looks like a Montreal sidewalk with a dark man in a suit. “Have you ever been married?”
“No. Came close once, but I don’t think I’m the marrying type. I’m married to this place!”
“Do you have other family?”
“Just a sister. We sort of go in and out of each other’s lives. I feel that families are like braids. You drift apart but always come back together.”
All of a sudden, her face lights up.
“You know, I was thinking. Maybe I could write you a reference for Le Cordon Bleu.”
I’m starting to understand that somehow I have become a person to whom good things happen. Not that I’ve had a lot of bad things happen to me in the past, but there’s been nothing amazing, either. “I don’t know what to say. Like I told you, it would be a dream to study at CB.”
“Wow, you’ve already got the lingo. You know what? I have a slide show from all my travels. Would you like to watch it sometime?”
“I would love to.”
“Great. Now, what are you going to do about your dads?”
“Well, I guess when I go home and they ask me about my trip, I’ll say, ‘It was great. I cooked a meal in my mother’s restaurant.’ They’ll laugh, then get uncomfortable, and I’ll begin to explain it all. Although I’m not sure everything can be explained.”
We pull the lasagna out of the oven, and the cheese is perfectly browned, our homemade red sauce bubbling over the edges.
“The secret ingredient,” I say.
“What?”
I tell her about the chef I met when I was a kid. The cook’s handprint on the dish. “Maybe we’re that for each other,” I say hopefully.
She smiles and says, “Maybe so.”
CHAPTER 30
While Lola paints her toenails, I fill her in on everything. My birth, the lasagna, the MS.
“Wow.”
“You don’t even know. But I knew there would be some kind of catch. I mean, it’s already perfect that she’s a chef who lives less than two hours from me. But it kills me—like, why does she have to be … afflicted? It makes me want to throw something.”
Lola laughs, and then looks at me very seriously. “How bad is her MS?”
“I don’t know. She was vague about it.”
“Well, the important thing is to make the best of now. Lord knows I’m learning that with Mum. We’ve played a million card games since she told me.”
As I watch the waves crashing in the distance outside our window, I notice a flock of birds following the lazy arm of the coastline. Thinking about my mother’s MS suddenly makes everything with Theo seem less important, not so end-of-the-world. I know that, no matter what, I will survive this.
After a while, we start to pack. When I’m finished with everything else, I pick up the cookbook to put it in my bag. For the first time I notice a little gap in the pages, as if they’re warped, and open it there. I see a tiny old black-and-white picture taped to the bottom of the page, and my jaw falls open in awe.
It’s Rose and Kurt! They’re dancing, with one arm around each other and their free arms held up, their hands clasped. I turn the picture over and see the date and an address written on it. I grab Lola’s phone and look up the address. It still exists, and is less than an hour away from the hotel, in the opposite direction from home.
“Lola,” I whisper. “Can I ask you one last favor?”
“Of course. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There’s somewhere else I need to go. Do you think we could drive to San Juan Capistrano before we head home?” I show her the picture of Rose and Kurt, the address on the back. “I want to see if she still lives there.”
“It’s so close! I can’t believe it. It’s like … fate. Yes, let’s. We can leave whenever, as I already booked the room for another night so we could leave after checkout today. It’s a beautiful drive too.”
She’s right. The road bends in slight curves, dipping and rising over the arid hills, exposing crescents of white sand and scattered sailboats on the azure ocean. The air is clean after the storm, and the world has a shine to it. Improbable as it is, I feel like everything’s going to work out.
About forty-five minutes later we arrive at the address, a weathered green house on the little strand off the beach. Lola parks and says, “I’ll leave you to it. I’m just going to take a wee bit of a walk.”
I step up to the door and don’t even think before knocking. I’m holding the picture in my hand. This is where Rose lived. A kid answers, around my age, maybe a bit older. He’s wearing a Rip Curl sweatshirt and jeans, and his hair is bleached blond from the sun. I can tell immediately that he’s a surfer. He smiles and seems pleasantly surprised to see me. His teeth are perfectly aligned, and his lips are plump. He looks like he could model for a surf magazine. Maybe he has.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering—does someone named Rose Lane live here?”
He looks confused, but then smiles again. “She was my grandmother. Why do you ask?”
Oh my God, she did have another child. I pull the cookbook out of my bag and show him the name on the inside cover.
He flips through it, stopping at some of the notes. “This is a trip.”
I just nod, a little humbled by how ridiculously hot he is without even trying.
“Hey, do you want to come in?”
I look out and see Lola on the beach in the distance. “Sure, for a few minutes. My friend is taking a walk. I’m Olivia, by the way.”
“Cool.”
Surfer Boy puts some Oreo cookies on a plate and serves us lemonade. As I’m telling him the story, I feel like he might think I’m crazy. But he seems more interested the more I explain.
“So I just kind of made up my own story from the little bits and pieces in the book. And I guess I’m here to find out what really happened.”
“Well, I know that Grandma Rose and Grandpa Kurt had my mom late in life, and that she was their only child. Where did you get the cookbook again?”
“L.A.”
“Yeah, she lived there for a while, I know that. But I don’t really remember much else about her. I was, like, seven when she died. You know, my mom should be home any minute. She’d be cool with talking to you.”
Surfer Boy has this intelligent way of enunciating his words that belies his surfer image. Does he really not know how cute he is?
“Really? That would be great.”
He tells me about this surfing championship he wants to win, how he came in third last year. When he starts in on sponsorships, I’m lost in his eyes, pools of grayish blue.
A few minutes later, in walks his mother. She’s tan, wearing a flowing sundress, and has chopsticks in her hair. A hip surfer mom who could either send us to bed or give us some beers, depending on her mood.
“I leave you alone for half an hour and you’re entertaining pretty young ladies?” she says to him. I can tell they have more of a friend-type relationship, like me and Bell.
Surfer Boy blushes, and it’s ridiculously adorable. “Olivia has a cookbook that belonged to Grandma,” he says, and takes it off the table and hands it to her.
“Hi, Olivia, I’m Eloise,” she says, reaching out her hand. “But people call me Ellie.”
I can’t blink. I am frozen. Her hand stays in the air. I try desperately to act normal and form words.
“You were named after …”
“My mother’s friend Eloise Lautner, why?”
I give her the book and she starts flipping through the pages. “What did she do? Write her life story in here?”
“Not really,” I say. “But I kind of made some assumptions.”
We all take a cookie.
&nb
sp; “I guess I just got curious about a few things,” I say. Eloise pours herself some lemonade and says, “Well, I’ll help if I can.”
I think of all the questions I have, but don’t want to overdo it, so I start with a simple one. “Did Eloise also have a husband at war?”
“Yes. But he never made it back.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes. She’s been with the same woman for twenty-five years. They live in Topanga Canyon.”
Surfer Boy is baffled that I know more about his family than he does. I was right. Eloise was a lesbian.
“And your mother and Eloise, did they reconcile?”
She gives me a funny look. “I’m not following,” she says.
How do I get into it? I’m losing the line between what I fabricated and what is turning out to be real.
“Well, there’s some notes in there that refer to them that made me think they had a … falling-out. I think it had to do with the miscarriage?”
Now Surfer Boy is wigging out. “What?”
Eloise looks at her son and says, “Your grandmother lost a child before me. I’ve told you.” Then she turns back to me. “My mother was upset about that, as any parent would be, but their ‘falling-out,’ as you say, was due to something else. And I never quite knew what that was.”
I do, I think. But there’s no way I’m saying anything.
“When she was dying, a few years after my father passed, Eloise was there. She was the person who actually watched her die.”
I can barely contain the emotion that is spreading over my face. Surfer Boy looks down at his shoes. I think of the line in that Death Cab for Cutie song: “Love is watching someone die.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” Ellie says.
“Nothing, it’s just, I guess we all need someone there when we go,” I say.
“Hmm,” Surfer Boy says, “this is getting sort of gloomy.”
I smile and stand up. “Listen, I’m so sorry to have just showed up here, but I got attached to your family through the book, and I was so curious. And it doesn’t surprise me, but you two are super nice.”
Ellie gives me a hug and looks me right in the eye. “We try,” she says.
“Ellie, if I left that here,” I say, pointing to the cookbook, “do you think you could give it to Eloise?”
“You know what? Maybe I can arrange for you to do that yourself. Would that be better?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“Well, I’ve got to go wash up. So nice meeting you,” she says.
“You don’t even know,” I say, smiling like a dork.
Ellie leaves the kitchen, and Surfer Boy writes down his phone number on a notepad that’s shaped like a surfboard, so that I can contact him in the future. Then he writes his name in block letters:
BLAKE.
“Well, I should go, but if it’s not too stalkery, I will totally call.”
“It can’t really get any more stalkery,” he says through a smile. “But seriously, please do. Maybe we can hang out.” He leans forward a little, and I feel like he’s going to kiss me. I back up slightly, only because if I get closer I might kiss him back.
“Sounds good.”
He reaches past me to open the door. The wispy blond hairs on his tanned forearm brush lightly against my cheek. I thank him again and try my best not to trip going down his porch stairs.
When I get to the car, Lola is already inside, sending a text to someone. She stops and looks at me with questioning eyes.
“She’s not alive, but I met her grandson and her daughter,” I tell her.
“Really?”
We pull out of the parking spot and I open the window a little.
“Yes.”
“So, was he cute or what?”
“Beyond. The crazy thing is, you know the whole life I created for these people? It’s basically accurate.”
“I guess, knowing you, that shouldn’t surprise me. Did you get his digits?”
“You know it.”
“Ahhh!” Lola screeches excitedly, slapping her hands on the steering wheel.
The rest of the way back to the hotel, I close my eyes and let the sea breeze blow on my face, and think about all the things that have happened in the last two months. I think about how Rose’s and Kurt’s lives were far from perfect, but they made their relationship work. They had a beautiful family. I think about how Rose needed more at one point, but as it turned out, everything she needed she had with Kurt, and within herself. I am so lost in thought, the ride goes really quickly. As we pull into the hotel, there is a limo pulling out. The woman in the backseat has a streak of gray in her hair, and she looks at me and smiles. There’s something in her clear eyes that startles me. I take a quick breath in, and Lola says, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say as I watch her disappear down the road. Was that the psychic?
I remember what she said when we left each other the first time. If you need me, I will be there.
The hair was the same, and there was something in her smile, like she knew I was going to cross her path. Was it her, or am I completely mad, as Lola would say?
“I think I’m seeing things,” I say.
When we get into the elevator I allow myself a smile. The couple next to me must think I’m smiling at them, but I’m just elated by how crazy everything is, how unexpected life can be. As if to prove my point, when we get back to our room, Theo is sitting on the floor outside the door, reading a cycling magazine. A T-shirt hugs the contours of his broad chest, and his strong, shaved legs are curled under him.
“Theo?”
He looks scared I might hit him or something. Lola turns back toward the elevator and says, “I’m just going to grab some tea downstairs.”
I turn toward Theo, who says, “Liv, Hope told me you came by. I’m so sorry you had to see that. It wasn’t …”
“It wasn’t what?”
“It was a rehearsal. She was my scene partner.”
“Really?”
We go inside the room and he says, “You know, we may have gone a little fast. The girl you saw was part of my acting thing, but there was someone else. Someone I met up north.”
“I knew it.”
“I didn’t think I’d miss her, but I did, a little. Anyway, I found out she’s with someone else now. Besides, it wasn’t realistic, being long-distance and all.”
“Well, we never said we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I just wish you hadn’t acted like we were.”
Theo walks over to the window and looks out. “I know. But maybe we can start again? Slowly?”
I think about Blake, his number in my pocket. I remember Lola telling me once that the person you lose your virginity to is usually not the person you end up with. Still, Theo looks pretty adorable in the wash of sunlight filling the room.
“I’m not sure. Maybe,” I say, kind of under my breath. Then I decide to change the subject. “Did you get the part?”
“I’m short-listed, whatever that means. I don’t think I’m going to do it, though. It’s weird, I’m not desperate like some of the other kids I’m up against. My heart’s not totally in it … not like when I’m riding.”
He brings out a brown paper bag that has a small chocolate cake and a carton of raspberries in it.
“Nice touch with the raspberries,” I tell him.
“I’m not all that bad, am I?”
“Jury’s out.”
He smiles like I’m kidding, but I’m not sure I am. Bell always told me there’s a half-truth behind every joke.
We take turns putting on our suits in the bathroom and go down to the beach. The sun is strong, and the sand is almost too hot to walk on. Theo lays out a towel, and we both sit. I show him a picture of my mother, one she gave me. She’s standing with the older man who cleans the floors.
“She’s beautiful!” he says.
“Well, she definitely has a … presence.”
“What’s with the cane?”
“Mmm.
It’s complicated. But what isn’t? I’m glad I found her. But I had an epiphany, sort of. I realized that sometimes you have to search for something to realize you had it all along.”
“That makes sense. Sort of,” Theo says.
“It’s just—I thought this huge part of my life was missing, but even though I’m so happy I found her, I think I’ve figured out I don’t really need her. The truth is, I’ve always had everything I need. Maybe that’s the secret ingredient—knowing what you have.”
Some seagulls swerve over our heads and land near the shore with a flourish.
“Tell me this,” I say. “Do you think there’s some grand scheme to our lives and we just have to, like, give in to it?”
Theo thinks for a minute, then says, “Something like that.”
I tilt my head back. The sky is so bright I feel like someone painted it there—a big unknown, a great escape.
“Let’s go,” I say.
I jump up and sprint toward the edge of the sea. I gain speed and leap over the first wave, then another. Then I am underwater, holding my breath and kicking fast, with no end in sight. The definition of freedom. What was I waiting for?
I dive a little deeper, and finally come up for air.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my agent, Mitchell Waters: thank you for going the extra mile in a race I couldn’t be running without you.
To my über-editor extraordinaire, Rebecca Short: I thank my lucky stars on a daily basis for having someone as keen and clever as you on my side. You rock.
To my friends who allowed me to shack up and write in their beautiful homes: Bill Candiloros of Ft. Lauderdale, Steve and Chris of Water Island, Elaine and Marsha of Miami, Carole and Mike of Nantucket. (Can you tell I like to write by the ocean?)
The Secret Ingredient Page 16