by Kim Barnouin
My dad grinned. “You know your mother and I would love that. Come harvest with me; you can check out all the views to see where you want to set up the ceremony and reception.” He pulled the wheelbarrow effortlessly.
“Good idea.” I followed toward the fields “What are we picking?”
“Mostly eggplant and zucchini. And I think the red peppers are ready. I’m making dinner for our new neighbors tonight—a family of six. When I told them I grow all the food we eat, they were skeptical, so I invited them to come see for themselves. I promised them the kids would eat every morsel of their dinner.”
“You must be making harvest pizza, then.” I lived on my dad’s pizzas when I was a kid.
“Sure am. And blueberry pie for dessert.”
“So funny that they don’t believe you can actually grow all the food you need.”
He nodded. “A lot of my neighbors were like that—until I invited them to dinner, and now they pay me for my wheat and fresh produce. Two families even have a standing order every Friday night for me to bring over two harvest pizzas and dessert.”
“Farm to table. That’s what I try to stick to at the restaurant. Buying only local ingredients from farmers’ markets. Good nutrition and good for the environment.”
You know all that gorgeous produce in your supermarket? Yeah, it looks good, but how long were those Maine blueberries in transit? Why buy broccoli stamped with Ecuador when you can buy it fresh a mile up the road? And did you really want to use Georgia peaches for your homemade cobbler when they were sitting on a truck for two thousand miles? Who knew what the hell they were sprayed with?
My dad could pluck some vegetables and legumes from the ground, grab some wheat from his mini-silo, grind it up, and serve the most delicious, healthiest burritos—with his kick-ass salsa—you’ve ever had. Straight from his farm to your table.
He wouldn’t let me pull the wheelbarrow for him, but didn’t seem to be short of breath or having trouble. Sometimes, such as now, when he didn’t look sick, I could almost forget he had cancer. “Nothing I love more than bringing in a full wheelbarrow and deciding what to make for dinner.” He smiled at me, surveying his fields.
I loved nothing more than seeing my dad out among the rows of crops: eggplant, corn, zucchini, peppers, tomatoes, potatoes, at least twenty varieties of lettuce, and every kind of bean imaginable. I plucked a peach from the old tree as we passed the barn and headed toward zucchini rows. I bit into the peach. Hellz yeah, this was a peach.
Suddenly, I had the wildest idea.
And maybe not that wild, either.
I glanced into the barn. If I could have transported the barn to Santa Monica, I would have opened my restaurant inside it.
Clementine’s No Crap Outpost, Carlton Cooper, executive chef. Farm to table, vegan.
At thirty by fifty feet, the barn was just the right size to add a kitchen and a small office. In the dining area, I imagined long, wood country tables, where diners would eat communal style, maybe some small tables for more intimate groupings.
My father had always talked of opening a restaurant someday, but he’d never let it go past talk.
This could work. My father’s dream could come true. I’d hire a small team for him and drive up a couple times a week.
Clementine’s No Crap Outpost. Bloody brilliant, as my British friend Alexander would say.
I had no time in my schedule to open a second restaurant, but I’d make time. The idea was too good, and it would make my father incredibly happy.
I’d spend some time figuring out the logistics, then get Zach’s business expertise, and once I had a real plan, I’d tell my dad.
Clementine’s No Crap Outpost. Hellz yeah!
Watching the faces of the Brutman family—a thirtysomething couple and their four children, who were ridiculously well behaved, I got even more juiced about the outpost. Granted, one of the kids pulled every vegetable off his pizza, and another one said the “cheese” tasted weird, but they gobbled up the farm-to-table meal, and the Brutmans couldn’t stop talking about how fresh the pizza crust was, how well the soy cheese melted and bubbled, how soft and flavorful the slices of zucchini and peppers and eggplant were.
While my mother was giving Molly Brutman the low-down on the best this and that in the area, and my dad was in the kitchen with Mike Brutman and the kids, showing them how to make their own pizzas, I slipped away outside and texted Zach.
Found the perfect place for our wedding. My parents’ farm. What do you think?
No answer. Not an hour later. Not three hours later.
Because he hated the idea? Because he regretted proposing? Changed his mind?
Finally, late that night, as the sound of crickets was lulling me to sleep, Zach texted back.
Agree it’s perfect. Let our wedding planner know. Z
“Darling, you can’t be serious,” Dominique said the next morning into my iPhone. “The wedding on a country farm? Three hours north of the city? I’m sure it’s quaint and all, but just imagine everyone’s expensive heels digging into dirt. Surely you understand it’s not ideal. I’ve barely gotten used to losing May seventh at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Zach and I both agree that the farm is perfect. This place is really special to me, Dominique. It’s more than just where I grew up—it’s what made me into who I am. Add in that Zach grew up in the area, and it couldn’t be more ideal.”
Dead silence. “Well, of course I’ll have to come see the venue.”
“I’m driving back tonight, so if you want to come up today . . .” Say no, that’s okay, I can’t, I’m busy, why don’t you just put me in charge of flowers?
“I’ll be there at five o’clock.”
She was as relentless as her stepdaughter. I gave her directions and went to tell my parents they were about to meet one of their in-laws. Dominique Jeffries Huffington and the Coopers in the same airspace. I could not imagine.
The shiny white Lexus SUV pulled in at exactly five o’clock, and naturally, a driver in uniform emerged and opened the passenger door. Dominique, in an outfit she probably wore only to ride horses, stepped onto the dirt driveway in her shiny flat-brown leather boots.
“Oh my,” she said, glancing around. “This really is a farm, isn’t it. I thought it might be more of a farm look.”
My parents’ three big dogs came bounding over to inspect the new arrival, and the look on Dominique’s face was priceless.
I laughed. “My parents raised three children on this farm—by planting, harvesting, and selling organic crops. Twenty varieties of lettuce alone.”
Dominique stared at me. “That’s lovely, darling, really. But you do realize that a wedding here just wouldn’t work. It’s simply too . . . rustic.”
“Think of it as a challenge, then,” I said, glancing around. “You have to admit that barn is gorgeous.”
She glanced at the old-fashioned, red barn, at the orange cat sitting in an empty wheelbarrow, and tilted her head, as if trying to see what the hell I was talking about.
“Clementine, I tell you this as family.” She leaned closer and whispered, “You’ve known Zach for what—a few months? I’ve known him his entire life. He doesn’t want to get married here. This isn’t Zachary. It may be you, but it’s not him. I’m sure he agreed to have the wedding here to make you happy, but, darling, don’t you want him to be happy too?”
I had to hand it to her; she was good at this. “Zach tells me the truth. If he didn’t want the wedding held here, he would have said so.”
She slightly shook her head as though I were a half-wit. “Darling, you’re so young. I’m only trying to help. Think about it and I’m sure you’ll come around.”
Deep breath, Clementine. In and out, count to five.
Let it go, I told myself, picturing Zach’s handsome face, watching his lips say those exact words. Let it go.
But a little part of me was busy wondering if she was right about Zach. Maybe he didn’t want to get marrie
d here. Maybe a fifty-acre organic-vegetable farm wasn’t exactly his dream location (if guys had a dream location) for the most important day of his life. Maybe that was why it had taken him so long to respond to my text. Maybe that was why he’d been so scarce lately.
Yeah right. Zach spoke his mind, just as I did. If he didn’t want to have the wedding on the farm, he would have said so. I did know Zach. Very well.
“You have to admit, the view is stunning,” I said.
She looked at me quizzically. “The view? Where?”
I laughed. “Dominique, do you see that tree line?” I pointed behind her to the far edge of the farm, where majestic evergreens made for a miniforest. “When the sun sets behind them, it lights up the sky in dark pink.”
“Trees are a view?”
“They are.”
“Well, I think I’ve seen enough. We’ll discuss this once you’ve had some time to think this through. Talk soon, darling.” Then she got back into her car without even meeting my parents.
This had to be good news. When she heard that my mind was made up, she’d fire herself as wedding planner for sure.
12
Via phone, Zach had assured me that, yes, he did want to get married at the farm, and that his mother would not only accept it, but get over it, even if she wouldn’t get over herself.
I didn’t believe it. I hadn’t heard a word from her in days. Which reminded me that I hadn’t heard much from Zach in the past few days, either. He’d extended his business trip, but he always called and texted throughout the days and nights when he was away. Even when he wasn’t. What was going on? Maybe he was just busy. But he was never too busy for me. Something felt . . . wrong.
On Sunday morning, while I was in the kitchen, drinking green tea and making a list of what supplies I needed for tonight’s specials at the restaurant and then a possible menu for the Outpost, my phone rang. I lunged for it, hoping it was Zach.
Dominique.
“Clementine, I’ve been thinking. You’re absolutely right. A wedding at your parents’ little farm is a challenge. And one I accept. I’ll need pictures of the grounds, from every angle. By tomorrow so that I can get started on my vision.”
Zach must have had a few words with her.
“Our vision, right?” I said. “I like beautiful too. But earthy. Natural. Simple.”
Silence, but only for a moment. “Of course. Our vision. But you just leave everything to me.”
Ha. There was no our in you just leave everything to me. “Just one thing, Dominique. Less is more.”
She let out something of a laugh. “No, darling. Less is always less. Bye now.”
With the click, I chucked my phone on my bed, imagining a three-piece classical band hovering by every table. She’d probably figure out a way to block the trees.
The thought of tables got me thinking about the Outpost again, a farm-to-table restaurant right in that beautiful red barn. I envisioned the menu, how the tables would be decorated. I was mentally listing ingredients for a vegetable harvest soup when I heard the front door open.
“Clementine! Tell me you’re home!”
I went around the glass-brick divider and found Sara beaming in the kitchen.
“Now it’s my turn to make mimosas because guess what?” She was barely able to contain the huge grin on her face.
“What?”
“This!” She held out her left hand. On her finger was a diamond ring. “I’m engaged too!”
What? But she wasn’t even sure if she liked Joe. “Sara, I’m so surprised!”
“I know! Me too. Joe and I were chowing down on ribs in the insane barbecue sauce he makes—I know, you’re grossed out—and he looked at me and said, “Sar, we’re so good together. You get me. You know how to deal with me. Let’s do it.”
Romantic, I thought, trying not to be too judgy.
And didn’t she just say a few weeks ago that she didn’t want to be “next”? That she’d join a nunnery before she’d ever marry Joe “Steak” Johansson?
“And I said, do what? And he said, ‘Duh, get married.’ I was so shocked. I mean, the subject of marriage hasn’t really ever come up. But the second he asked, I screamed yes without hesitation. So I know I must really want to marry him. How awesome is it that now I don’t even have to worry about getting a new roommate. I’ll be moving in with Joe.”
Okay, I had to tread carefully here. “I’m just surprised because the last time we talked about your relationship, you weren’t sure if you—”
“Clem, he asked, I answered, and I’m happy.” She turned away for a moment, staring at her ring. She held up her hand, and her smile was back. “I’m engaged!”
“I’m so happy for you.” I hugged her.
She disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door. I wondered if she was going for her phone or sucking in a deep breath in the privacy of her bedroom.
Sara made herself scarce all day; she was either on the phone or racing out to meet someone for coffee, and I was in and out all day, shopping at my favorite markets for fresh tofu and interesting breads for tonight’s specials. I’d barely had time to talk to her.
Sara. Married to Joe “Steak” Johansson.
Had she ever used the word love when she talked about him? I couldn’t remember a single instance. She often said they had fun together, that he was so over-the-top all the time that he was like a nonstop comedy routine. Once she told me that he was so intense she often needed a break and was glad she could come home. But who knew how she really felt about him. Sara liked to kid and often kept her truest feelings to herself. Maybe she was deeply in love with Joe. Maybe she was truly happy that he’d proposed.
What I really thought: She was truly happy that he’d proposed. But no way did she actually want to marry him.
“I want to tell him to go screw himself eighty-five percent of the time,” she’d said last week. “He’s so full of himself and obnoxious—and not in a good way. But the other fifteen percent? Totally great.”
Was 15 percent enough?
“He makes me feel pretty. Really pretty,” she’d said.
Before she’d met Joe, her last date had been with a jerk who’d made her feel like crap about herself.
But do you love him? I wanted to ask her. She’d throw something at me, but I had to ask her.
Since I had to head out to the restaurant, I knocked on her bedroom door, but she wasn’t home. On the kitchen table were at least ten bridal magazines with all sorts of colored stickies poking out of the pages. What the hell? Had some pod-person taken over Sara’s body? The old Sara would have drawn mustaches on all the brides and written hysterical dialogue in thought bubbles over their heads. Like “Does this hideous gown make my brain look fat?”
She’d left a note. Clem, you know you want to look.
Ugh. I really did not.
In the twenty minutes Keira had been in the kitchen for her third day, she’d dropped a bushel of chickpeas, sending the tiny beans scattering all over the floor, walked through the IN door and bumped one of the waiters, in early to set up, on the forehead, and mistook parsnip for garlic, which was pretty difficult to do.
“At least I don’t make the same exact mistakes twice,” Keira said with her trademark big smile. “They’re always new ones.”
I hated that I liked her. She was a walking disaster. But she laughed at herself more than any of us ever could. And she was right. She never did make the same dopey mistake twice, only new ones. Yesterday, she’d left her hair loose, a fuck-no in the kitchen, but today she’d come in with the ombré-brown, loose waves in a secure topknot. She headed over to the produce bins to return the parsnips and get Alanna more heads of garlic for the falafel. On her way back, she bumped into Everett McMann, who was the nicest person in the kitchen and didn’t yell at her. “Sorry!” she called after him. I watched her attempt to peel a garlic clove. She’d clearly done her homework the past few nights because she made quick work of the skin and separated the head int
o cloves. Impressive.
“So what’s your story?” Alanna asked, pouring a bowl of chickpeas into the food processor, her own hair twisted into a flaming-red braided coil at the back of her neck.
“I have no story is my story,” Keira said. “I graduated from college last year with a degree in communications and no idea what I wanted to do. I’ve tried temping in all sorts of industries to see if anything interested me, but nothing has. Until now.”
“I hope you don’t mean working in a kitchen,” Gunnar said, one eyebrow raised. He held up a zucchini. “I need twenty-five of these sliced medium thin.”
Keira grabbed a basket of zucchini and set it on the chopping block across from Gunnar. “I do mean working here—meanie,” she added with a smile. “I’ve been here less than a week, but I feel like I belong here. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” She stared at Gunnar. “Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
“Jesus, Keira, you’re about to slice off your finger!” Gunnar yelled, green eyes narrowed at her.
“You don’t have to yell,” Keira said back quite calmly.
“Obviously, I do,” he shot back.
“Gunnar, please demonstrate how thinly to slice the zucchini,” I said, and he grumbled, but showed her, and she spent the next fifteen minutes making decent slices for my harvest pizzas.
“Clearly, you don’t have a girlfriend,” Keira said to him with a smile.
Everyone sobered fast. Gunnar was prickly about being divorced, about being a single father, and as far as I knew, he didn’t date. He didn’t talk much about his personal life. He worked, he spent time with his daughter, whom he sometimes brought into the kitchen to show her where he worked and how they made pizza, her favorite. Alanna had been trying to fix him up for months, but Gunnar always said he was too busy for a relationship.
“Oh, thanks,” he grumbled. No death stare, though.
“So let me guess,” Keira said. “Your last girlfriend broke your heart in a million pieces and you’ve sworn off women forever.”