Anything

by Michael Baron

  I began to pull back, but Diane continued to hold me. Focusing neither on the drab hallway nor the bead of sweat forming on the back of my neck, I called to mind the lines in her face – friendly, familiar, and yet foreign.

  “Is everything all right?” I said, offering another squeeze when she refused to let me go.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  I had momentarily blanked out the fact that she had a kid with her. When Diane finally loosened her grip, I tightened the belt of my robe, conscious of little eyes staring up from our feet.

  “Diane, it’s great to see you. I wish I had known you were coming. I would have waited up or at least put some clothes on.”

  “Oh, Dylan.”

  She smiled, reminding me of the reason that we’d gotten together in the first place. Everything about Diane had always seemed bright to me.

  I looked down for the kid, but she had carefully hidden behind her mother. A second later, the little girl poked her head out. She seemed tired, but she still had the energy to muster a look of discernment – either that, or she had to use the bathroom.

  “Hi?” I said.

  Diane knelt down to the girl. “This is Spring.”

  I nearly followed Diane’s crouch, then remembered my robe.

  “And Spring, this is Mr. Dylan.”

  “Hi, Spring.”

  Spring was dressed in a yellow raincoat and red boots. She had the same wavy black hair and gray eyes as Diane. She didn’t say anything, but she seemed fascinated with my bare feet.

  Diane stood back up. “Is this a bad time…?”

  “No, no. Come in. Let me help you with your bag.”

  Spring shook her head.

  Though Diane’s arrival time was just a tiny bit strange, it was as good a time as any – especially since Laurel had already pulled a Houdini. I picked up Diane’s single piece of luggage; a brown relic, featuring ancient travel stickers that had to be at least 30 years old. Spring toted a red backpack over her raincoat. The backpack had a duck wearing boots stitched on it. “Is it raining outside?”

  Again, Spring shook her head.

  “Good,” I said. Who said I couldn’t make small talk with a kid?

  She raised an eyebrow in my direction and I followed her inside.

  “What brings you to New York at this hour?”

  Diane stood there, with her suitcase at her feet. My eyes began to focus on the situation around me: the whole Laurel thing seemed like day-old bread and today’s menu featured an Indian recipe I couldn’t pronounce.

  “This is a bad time,” Diane said. “We should leave.”

  “No, no, not at all…really. I get people dropping in at this hour all the time. Would you like some wine? A cup of coffee? I have Kona.”

  Leaves

  Welcome to Oldham, CT, a small town rich in Colonial heritage while being utterly contemporary. Situated along the Connecticut River Valley, Oldham bursts with color every fall, as the leaves on its trees evolve into an unmatched palette of scarlet, orange, purple, yellow, and bronze. For more than three decades, the Gold family has been a central part of Oldham in the fall, its Sugar Maple Inn a destination for “leaf-peepers” from all over the country, and its annual Halloween party a stirring way to punctuate the town’s most active month.

  But this year, more than just the leaves are changing. With the death of their parents, the Gold siblings, Maria, Maxwell, Deborah, Corrina, and Tyler, have decided to sell the Sugar Maple Inn, and this year’s Halloween party will be the last. As October begins, the Golds contend with the finality that faces them, and the implications it has for a family that has always been so close. For some, it means embracing new challenges and new love. For others, it means taking on unimagined roles. And for others, it means considering the inconceivable. Complicating it all is a series of “hauntings” that touch each of the Gold siblings, a series of benign interventions that will remain a mystery until October draws to a close.

  From the author:

  I like to present myself with a new challenge with every book. With Leaves, I decided to present myself with two big ones: writing the first book in a series, and writing a novel with not one protagonist but five. The former required making sure that I had a bigger story in my head while at the same time getting a satisfying first story on the page (I assume you’ll let me know whether or not it is satisfying). The latter required making each character the “star” of the show while still having them interact, and keeping them from stealing the spotlight from each other. The first few attempts to start this one were sketchy. The Story Plant had to delay publication twice because I didn’t feel I was getting it right. Eventually, though, I loved writing this, and I can’t wait to tell more stories about the Gold family.

  Here’s an excerpt:

  The River Edge Café had been open for business since the late ‘90s, when a husband-and-wife team made a killing during the tech stock boom and decided to “chuck it all” and follow their passion for fine food. Located on the water between Oldham and Essex, it was popular for its ambitious menu, its beautiful setting, and its attentive staff. However, it had recently lost two executive chefs in quick succession, leading to rumors that the owners were impossible taskmasters and maybe even a little abusive. Deborah didn’t necessarily believe these unfounded stories, but they made her wary through the entire interview process, and even now, in her third meeting with the couple, she wondered if there was something less than genuine behind Carla Bonner’s ubiquitous smile or Vince Travers’s persistence.

  “We want you here, Deb,” Vince said. People didn’t really call her “Deb,” but Vince seemed to insist on it. He had been doing so since they first met half a decade ago. “There are maybe two dishes on the menu we think we need to keep. The entire rest of the menu would be yours.”

  “It would be like having your own restaurant without the hassle of ownership,” Carla said. Deborah had been in precisely that situation her entire adult life, so she wasn’t sure why Carla thought this was a selling point.

  “I’m completely willing to wait until the middle of November if you want to take a couple of weeks off between jobs,” Vince said. “Trina’s an excellent sous chef and she’s doing a great job of holding the fort for us. To be honest, if we weren’t so intent on recruiting you, we’d give her the job right now.”

  “That’s very flattering,” Deborah said, wondering how resentful Trina would be of her if she decided to take the position.

  This wasn’t the first offer Deborah had received, though it was certainly the most aggressive. She got a couple of calls as soon as word got out about the sale of the Inn. The people buying the Sugar Maple even made her an extremely attractive offer to stay precisely where she was. She never seriously considered it, though. It was hard enough cooking there now that both of her parents were gone. It would be impossible to take direction there from someone else and even harder to watch the inevitable changes they made. Deborah imagined herself collapsing into tears the first time they replaced a table lamp. She was convinced that when she walked out of the Inn at the end of the Halloween party she would never again set foot in the place just so she could remember it forever the way she wanted.

  None of the offers she’d received so far had seemed very appealing. She knew that she was running the risk of seeming like a prima donna and she also knew that she should be eternally grateful for the attention, but she couldn’t allow herself to take a position unless it sang out to her. She even considered trying to find a job in a diner or a coffee shop somewhere – something completely one-dimensional with little or no room for personal investment – just to recalibrate. But of course that was ridiculous. How long could she flip burgers before she started slipping exotic ingredients into the ground beef? She had enough money saved to get by for about six months, and if it took that long to find the right spot, that was fine with her.

 
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Vince said. “I’m trying to employ you. Your customers will flatter you every time the waitstaff delivers one of your inventions.”

  Deborah smiled. The “Deb” thing aside, she’d always liked Vince and she wished the rumors weren’t causing her to question his sincerity. That was the pernicious thing about rumors.

  “The package you’re offering is great,” she said, nodding to both Vince and Carla. “I’ve always been fond of this restaurant, and you have a great kitchen. I just need a couple of days.”

  “Of course,” Carla said. “Take as long as you must.”

  Vince patted her hand. “We’re here for you, Deb. Call me anytime if you have questions. I gave you our home number, right?”

  “You did, yes. I just want to take a little longer to think. I’ll call you on Monday.”

  Deborah stood and shook their hands. The fact was, she already made her decision, but it didn’t seem polite to turn them down flat. The River Edge Café was a fine restaurant and it did have a sensational kitchen. The more time she spent there, though, she realized there wasn’t anything about this place that felt like home.

  She drove through downtown Oldham on the way back to the inn. Waiting for a couple of pedestrians to cross Hickory, she noticed the sign for Sage, the gourmet shop that had opened a couple of weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t visited it yet. When a car pulled out of the parking space across from the store, she decided the time was right.

  The store was in a moderately large space between a music store and a bookstore. Deborah had a hard time remembering what was in the space before (there had been several shops there over the past few years), but the new owner had done a great job of remodeling it. Lots of blond wood fixtures, warm lighting, and handwritten signage. There was a refrigerator case housing artisanal cheeses and sausages in understated, small-production packages.

  Deborah liked being here immediately. Maybe it was the slack-key guitar music coming from the sound system or that one of the front tables was dedicated to the small Tuscan pasta manufacturer she “discovered” a couple of years ago and had used exclusively at the inn ever since. Deborah knew this would be a place she’d visit often. She’d been to all the gourmet shops in the area, and was frustrated by the sameness of them. It was almost as though some food rep came along and set each one up based on some model. This place had a decidedly individual point of view, though. The shelf of spices was an asymmetrical jumble of bottles and tins of different sizes. Next to it was a card that read, “This might not be the prettiest display of spices you’ve ever seen, but it’s hopefully the best. I’ve compared everything on this shelf to the competition and only carry the ones I love the most.” Deborah agreed about the mustard seed, the ground coriander, and the smoked paprika, but she would have chosen a different Telicherry peppercorn.

  A man walked up to her while she was standing at the display. “Find anything you like?”

  She turned to look at him. He was a little over six feet and lean. And he had very expressive eyes. “Krendahl has better peppercorns,” she said.

  “You’re right, but they only sell from their catalog. I tried, believe me. They also import this fabulous five spice powder, but again, I couldn’t get it. Think I should change the card in the spirit of full disclosure?”

  Deborah laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re the owner?”

  He extended his hand and Deborah took it. “Sage Mixon.”

  “Deborah Gold. So the store is named after you and not after” – she reached for a bottle – “Brookfield’s hand-rubbed Albanian.”

  He smiled. “You obviously know your spices. Are you in the food business?”

  “I’m the chef at the Sugar Maple Inn – at least I am until the end of the month.”

  “Moving on to bigger and better things?”

  Deborah rolled her eyes. “That part isn’t at all certain at the moment.” She turned toward another display. “I’ve never seen these preserves before.”

  “They’re incredible. They’re all made by a single dad out of a barn in New Hampshire. He sweetens them with a ‘proprietary blend’ of fruit juices and balances each with some kind of spice or infusion. The lemon marmalade is mind-boggling.” He picked up a jar and handed it to her. “He adds a touch of Thai basil. It’s amazing what happens.”

  Deborah examined the jar in her hand. If nothing else, Sage was an excellent salesman. Of course she would buy this. Before she did, though, she spent another half hour in the store walking from display to display. Sage stayed with her when he wasn’t helping other customers, and it became obvious that there was a story behind everything he carried. She hoped the visitors who flitted in and out appreciated the thought that went into this. More importantly, she hoped that – appreciative or not – the visitors were plentiful. Oldham needed more stores like this one.

  By the time she’d finished shopping, Deborah had the marmalade, a salsa from Nogales, a bottle of raspberry thyme vinegar made a half hour away, and a package of stroopwafels made in Montana, of all places. She didn’t need any of it. She certainly had access to just about everything she wanted from the network of suppliers she’d developed over the years. But it was fun buying here and she definitely wanted to support the place.

  “Come again soon,” Sage said as he packaged her purchases.

  “I will. Definitely. Hey, come by the Inn for dinner sometime in the next month.”

  “I might just do that. I mean if you know this much about food, you might actually be able to cook.”

  Deborah laughed. “Yeah, it’s a possibility.”

  He smiled and his eyes danced. Deborah would definitely be back soon.

  Everything or Nothing

  Maxwell Gold is at the most dramatic inflection point in his life. A successful businessperson, he has been asked to run for mayor of Oldham, CT against a horribly flawed incumbent. A dedicated father, he has come to a time when his toddler son Joey is a wildly entertaining playmate. A loving husband, he has faced a test that has proven to him that he is more committed to his wife Annie than ever. Everything could be going Maxwell’s way.

  Or not. The incumbent’s base is deeper than Maxwell’s campaign imagined, and the current mayor is willing to resort to some nasty tricks to remain in office. Joey is having tantrums and acting more willfully than kids his age normally act. And Annie isn’t finished testing Maxwell and is beginning to make it clear that she doesn’t want him to pass the test.

  As the summer begins on the most tumultuous year of Maxwell Gold’s life, he has come to realize that he could have everything he’s ever wanted . . . or he could wind up with nothing.

  From the author:

  As I mentioned, I like to provide myself with challenges. The challenge this time was writing a sequel, something I’d only played with in novellas in the past. In many ways, writing a sequel is easier than writing an entirely new novel, because the author already has the characters and the situation. However, it’s harder in some ways, because the earlier story puts all kinds of constraints on the new story. One of the ways I chose to address this was by focusing Everything or Nothing on only one of the main characters from Leaves. I was really fascinated with where I’d left Maxwell at the end of the previous novel, so I certainly wrote this one as much for myself as for the rest of you.

  Here’s an excerpt:

  For whatever reason, it was always tougher getting Joey to bed on Monday nights. Maybe it had something to do with reestablishing his routine after the weekend. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Monday always tended to be a catch-up day at work (especially now with the campaign), which led to rushed dinners and a smaller window between the end of the meal and the point when they sat in Joey’s room reading him bedtime stories.

  Tonight had been even more of an issue than usual. First, Joey wouldn’t brush his teeth, claiming that the tooth
paste – the same toothpaste he’d been using for the past year – was “spicy.” Maxwell wound up brushing Joey’s teeth for him, something he’d never done before and something he was hoping wasn’t destined to become a part of their evening ritual. Then Joey insisted on putting his pajama pants over his head. He seemed to think this was hilarious, and Maxwell found it funny the first time he did it as well. The fourth time wasn’t nearly as humorous.

  Once they’d read a couple of picture books, Annie left and Maxwell and Joey entered the last phase of the bedtime process. Maxwell climbed into bed next to his son and sang him the lullaby that Maxwell’s mother used to sing to him. It was obvious to Maxwell that Joey already didn’t remember his grandmother, who died before Joey’s second birthday, but he seemed to like knowing that his dad was singing him to sleep with a song that his mom once used to sing her son to sleep. On most nights, this was enough to get the boy to settle. Tonight, though, as Maxwell kissed his forehead, Joey wrapped his arms around his father.

  “One more,” the boy said.

  “One more what?”

  “One more.”

  Maxwell lay his head back down, which caused Joey to do the same. Did Joey want one more song? One more minute? No elaboration seemed forthcoming. Maxwell simply lay there a short while longer and then tried to get up again. As before, Joey latched onto him. The third time this happened, Maxwell decided to sing the song again, this time brushing Joey’s hair as he did so.

  That seemed to make a difference. By the time Maxwell climbed out of the bed, Joey was asleep and Maxwell felt as though he’d put in another full day of work. Maxwell knew that it would be a terrible idea for the kid to grow accustomed to his father staying in bed with him until he nodded off, but that seemed to be the only available option tonight if Maxwell didn’t want to simply stay in bed with the kid the entire evening.