Turn Me Loose

by Anne Calhoun

  Three new recipes, she sent back. Work with what will be ready to harvest in a couple of weeks. And turn the dinner pics into a collage and post them on the Oasis site. Build that buzz.

  Kelly’s text had come at five forty-two in the morning. Want to go out tonight?

  You were up early. Let me check with Mom, but probably. Dinner?

  Three bubbles appeared immediately.

  Wyatt’s up with the sun these days. Let’s hit Lit tonight! I haven’t been out clubbing since before I got pregnant.

  Lit was their old hangout, a leftover from high school when they’d trowel on the makeup, dress up, and put their fake IDs to good use. She texted back Sounds great!, then looked up from her phone when the water in the bathroom shut off with a thunk. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the towel rubbing against his skin as he dried off? The fan was running, so probably it was just her overheated imagination triggered by the faint scent of his sweat in her sheets.

  She needed to make puff pastry dough, so she was going to have to leave the bedroom. Soon. The question was, beat him downstairs or let him go down and get some coffee? She knew very little about how Ian handled mornings. Ian between six p.m. and two a.m. was a familiar, open book, but mornings, that time of day when people’s temperaments varied most, when they were grumpy or rumpled or disgustingly cheerful, she had experienced exactly one time with Ian.

  That one had involved boxer briefs and a gun.

  She needed coffee, so she got up, splashed water on her face, and brushed her teeth, then dressed for the day in jeans, a tank top, and a sweater for the chilly morning. Her skin was clear, slightly pink, her eyes wide, her gaze soft. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “Woman up. He’s arrested you. Fooling around doesn’t even compare. You got through that, and you’ll get through this.”

  She couldn’t remember what she’d thrown into her suitcase the night Ian had come for her, so she rummaged through her clothes, searching for something slinky and suitable for a night of drinking and dancing, and found a sky-blue camisole, a black skirt she used to waitress in, and her peep-toe nude heels that went with everything. Problem solved. Ian’s bedroom door opened, then closed, and his footsteps faded down the stairs. She left the clothes on the bed, shoved her phone in her back pocket, and darted after him.

  In the kitchen Ian was perched on a bar stool with Sugar on his lap while her mother fretted in the fridge. His jeans were worn white in all the interesting places and another soft, light sweater. He met her gaze without giving anything away. “Morning,” he said quietly.

  Her heart was pounding. Terrible news from the kitchen. Fooling around with him only left her wanting more.

  “Good morning,” she said, because not responding would be awkward. “Let me, Mom.”

  Her mother lifted her head from peering into a crisper and stared at Riva. Today her pupils were normal, responding to the changing light, her gaze alert but full of pain. Riva knew that look, bewildered, confused, hurt by her father’s abrupt withdrawal last night at the dinner table. The pattern played out over and over again, the attention like a searchlight, intense and powerful and addictive, focused on everything that mattered to you, then the abrupt drop when nothing you do or say or think can be right, much less get his attention back. It had taken her years to see the pattern, then believe it was true, then learn how to fight it. “I can make you two breakfast,” she said, and the tentative note in her voice cracked Riva’s heart.

  She kissed her mom on the cheek and gave her a quick hug. “Looks like a good night of sleep was all you needed. Let me make breakfast while you tell me your vision for the luncheon. It’ll be faster if you talk and I cook.”

  She took her mother’s place in front of the fridge, took stock of the ingredients, then looked over her shoulder at Ian. “How do you like your eggs?”

  He looked up from tightening the tiny pink bow in Sugar’s hair. “How are you making them?”

  She hated that he’d started the day pandering to her. Everyone had an opinion about eggs. She’d spent hours arguing with friends over the merits of poached versus soft boiled and which bread to use to sop up a warm, runny yolk, and knew people who flatly refused to eat eggs at all unless they were fried into Frisbees. “I was planning on soft boiled over a potato hash, but I can adjust depending on how you like them.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Her mother reappeared from the office with a big binder and a tablet. Perching on a stool at the end of the breakfast bar, she opened the binder and ran Riva through a dizzying array of images, recipes, and themes she’d collected from the internet and various luxury-goods magazines. Ian set Sugar on the floor and ignored her raised paws, demanding that she be picked up again.

  “I’ll cook,” he said. “Talk me through it.”

  “That’s really not necessary, Ian,” her mother fretted.

  “It’s no problem,” he replied. “I’ve made hash and eggs before.”

  He actually was competent in the kitchen. Riva directed him to pans and knives and cutting boards, watched him dice potatoes and onions and clean up as he cooked. It was a nice counterpoint to the frenzy her mother was spinning herself into as she talked about china, linens, flowers, and themes.

  “What about that one, Mom? Add the greens and give them a quick stir to soften them with the potatoes’ heat. You have similar dishes.”

  Her mother considered the image, of blue Italian china with contrasting patterned napkins. “One egg or two?” Ian asked.

  “Two. It smells really good. More coffee?”

  “Coffee for everyone, I think. Cream’s in the fridge.” Ian poured coffee and put the cream and sugar on the table while Riva served up the hash, added an egg to two of the plates and two eggs to the third. “Breakfast is ready, Mom.”

  They seated themselves in the breakfast nook, her mother sliding her binder next to her plate like Riva used to do with a book when she was a girl. “I like it, but I’m afraid it’s too busy.”

  Riva was cheered by her engagement and enthusiasm, like her mother was a completely different person this morning, alert, attentive, maybe even able to make a decision. “Okay, so we do the blue dishes with white linens and flowers. Or that one.” She pointed at an image of a single tulip bound to snow white napkins with a matching ribbon. Place cards sat above the napkin, and flowers spilled exuberantly from small white pitchers stacked on cake platters. “You have that gorgeous white Asprey service. It fits well with a simple, elegant spring theme. I’ll work with what I find at the co-ops and farm stands right now, and you can mention the urban gardening movement.”

  “I don’t know, dear. I just can’t seem to make a decision. But these women have worked very hard to bring the dinner dance together, and I want to thank them.”

  Ian was quietly eating his hash, but Riva could feel his attention on her. “It doesn’t seem silly at all. Thanking people who work really hard to raise money for underrepresented populations is very important. I know you want to do your best.”

  Her mother was eating with more appetite than she had at dinner the night before. “This is delicious, dear. I had all this in the fridge?”

  “It’s two kinds of potato, olive oil, some salad greens, a bit of feta cheese, fresh pepper, and soft-boiled eggs. Easy peasy,” she said lightly.

  “Thank you,” her mother said to Ian. “Rory says I’m such an airhead.”

  “You have a good eye for centerpieces,” he replied. At her mother’s raised eyebrows, he added, “My mother likes to host her garden club friends. She’d like those.”

  Her mother perked up. “Where are you planning to serve?” Riva said.

  “In the backyard,” her mother said, her voice growing in confidence. “I thought several tables under the oak trees.”

  “Perfect!” Riva exclaimed. “The lawn looks fantastic and the trees are in full leaf so it won’t be too sunny. I’ll source the flowers and the ingredients while I’m out the next few days.”

 
“We really should talk about the menu,” her mother said.

  “Mom. I made this” —Riva gestured to their empty plates—“with what you had in your fridge. Once I get into an urban garden’s co-op, the sky’s the limit. Trust me.”

  The sunshine settled like a soft blanket over the breakfast nook while her mother wavered. “All right,” she said finally. “The Asprey and tulips. You two go on. I’ll handle the dishes.”

  Riva had managed to avoid looking right at Ian through the meal. This might not have been her best choice, as she’d collected instead a collage of odd images. His forearms, exposed by his sleeves, pushed to his elbows. The way his sweater sat at his hip, caught by the pocket seams of his jeans, and the slight bulge of his fly. The fabric, stretched taut over his shoulders when he chopped onions and sprinkled feta over the eggs.

  She forced herself to look at him, to meet his gaze like he was a colleague. “Ready?”

  He held her gaze effortlessly. “I need an hour or so. I’ve got a couple of things to check in on at work. Are you ready?”

  She’d completely forgotten about the puff pastry. “That’s fine. I’ll whip up quick puff pastry.”

  They stood up at the same time and inevitably crashed into each other. She let out a bright, tinkling laugh totally unlike her; he gripped her upper arms to keep her steady. Involuntarily she startled, staring up at him, wide-eyed.

  He let her go, but totally in character. “Oops,” he said, relaxing his hands as he stepped to the side before leaving the room.

  “No worries!” Riva said, still bright, still artificial. Her heart was racing, and a light sweat broke out between her breasts, prickling at her nape. She stacked the plates and tried not to flinch at the clatter the silverware made. Speaking of nerves.… “Mom, are you still taking the Valium?”

  “Sometimes, honey. You know how anxious I am, and I’ve started getting headaches, too.”

  “Are you taking anything else? Anything stronger?”

  “No. Although sometimes the pills do affect me in funny ways. I feel worse when I take them, not better.”

  She made a mental note to get upstairs and go through her mother’s medicine chest at the earliest opportunity. “I’m worried about you. You seem fine now, but last night—”

  “Last night I just needed to go to bed, like your father said.”

  “Do you know if anyone has any food allergies I should be aware of?”

  Her mother closed her notebook. “He’s very nice. He’s obviously attracted to you.”

  Riva stifled a hysterical giggle as she set the plates to one side, then gathered flour, salt, ice water, butter, and her mother’s food processor. “Gluten-free? Raw? Vegan?”

  “Riva. Your father says infertility runs in families. I hate to think I … if you even think you want children—”

  Her husband was getting deeper and deeper into drug trafficking, the man staying in her guest suite was investigating the crime, and her mom was worried about whether Riva could have children. “Mom, I’m really not thinking about that right now.”

  The sharp tone in her voice silenced her mother. But she sat at the breakfast bar, watching as Riva pulsed together the flour and butter, added the water to the flour and pulsed again, then rolled it out.

  “You make it look so easy,” her mother said.

  “I could teach you,” Riva said casually as she folded the dough into thirds. “You could come visit me, and we could cook together.”

  “Your father says I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

  Stupid and hopeless were at the top of the list of words her father used to belittle her mother. “Dad says that, but it’s not true.” She wrapped the roll of dough in plastic, then looked into her mother’s eyes. “Come back with me, Mom. Please.”

  Her mother laughed uneasily. “What would your father say?”

  “We don’t have to tell him.”

  A bright, wild hope flared in her mother’s eyes. For a moment Riva thought she was going to say yes, but then Ian’s boots clattered down the stairs. “I’ll be in the truck,” he called. When Riva looked back at her mom, the hope had died.

  “Ian’s a nice man,” her mother said, changing the subject. “You haven’t dated anyone, not even casually, since before you dropped out of Lancaster College.”

  Riva put the wrapped dough in the fridge to chill, then washed her hands. “Ian and I might be attracted to each other, but you can’t act on every attraction. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.”

  Sorrow darkened her mother’s eyes. “I’ll clean up. Go visit your gardens.”

  Halfway between the kitchen and the foyer Riva stopped, reaching blindly for one of the pristine white spindles as she took a deep breath. There was no going back now.

  She hauled open the front door, fending off Sugar’s break for freedom with her foot as she stepped onto the porch. Ian was waiting by the truck, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle, gaze directed at his boots. He looked up as she walked down the path.

  She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and fished in it for her keys. “If I give you addresses can you plug them into your phone and navigate?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “We’re headed for Seventy-Sixth and Racine. Urban Canopy,” she said, then steered down the street.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ian focused on the blue dot in his maps app. At least his phone knew where he was. After last night with Riva, he wasn’t sure he knew which way was up. Doing the right thing had only left him with an aching groin and a new endless loop of Riva playing in his head. “Head to the interstate. Why are we going here?”

  “They’re one of the best urban farm and community agriculture organizations in the region. Totally focused on economic and social sustainability, plus they have a cool CSA that includes produce from locations farther away. And they’ve got a compost component. Basically, they’re about ten steps ahead of Lancaster, which means I can learn from them.”

  The department’s outreach efforts gave him a superficial familiarity with Lancaster’s urban farming movement, but he asked about the specifics, letting some silence linger between her answers and his next question to give the tension somewhere to dissipate. Getting her talking about her chosen career path eased the tension in the car to the point where she was breathing again.

  She pulled into the parking lot and headed for the door embedded in a gigantic mural of mushrooms painted on the red barn, where Andy, the site manager, met them. Ian followed a few steps behind, giving her the space she obviously wanted and needed this morning. She introduced herself, then Ian, then focused on Andy with a single-minded intensity on the thorough tour of the facility that included discussions about the indoor farm, lighting, technology, yields, natural fertilizers, volunteer schedules, delivery arrangements, and the ever-present need for more funding.

  He watched her without bothering to hide his interest. She lit up like this, smelling growing plants, examining lights, listening to their guide’s knowledgeable, enthusiastic patter. This was where she was home. In places like this she didn’t have to hide. Here, all anyone cared about was nurturing plants, people, the earth.

  She took a deep breath. “Do you smell that?” she asked.

  Ian inhaled. Dirt, damp, a rich humus smell of vegetation decomposing into life. “Yeah.”

  She shot him a smile, bright and clean, like she’d forgotten who she was, who he was, what they were doing. Observing from a distant corner of his mind, he smiled back, like he’d forgotten all these things too.

  Then her gaze went hot and fierce. Like she’d remembered not that he’d arrested her but other, more pleasant memories, ones she wanted to recreate and expand.

  She absently brushed the dirt from her palms. “I’m sourcing produce for a charity luncheon in a couple of days. Would you have anything to spare that would feed ten? The attendees are the subcommittee chairwomen for Memorial Hospital’s annual dinner dance fundraiser. I’d like to
showcase the city’s urban garden movement.”

  Andy’s face had started to close off when he heard the short timeline, but he perked right up again at the word “showcase.” “Most of our weekly harvest is allotted to the CSA deliveries and the farmers’ markets. But that’s a pretty small order, so we can probably help you out. Let me introduce you to Debbie. She runs that side of the operation.”

  Debbie was indeed delighted to hold back the ingredients for a salad, and put Riva in touch with a farm near the Wisconsin border that could supply the pork for the tart and a variety of cheeses. “Are you visiting any other urban gardens?”

  “I was thinking Growing Home?”

  “Excellent choice. They’ve got an amazing program and partner with a legal aid group to help get records expunged or sealed.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to stop by. One of my partner organizations is interested in adding that particular service. A conviction makes it so hard to get a job.”

  “I’ll call Lamar and let him know you’re coming. Good luck. Call me if you have questions or want to talk something through.”

  She waved cheerfully as they headed back to the truck. Once inside, Ian pulled out his phone. “Address?”

  She gave him the address, and he directed her out of the parking lot. “Are you bored?” she asked.

  He settled back in his seat and thought about this for a second. “No,” he said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Maybe a little. Shutting off my work brain isn’t easy, but you’ve managed to do it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Midday traffic was light as they drove to Growing Home. Lamar, the site manager, was expecting them. He’d been primed with the request for ingredients. “Any chance to expand our brand awareness and open new doors for fundraising,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Grants are getting harder and harder to come by these days.”

  “It’s a tough climate,” Riva agreed. She held out her hand to include Ian. “My colleague, Ian.”