A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

“What’s wrong?” He sounded winded.

  “Can’t I call without you thinking something’s wrong?”

  “Of course, but not on a Saturday evening at the start of dinner.”

  “Good point.” I looked around my empty apartment, so removed from the bustle that now consumed Feast. “I needed to clear my head, so I’m off tonight and home cooking.”

  “What are you making?”

  “I . . . I didn’t even think, Dad.” Tears started to form. “I made that navarin.”

  “Oh, honey. What’s wrong?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” I switched tactics. “What are you up to this evening?”

  “I was pruning the front bushes. Later I’m heading to the station for dinner. Since I retired, the crew has asked me every Saturday night. At first I thought they felt sorry for me, but it’s fun for all of us.”

  “I bet they miss you. And no one could feel sorry for you, Dad. You’re the most energetic guy I know.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you want to talk?”

  “No, you’re busy. I just wanted to touch base.” I felt intrusive. “You go and have fun. I’ll call in a couple days.”

  We said quick good-byes, and the apartment settled into silence once again. I stood watching my favorite red Le Creuset pan on the stove—another gift, another reminder. Something had to be done.

  I headed to my room and crawled under my bed. Amid the shoes, scarves, and general clutter, I found my suitcase.

  My phone rang and I saw Paul’s name flash across the screen.

  “Elizabeth? What’s up? I got your message.”

  I rubbed the top of the black canvas bag. “I need to head home.”

  “Is Jane okay? From your message I assumed you were staying here.”

  I hesitated. “I was, but . . . I need to go. Trent and Tabitha can handle Feast.” I clenched my eyes shut, knowing the gamble I was taking.

  “Of course they can. Grab a flight and take a couple weeks.”

  “A couple weeks? I was thinking a few days.”

  “A visit like this takes more than a few days. Trust me on that. Do you need help?”

  I knew what he was offering, and even though I didn’t think he would attach strings to a first-class airline ticket, I didn’t want to test that assumption.

  “No, Feast’s paid me well. Thank you for that. I’ll try to get a flight out tomorrow and call you within the week.”

  “Sounds good . . . And, Elizabeth? I’m glad you’re going.”

  “I am too. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and hoped I hadn’t just made the worst mistake of my life.

  Chapter 5

  I PULLED MY RENTAL INTO THE DRIVEWAY AND SAT FOR a moment, absorbing my childhood home—a small colonial, completely out of context in the Pacific Northwest. But its gray color helped it blend in, like a nod to the cloudy sky, asking if it could stay. It looked good. Fresh paint, trimmed bushes. When I left fifteen years ago, everything was tinged with sadness and death—the bushes, the paint, and the family.

  Should I ring the doorbell? Knock? I laughed at my own questions. This was home. You don’t ring your own doorbell. I stepped up the walk and tried the knob, and it turned in my hand. No one in Hood River locks the door.

  “Dad?”

  “Who’s there?” he called from the kitchen.

  “Me.” The word caught in my throat.

  Dad rounded the corner and stopped. I knew I had surprised him, but I was equally stunned at the changes in him since his fall visit to New York. His hair was grayer, noticeable even with his short military style, and the lines around his face cut deeper. I thought he had also dropped a few pounds, but his eyes looked bright—lit up, like a kid seeing fireworks.

  “Lizzy, what are you doing here?” He rushed forward. “You’re home.” His voice cracked.

  “Dad, don’t call me that.” I laughed.

  He crushed me to him, then immediately released me, holding me at arm’s length. “Why are you here? You never come—Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing. I just wanted . . . Isn’t it time?”

  “I don’t know. I was waiting for you to tell me.” He pulled me in again. Then he pushed me back out. “Are you tired? Are you hungry? You’re on New York time.”

  He pulled me—again. I was beginning to get whiplash. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so happy, so surprised.”

  “It’s okay. I know it’s been a long time since I was here.”

  “I didn’t think you’d ever come.” He pushed me back and released me. “Where are your bags?”

  “In the car.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “No, let me.” I followed him out the door and down the walk.

  “Don’t be silly.” He popped my trunk and reached in to grab my black leather satchel and suitcase. “You carry this and I’ll roll the bag.”

  As we walked back toward the house, I glanced around again. “It looks different than I remember.”

  He stopped and looked around too. “You probably remember everything a little shabby. Things were rough that last year with your mom, and they didn’t get better for a while.” He smiled, small and straight. “I’ve enjoyed working on it. It’s a good house.”

  “It looks great.” I passed him on the walk and held the front door open.

  “Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up or whatever you do, and I’ll finish preparing dinner.” He stood and stared at me, grinning. “I get to set an extra plate.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled back. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  He walked back to the kitchen and I stood there. I took a deep breath; it smelled the same: wood polish, books, and the odd tinny smell of the vacuum cleaner when you forget to change the bag . . . Home. But it didn’t look lived in. The cushions were fluffed and stiff, and the books on the coffee table were stacked straight and sterile. And they were the same ones Mom had displayed years ago. Oregon Wines. Jane Austen Country Living. Famous Homes of Europe. And ancient copies of Sunset, Shape, and Saveur. I’d given her that last subscription for Christmas one year. I was the only one who ever used it.

  As I hefted my suitcase up the stairs, I wondered if my bedroom would feel as empty and cold. It had been left behind by an angry, bereft eighteen-year-old girl. I was fairly certain Dad would never have touched it or redecorated it, but I hoped he had at least changed the sheets.

  My door stood open. Even with only the light from the hall spilling into its darkness, I could see the walls’ blue tones and the white trim; the furniture, brown and traditional; and my bulletin board, crowded with pictures, notes, and clippings—signs of friendships long forgotten. I saw a picture of myself on the bedside table, my arms linked around two friends, grinning at the camera.

  No one can be that happy.

  I flipped on the light and absorbed the chaos of my bulletin board, trying to remember the names of friends who had once meant so much. There was a dried rose pinned to the corner. I crossed the room, coming up blank on its significance. I pulled it from its pin and crushed it in my fist, letting the dry pieces fall into my trash can.

  The dresser was no better. Makeup in colors that never should have been manufactured rested in dishes. I pulled the wand from a completely dry and crumbling tube of blue mascara and tossed that into the trash can as well. My perfume, once tinted the faintest pink, was now dark brown in the clear bottle. I pitched it without bothering to smell it.

  Dad called from the kitchen. “Come eat, Lizzy. It’s ready.”

  Lizzy. I took a last look around. Maybe this was a mistake.

  My heart pounded as I walked down the stairs and through the dining room to the kitchen, once Mom’s sanctuary and the heart of our family. I took a deep breath and recalled every smell of my childhood: the cinnamon that dominated not only winter baking, but many of the tomato-based Italian dishes Mom loved; vanilla, always used as an undertone to her egg-based
savories; and rosemary. When did she not use rosemary? And smoke—the woman could burn anything. Memories of us dancing around the kitchen swinging dish towels while she batted the smoke alarm with a broom made me smile. She had even flirted with the idea of removing its battery before remembering that Dad, the fire chief, would probably frown on that.

  While letting the scenes and scents settle over me, more memories flashed before my eyes: Mom stirring sauce or peeling potatoes; Dad chopping an onion, complaining that it wasn’t manly to cry; Jane filing her nails or reciting the latest high school gossip from her perch on the counter; and me, running around attempting to orchestrate it all—the cooking, the family, the magic—by stirring, mixing, adding . . . tweaking.

  Trent’s word. It made me cringe, but it fit—for that’s what chefs do. If we have the gift, we take the ordinary and “tweak” it just so and just enough to make something more, something above and beyond. My heart hurt and I hesitated, weighing the cost of walking straight back out the front door and leaving all this behind.

  The kitchen door swung shut behind me, and I was pulled back to the present. The room felt as empty as the living room, and I wilted with relief. If it had been too close to my memories, I might have cried. But the white Corian counters stood stark and bare; the stove was clean, even new; the refrigerator door was devoid of artwork and photographs. And the smells—sharp, not sweet. Tomatoes without cinnamon.

  “New stove?”

  “I suppose it is. The old one broke about a decade ago.”

  I skipped over his remark and chirped, “What’d you make?”

  Dad pressed his lips into a straight line. He was resetting the moment as well—skipping over the unpleasant, the difficult, and the unspoken. “Tonight we have a lasagna that Mary Flynn made for me a couple weeks ago. I’ve found they freeze well.”

  “Dr. Flynn’s widow?”

  “I complimented her lasagna at a church potluck a few years ago, and now I get the occasional pan.” Dad grinned, then looked at me with a flicker of concern.

  “Nice going,” I reassured him.

  “I think so.” Dad’s smile fell as he looked around. “Besides the stove, does it look the same?”

  “Yes and no. It’s clean and quiet. That’s certainly different.” I watched him cut the lasagna. The sauce ran between the layers of pasta, thick and rich, and the cheese slid from the top. “I’ve been gone a long time, and yet it feels as if I left yesterday.”

  “Fifteen years can’t feel like yesterday.” There was a hint of disappointment in his tone.

  “I see you and Jane when I get to Seattle every couple years, and you come east lots . . .” A hint of defensiveness in mine.

  “Seattle isn’t home.” He set the lasagna before me.

  “Home was too hard, Dad.” I reached for my fork as I looked around. “It still is. I expect to see Mom—”

  Dad cut me off. “Would you mind if I said grace?”

  I set my fork down. “Not at all.”

  Dad said a few simple words.

  He picked up his fork, so I followed suit and took a bite. “This is good.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I got up from the table and stepped to the cabinet above Mom’s mixer, absently brushing off a layer of dust as I reached up. I found the jar I needed, musing that it was probably years old and tasteless—but still worth a try.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hang on a sec.” I clenched the jar in my fist and shook the spice into my hand, pinching a bit across his lasagna.

  “What’s that?”

  “Trust me, it’s just what it needs—a touch of earth and sweet to temper the tomato’s bite. With fresh tomatoes you need less as summer approaches and they develop their own sugars. Taste it.”

  He took a bite. “It’s fantastic. What’d you add?”

  “Cinnamon.” He didn’t recognize it?

  “Amazing. I’ll have to tell Mary.”

  “Tell her a touch of milk tempers the acidity as well.”

  “Interesting.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “I’m headed to Seattle tomorrow, Elizabeth.” Dad paused as if trying to choose his next best words. “It’s really good you’re here. You can come with me.”

  Elizabeth. Dad just used my full name. “I know I need to go see her, but can we wait a few days? I just got here.”

  “She has a chemo session Tuesday. I want to go tomorrow to help with the kids.”

  “You go. I’ll follow in a couple days.”

  He narrowed his eyes, considering me, as he chewed. “You can cook at Jane’s house for a couple days. Peter’s going out of town, so she’ll love the help.”

  I sat silent for a moment and let the truth wash over me. Dad and Jane were right—I wasn’t handling her cancer well. I didn’t want to see her. Jane acted like Dad, but she looked like Mom. Would that be magnified now?

  “I need a little time here—as you said, fifteen years. And I’ve got to work too. I’ll drive up Wednesday.”

  He didn’t reply and I knew he wouldn’t. He considered the discussion over. I pushed again. “Dad? Why can’t I just rest here for a few days first?”

  He caught my petulant tone and responded with appropriate chill. “This isn’t about you. If you can’t see that, you’ll simply have to trust me. We leave at eight.”

  Chapter 6

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING DISORIENTED. THE LIGHT was wrong, the noises absent—except for birds chirping. I rolled over. Birds chirping? Moments passed in the haze between dream and reality before I recognized that New York did not charge by outside the window. Hood River, Oregon, with every one of its 7,300 citizens, yawned and stretched more slowly. I pulled a sweater over my T-shirt and pajama pants and went in search of coffee.

  Dad sat, working a crossword at the kitchen table, and glanced up briefly as I ambled into the room. We had thawed in parting last night, but his directive still stung.

  “Ooh, a crossword.” I generated false enthusiasm as I glanced over his shoulder.

  “Hang on a sec and you can take the next pass.”

  I pulled a mug from the shelf and poured a cup of acrid-smelling brew. Dad needed new, and probably better, beans. I leaned against the counter and tried to enjoy the stillness. Usually my split-second breakfast was spent mentally prioritizing to-do lists and the details of an evening’s service. But now . . . there was only a crossword.

  “What time do we leave?” I worked to keep my tone neutral.

  “How about an hour?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “We’ll leave your car here and take the truck. That way you won’t get miles on it.”

  “No, let’s take the rental. It’s more comfortable, and the miles don’t matter. Really.”

  “Okay.” He turned back to his crossword. I took a sip and watched him. How was a four-hour drive going to feel?

  We were still too quiet when we pulled out one hour, to the minute, later. I glanced over at him. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Dad?”

  He sighed as if he’d been storing it up for years. “I wish it wasn’t so hard between you girls. I feel I’m to blame. That’s hard too.”

  “How are you to blame?”

  “I’m the head of this family, and when one of our numbers went down, we fell apart. I didn’t lead.”

  I concentrated on the road. For my dad, that was a tough admission. Fire chiefs lead. Dad’s crew had respected his authority and followed him anywhere. But at home it had always been a different story. Maybe it was because we were all girls, or maybe he had used up all his energy at work—either way, Dad never led. Instead he had watched with detached contentment as Mom worked out our family rituals, gave the orders, and doled out the discipline and the cough syrup. Until the day she didn’t.

  After a few minutes of silence, I found something to offer. “You couldn’t force Jane to come home. She was an adult. She
made her own decisions.”

  “I let Jane drown in her own fear when I should have been pulling the family together. Peter would’ve helped if I’d insisted.”

  “Nothing swamps Jane, so cut yourself some slack. You lost your wife.”

  “And both my daughters.”

  “That’s not fair. You haven’t ‘lost’ me. You come to New York at least twice a year and you love it.”

  “But you don’t come home, and you don’t even speak to Jane unless forced. You both lost your mother. It hurts to see you lose each other.” Dad paused, but I sensed more was coming, so I stayed quiet and focused on the highway.

  The pause drew long. “And?”

  “And it’s time to let the past go.”

  I sighed. I should’ve stayed in New York.

  BEFORE I KNEW IT WE WERE TURNING INTO JANE’S driveway. It had been a couple years since I had visited, and even then that Christmas break was more accurately counted in hours than days. I smiled when I saw the house. It was my secret ideal, though I’d never admit it to her. It was a 1930s Craftsman with style and substance, boasting higher ceilings than most and a front porch painted brick red—I loved that detail. The rest of the house was beige with white trim and black shutters. Impeccably maintained.

  I loved the way the inside was decorated, too, kid art on the walls mixed with black-and-white photographs and strong oil paintings. Much the way I designed Feast’s interior, but Jane’s interpretation was warmer and more vibrant, with comfortable chairs, embroidered throw pillows, and books. Even the small entry hall was such an alive space . . . and it bugged me that it was hers.

  As soon as I opened the car door, I saw Jane walking down the porch steps. She wasn’t bouncing, but she didn’t look sick. She looked good in her jeans and a fitted green sweater—thin, but not skinny; shoulder-length blond hair, not bald; color in her cheeks, not pallid. I hadn’t realized that I had even made such a checklist until I felt my breath release. Relief was immediately followed by annoyance. She looks fine. Why’d I come?

  “You’re here!”

  And she sounds happy.

  “We are,” Dad said. “The drive was only three and a half hours. Your sister has a lead foot.”