Jane closed her mouth. I pressed my lips together to stop a small smile from escaping. I knew she wanted to lash out but couldn’t figure out how. Cecilia’s gentle tone had ended any argument.
Cecilia seemed to understand Jane’s struggle and squeezed her shoulder. “You did great today.”
Jane looked up and her lip quivered as she whispered, “Thank you.”
We gathered up our coats, our bags, and the clutter we’d created in our few hours and headed toward the elevator.
My stomach growled. “Time to eat. You hungry?”
“I should try. It may be my last meal for days.”
“Don’t say that. I’m going to Whole Foods this afternoon and I’ll fix you something super yummy. You’ll see.”
“You’d be a miracle worker if you pulled that off.”
“You may call me Anne Sullivan then, if Elizabeth is too difficult to remember.”
“Cute. For now, let’s go to Café Flora. They have the most wonderful egg dishes.”
“Ah . . . ‘An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.’ ” I grinned and pushed the button for the lobby. “Direct me home first and we’ll pick up Dad.”
After a quiet car ride, we found Dad pacing Jane’s front hall so deep in thought he jumped when we opened the door.
“I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”
“We didn’t run any errands like last time.”
I instantly surmised that not only had Peter not read to her, but he took her on errands afterward—probably out to lunch. Insensitive clod. I felt a sudden kinship with my normally reserved and inscrutable brother-in-law. I needed a break. “We came back to grab you for lunch, but I think I’ll stay here if you two don’t mind.”
“Why?” Jane snapped.
“We can all stay,” Dad soothed.
“I want to get to the grocery store and work up a great dinner.”
“I told you—” Jane stopped, noticing flowers on the dining room table. “Dad, did you buy me flowers?”
“No, they arrived about an hour ago.”
She pulled the card from the holder and read: “ ‘Elizabeth told me today was important. My thoughts are with you. Paul Metzger.’ Is this your Paul? Feast’s owner?”
“Not mine, but yes, that’s Paul.”
“Very thoughtful.” She put the card down.
I took a breath. Thoughtful was not the word that came to mind—it was my turn to get manipulated. And the message came through loud and clear: Don’t forget Feast; don’t forget me. I turned back to Dad. “Please, Dad. You take Jane to lunch. I want to work on the menus.”
“We’ll all—”
I cut him off. “This is my way to help.”
That did it.
“Fine.” Jane knew it too.
Dad gave me a quick pat on the back and ushered her out the front door. As it shut, I started to sigh. But the hallway felt empty and cold and far from relief.
Chapter 9
LOOKING AROUND JANE’S KITCHEN, I REMEMBERED THAT she had just finished reading Sense and Sensibility. I chuckled to myself, feeling a bit like Mrs. Jennings, hoping Marianne could be “tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house.” And I felt as useless as Mrs. Jennings, for I knew as much about Jane as she knew of Marianne.
But Elinor knew. A true sister would and should . . .
What I knew was our mother. During her illness, Mom surrounded herself with anything safe, anything beloved—books, smells, clothes, movies, and friends . . . There was a blue cashmere sweater she insisted on wearing every day. She would hand wash it each week—or I did near the end—so that it would look fresh and others wouldn’t feel we weren’t taking proper care of her. She loved its warmth, the soft feel against her skin, and the color—“It’s the sky in summer. You take walks around the garden or to Meryton under a sky this color. What could be nicer?”
So many things, Mom.
That was the place to start. Jane Austen. A quick Internet search confirmed what I assumed: a diet full of fricassees, puddings and pies (savory and sweet), and stews, but few vegetables and a strong prejudice against salads until later in the nineteenth century.
I looked up a Whole Foods nearby—a haven, albeit an expensive one, for fresh, organic, and beautiful produce—and then jotted down some recipes I thought would appeal to Jane’s appetite. I landed on a green bean salad with mustard and tarragon and a simple shepherd’s pie. She’d used mustard and tarragon in her own chicken salad. And I figured any good Regency lover would devour a shepherd’s pie.
I noted other produce I wanted to buy: winter squashes, root vegetables, kale and other leafy greens. All good for sautés, grilling, and stewing. And fava beans, a great thickener and nutritious base, were also coming into season. And green garlic and garlic flowers, which are softer and more delicate than traditional garlic, more like tender asparagus. I wanted to create comfortable, healthy meals that cooked slow and long, making the flavors subtle—comfortably Regency.
I also listed pickles. I adored them and knew that fermented vegetables boosted the immune system and supported the digestive tract—both good for Jane right now. My excitement grew along with my list.
Finally ready to go, I grabbed my handbag from the guest room. As I headed back downstairs, I heard the front door unlock.
“. . . your presentations at the high school, Dad. Those mean a ton to you. Please go back. This is a long road and I’m doing fine. There will be other times I’ll need you more.”
“I don’t think you should be alone with Peter gone. You need help with Kate and Danny.”
Something clanked. I envisioned Jane’s car keys dropping into the bowl by the door.
“Why don’t I ask Lizzy to stay? It would be nice for you girls. She could help cook.”
“Please.”
The sarcasm stopped me, and I stood perfectly still on the third stair down.
“Elizabeth’s for Elizabeth.” Jane emphasized my full name. “She can’t see past herself to help me. Take her with you. We’ll be fine.”
“That’s not fair, Jane. She was fantastic with your mom. I’ll never forget how much that girl shouldered.”
My eyes filled with tears. Thanks, Dad.
“Well, the little girl’s all grown up, and she’s a pretty cold fish in shiny scales. Don’t leave her with me.”
“You two girls . . .” The conversation continued as they headed to the back of the house and outside my earshot.
I slipped back upstairs to my room and then stepped into the hallway when I heard Dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
“You’re back. How was lunch?” I plastered on a smile and hoped the dim light hid my eyes.
“It was very good.” He sounded weary. “I think I’ll read a bit before the kids get home.”
“Sure. Jane downstairs?”
“Somewhere.” He walked into Danny’s room and shut the door.
I stood at the top of the stairs. Part of me wanted to go yell at my sister, the other part wanted to avoid her forever.
“I’m heading to the grocery store, Dad,” I called out, sure that Jane could hear me as well from wherever she was in the house. I raced down the stairs and slammed the front door behind me.
“KATE, DANNY, DAD, JANE . . . DINNER,” I SHOUTED AS I pulled down two glasses for the kids.
Pounding elephants rushed the stairs from the basement.
“Wow, you guys are fast—and heavy.”
“We’re hungry,” Danny stated plaintively.
I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. “In New York you wouldn’t be caught in a restaurant so unfashionably early.”
“I’m glad I live in Seattle.” Danny flopped into a chair.
“Good point.”
“Rude.” Kate poked her brother.
“He’s right, though. I didn’t think about hungry kids. Sorry, guys.”
“No biggie. I got all my homework done.” Kate didn’t smile.
“Okay then. ‘Always look
on the bright side . . . ,’ ” I sang out, then stopped. “You don’t know that one, do you?”
They stared blankly at me.
“Someday get your dad to let you watch Monty Python—and don’t tell your mom.”
Danny grinned and Kate looked scandalized. She really was Jane’s Mini Me.
“Where are our trays?” Danny canvassed the room.
“Trays?”
“We eat in the basement. I thought we only ate up here last night ’cause you just came.”
“Why would you—?”
Jane blew into the room in a freeze that I’m sure chilled only me as she hiked an eyebrow, questioning our conversation. I threw back her signature wide-eyed doe expression before turning back to Danny. “Could you please pour two milks?”
I turned to the plates and scooped out the shepherd’s pie. As I broke through the thin crust on the mashed potatoes, the most amazing aroma enveloped me. A similar version was one of Mom’s favorites; it was one dish she never burned, never oversalted, and always made into a celebration. Jane and I used to fight over seconds.
But tonight it was mine—and it was better than Mom’s. I always added a touch of oregano and cinnamon to the tomato base to give it extra richness. And for this pie I’d used more vegetables, mincing them super fine, and used a bit of grass-fed ground beef rather than relying exclusively on the lamb—the first naturally thickened the base, and the second softened the taste.
Everyone sat down, and Dad beamed. He loved Mom’s cooking—and when shepherd’s pie was on offer, he used to invite a few “boys” from his station over for dinner. You’d think I’d grown up with at least ten brothers for all the young men who hung around our house. In reality, it meant no one wanted to date Jane or me—ever.
“What’s this?” Danny poked at his salad.
“That is a salad of blanched green beans and snow peas, with mustard and onion, tarragon, and a little fresh chili. That purple leaf is baby chard. I think you’ll love it.”
Danny looked skeptical but grabbed his fork as soon as I set down the shepherd’s pie.
“Danny.” Jane stopped him instantly. “Why don’t you say grace?”
He brightened up quickly, as if she’d handed him a gift rather than a reprimand.
“Dear God, thanks for Aunt Elizabeth and her food. Please help Mom feel better and bring Dad home safe. Amen.”
“Thanks, Danny-bananny. Dig in.” Jane winked at her son.
Everyone took huge bites except for me. I watched to catch their first expressions. The kids lit up instantly.
“Aunt Elizabeth, will you make this again?”
“Mom, can you cook this?”
Jane laughed. “I can try.” She reached for her fork and gently scraped it across her food. Studying it or remembering it?
I started to doubt myself. She scraped again.
After a couple seconds she scooped a small bite and chewed slowly, carefully. I wondered how ground meat slowly stewed in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes and peas could require that much work. I listed each ingredient in my head, noting the soft textures. A person could gum this dish. Jane chewed on.
Then she clasped her napkin across her mouth and lunged from the table and out of the kitchen.
Kate looked at me. “She doesn’t eat anymore.” Danny didn’t even look up. I flickered my eyes to Dad, who blinked an attempt at sympathy, but I wanted none of it. I only tasted failure.
Dad kept up a cheerful prattle with the children as I listed the ingredients in my head, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. I didn’t think anyone noticed me. I was wrong there too.
“It’s okay, Aunt Elizabeth. Don’t feel bad.”
“Thanks, Danny. You’re a sharp kid, you know that?” I kissed him on the top of the head as he and Kate headed upstairs.
Alone in the kitchen, Dad touched my arm. “Are you okay?”
I slammed the leftovers into the refrigerator. “Anyone can make that dish, and mine was good. I know it. There’s no way I can’t cook a simple shepherd’s pie—in my sleep! And what’s with the kids eating in the basement?” I tossed the glass pan into Jane’s porcelain farmers’ sink and cringed at the loud clank. I glanced down, hoping I hadn’t cracked the pan or the sink.
“Calm down.”
“You don’t get it, Dad. I needed that—” I looked at him and realized I didn’t want him to get it. I couldn’t tell him about Feast. I shifted tactics. “I needed to do this for her. She said she likes familiar things. Shepherd’s pie was a favorite.” I turned away to wipe down the counters. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sometimes it’s enough just to be there.” Dad sighed. “I’m only learning that now. But you? You knew it back then. You were there for Mom, all the way.” He stepped closer and patted my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, honey. You listened to your sister and did your best. Don’t dwell on the fact that her stomach couldn’t handle it.”
“But . . .”
“It’s the way it is right now.” Dad shrugged, ending the discussion. “I’m heading to bed.” He sighed again and pulled me into a half hug. “I think we should leave around eight again. I agreed to take a fire safety presentation off the station’s hands, since we’ll be back.”
“I thought we were leaving Thursday, if not Friday.”
“Jane says she’ll be fine, and I don’t want to push her right now . . . It’s hard to know what she needs.”
I remembered the conversation from earlier, and it dawned on me that perhaps we both felt dismissed. “I’ll be ready.”
Dad went upstairs, and I stood in the kitchen thinking about his words. “You listened to your sister and did your best.” Not true. I never asked Jane what tastes good right now, what she thought she could eat, what repulsed her, or what she craved. I never asked what the medicines did to her tastes. I only knew what she read. And while it might constitute a start, it wasn’t a complete picture.
Peter’s notes told me that she could be suffering an endless number of side effects, most of which completely contradicted each other.
I threw the dish towel into the sink. I knew nothing.
Chapter 10
THE NEXT MORNING I DIDN’T BURN THE OATMEAL. Instead I took it off too early and served up cold oats al dente. The whole experience was getting too close to Cold Comfort Farm. If not for the kids’ forgiveness and gentle teasing, I might have hurled the pot—regardless of the damage and subsequent apologies.
“You know,” Danny said, “I don’t like oatmeal anyway.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“You were so excited about the almonds and the strawberries.”
I smiled. Then like the indomitable Flora Poste, he requested toast.
“That’s not enough for breakfast, ‘Robert Poste’s child.’ ”
“Who?”
“She’s the pragmatic modernist in Cold Comfort Farm, and she likes toast.”
Danny looked lost.
“Never mind.” I chuckled and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.
“You laugh at your own jokes a lot.”
His comment stopped me. “I guess I do. Most of them I say to myself. I’m at work most of the time, and I don’t joke much there.”
“Why not?”
“Hmm . . . ’cause I’m the boss, I guess.” I snatched up the toast.
“This is a little boring, but I’ve got just the thing for tomorrow.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“W—”
Kate cut across Danny’s next question. “Aunt Elizabeth, we’re going to be late.”
I spread peanut butter across the toast and shoved it into their hands. “Move.”
They both stared at the toast, then back at me.
“Come on. Eat and run.” I turned them around and pushed them toward the door. I caught Danny throw Kate a look that shouted, She does not know what she’s doing! He was right.
I stood on the porch and watched the
m book it across the blocks to school. Danny’s backpack swung back and forth, threatening to topple him, and Kate snatched bites between strides.
With the kids out the door, I headed to the guest room and remembered that Dad had upped our departure. No breakfast surprise. My heart sank into my stomach. Danny mattered to me, and I was about to let him down. And Kate? She didn’t smile much, and that made me sad.
I sat on the bed and absorbed the mess of clothing sprawled before me—mounds of flats, boots, sweaters, blouses, leggings, and indescribable junk. It reminded me of the day I had left home—I closed my eyes—almost half a lifetime ago. While all my high school friends celebrated at graduation parties, I headed home and packed—everything in my closet. I’d been admitted to a summer program at the Institute of Culinary Education and then to a college nearby. I told everyone I was going for the summer and I would return for the month before college started, but it was a lie. I knew that once gone I would stay gone. And as it turned out, the communication between the coasts was so terse and infrequent that I had no incentive to return. It felt as if Dad hadn’t noticed my absence at all.
I snatched shoes and sweaters from the floor, feeling that same sense of loss. But it wasn’t the same—couldn’t be. I wasn’t running away. This wasn’t home, and Jane didn’t need me. I’d done my duty, and now I needed to focus on Feast. Wasn’t that the whole point of this trip in the first place—to feel alive about cooking again?
But where could I go to do that? Hood River with Dad? His life and fire safety presentations held no room for me. He loved me, I knew, but we didn’t hold more than that between us. We didn’t talk. We didn’t relate. Return to Feast? Not yet. My one meal here constituted a complete failure. I needed to show Paul more.
Dad poked his head in. “Ten minutes?”
“Dad?” I flopped on the bed, defeated. “I can’t go.”
“Where? Home?”
“Anywhere.” My voice cracked.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I’ll go back to Hood River and turn in your rental. You stay here.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 31