A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Seriously? It’s Thursday already?”

  “Yeah. You may want to stop loading that dishwasher. Give her something to do.” He chuckled and pulled open the door. “Have fun today.”

  I took his advice and stopped cleaning the kitchen. Instead I headed to my room to get dressed. When I came down, I found Jane with her head in the oven again. “We’ve cleaned this already. It can’t be that bad.”

  “What did you cook in here?”

  “Get out.” I tugged at her shoulder, shut the oven door, and pressed the self-clean button. “There. What’s next?”

  “I thought we could—” Jane looked at me. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not.” I stood before her, and the emotions of the past few days caught me. I wanted to be different. “Tell me how I can help you today.”

  Jane bit her lip.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “That’s just so sweet.” She gave me a quick hug, then flashed me a determined look. “I need to do the laundry from our vacation; then I want to go through Danny’s closet. The homework area needs sorting . . .” She paused. “The kids just went next door to play, so we can . . . Forget all that, I don’t want to do any of it . . . Peter put his computer away over our trip.”

  I smiled.

  “We talked, probably not enough, but it was a start . . . I want to keep feeling that way.”

  I wilted inside while holding my expression blank. I needed to tell her about Andy.

  “Let’s go to Snoqualmie Falls. It’s about a half hour away, but it’s beautiful and we’ve got sun. Let’s just go. The kids won’t be home until after lunch.”

  “Okay then.”

  She grabbed her keys. “I’ve thought about what we said last week, right before we left.”

  “That was my fault—”

  “It wasn’t. It’s always been there. I left to avoid it, but I also left to buy time. If you’d gone back to New York, I wouldn’t have this chance.” She grabbed my upper arm to command my attention. “I’m sorry. I was selfish back then—still am—and I was scared. Those aren’t excuses, but it’s the truth.”

  “I understand. Believe me, I wasn’t much better.”

  “Dad says you were magnificent.”

  “I was there.” I paused for a moment. “But I only saw what I wanted to see . . . and at the end, I left too.”

  “What do you mean?” Jane pulled onto the street.

  I looked out the window, wondering if I could confess what I’d never told anyone, and to Jane—the one who, armed with such information, would know how to use it to her advantage. “At the end, I knew she was dying, I mean the exact moment. She wanted to talk, it was a whisper really, and there was something in her voice and in her eyes. It’s strange, in that moment, how much you can see. I pulled my hand free and left the room . . . I never went back. And then when I graduated high school, I did the same to Dad.”

  I looked to Jane but couldn’t see her expression. She didn’t pull her eyes from the road.

  “You were a kid. How could you be expected to stand there?” Her voice caught.

  “I never said good-bye. I didn’t let her say good-bye,” I whispered, and it was done.

  We said little until we reached Snoqualmie Falls—our hearts elsewhere. And when we did stand at the railing, our destination reached, neither of us could find words. Instead we watched the sun ignite each droplet, making diamonds rain around us.

  “It makes you almost feel that everything can be made new.” I broke the silence as I took in the sights, the smells, and the sounds of the roaring water. “Can we be made new?”

  “I’d like that.” Jane reached for my hand and squeezed. Then she closed her eyes and let the spray fan her face.

  She was thinner, her skin seemed hollowed beneath her eyes, and small wrinkles spread from their outer corners. One crossed a vein near her temple. “Are you tired?”

  “Not today.” She grinned, her eyes still closed. “I’m sorry, Lizzy. I’m sorry that happened to you, but she wouldn’t want you to carry it. I say that as a mom, not a sister. I would never want Kate to carry that.”

  I stood silent for a long while, then exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “Doesn’t the air smell great?” She pulled off her scarf and laid it on the railing. “I love this. I love getting out in nature where it’s so big I know I can’t control it. It’s so big and glorious and I feel peace.”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” She must have caught my tone, because she turned away from the waterfall and faced me directly.

  “Andy is dying. He was admitted to the hospital a couple days ago, and he’s held on longer than anticipated, but Cecilia called this morning. It could be any time.”

  Tears flooded Jane’s eyes. “He’s a kid.”

  “I know.” I pulled her into a hug.

  “How’s Courtney?”

  “Cecilia said she’s managing. She and her husband are staying at the hospital, and her sister has come to be with their other kids.”

  “That poor family. I . . .” She stopped talking and buried her head into my shoulder. We simply stood and gripped each other.

  After a few moments she picked her head up and stepped back. “People are staring at us.”

  “You’re bald and we’re standing here hugging and crying. Of course they’re staring.”

  “I need a wig.” She touched her head, now glistening with mist. “I really want one now.”

  “That wouldn’t save this moment, and for goodness’ sake, this is Seattle. Do you know how much ink, piercings and weird clothing, strange hair and baldness you see in this town?”

  “Not in Snoqualmie.”

  I looked around. She was right. Maybe it was all the water spraying up and around us, maybe it was the tears, but it felt like a fishbowl and we were the shiny attraction. I swiped at my eyes. “Let them stare.”

  We stood for a few more minutes, trying to focus on the water and not the stares or the pain.

  “Come on, let’s get a bite at the coffee shop before we head back. We’ll be in time for the kids, and if you’re very good I’ll let you mop the kitchen floor. You can even clean the dishwasher filters.”

  Jane gave me a fleeting smile. “You say the sweetest things.”

  I grabbed her scarf off the railing and followed her to the coffee shop.

  She stopped inside the door and pulled a baseball cap out of her bag. “It was like this at the Great Wolf Lodge too,” she whispered.

  We sat at a table in the corner as she continued, “The kids didn’t notice it, but Peter did. I think it was the first time he understood how hard this is, on multiple levels.”

  “Well, there you go. Something good.”

  Jane threw me a wry smile.

  “This time I’m not joking.” I leaned forward to make my point. “It’s what I meant about being new. Peter learning empathy and understanding . . . That’s a good thing.”

  Jane laid her hands on the table. “So I should enjoy these stares?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Jane looked around. “I think about that story you told me, the boy at the park? The one Kate told the other kids not to stare at?”

  I nodded.

  She sighed. “I get that it’s good for them to learn that stuff, it’s good for Peter, for me . . . And I’m glad I knew Andy.” She caught herself. “Know Andy. But I’d have chosen to skip all these lessons if given the option.”

  “I don’t think God works that way.”

  “Then you tell me why this happened to me? Why it may happen to my kids someday? Or to you?”

  I waited a few beats, considering the cost of my next statement. “I guess my answer is why not you, or me? Why not any of us?” I paused. Was I really willing to say “even me”? Did I believe in a God who could turn such pain to good? That love really did matter and could heal hearts? And that none of it was based on performance?

&nbs
p; Jane stared at me.

  “What can I say? You left me alone for five days, and between Cecilia and my own thoughts, I got deeper than usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t think we get exempt from the pain because we live good lives. Some circumstances we can’t control—in fact, most are truly beyond our abilities. Instead maybe it’s how we get made new; it’s one of the only times we slow down enough to listen and receive grace, real grace.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I’m beginning to. I’ve been running a long time and I’m empty. I felt good cooking with you and Nick and Cecilia, and I wasn’t even doing the actual cooking. You all showed me grace. But now I’m looking to home, back to New York, and I’ll be cooking again and I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you all and the gift and this feeling of grace.”

  I dropped my hands into my lap and pulled at a cuticle. “I’m living larger now, somehow. Cecilia gave me a book last week. You know its opening line? ‘No one told me that grief feels like fear.’ That’s how I’ve felt—for almost fifteen years. And now it’s falling behind me. I can’t express what that feels like.” I took a deep breath and crept forward. “When I go back . . . can we keep doing this? Talking? I can’t go back to the way it was.”

  “Why don’t you stay?”

  “Here?”

  “Find a job out here. Get an apartment.”

  “Feast is my restaurant, my life really. I’ve worked years to build it, and I’m not ready to walk away. In fact . . .” I pulled my phone out of my bag and glanced at the screen.

  “Why do you keep checking that?”

  “I got a text from Paul this morning to keep my evening open. Something’s up. I’m afraid he’s going to call and say Murray’s taken my job.”

  “Fire you?”

  “He could. He’s been generous to me, Jane, too generous really. Business started slowing months ago. I wasn’t cooking the same, and any owner except Paul would’ve tossed me.”

  “Well, he didn’t, and now you’re cooking great, so don’t assume the worst.”

  “You’re right.” I laid the phone down, putting Paul and Feast away from me, and gave Jane my attention.

  On the drive home my phone rang. Paul. My stomach clenched.

  “Hey, Paul.”

  “Elizabeth. Good to hear your voice. I just landed and would love to meet for dinner. Are you available?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m in Seattle meeting with a company we’re thinking of acquiring, and I thought we could grab dinner.”

  “Of course. I can’t believe you came to see me.”

  Paul laughed lightly into the phone. “I came for work; you’re a bonus. So, dinner. I’m in meetings all day tomorrow, and I fly out tomorrow night, so tonight is my only chance.”

  “Just tell me when and where.”

  “I’m at the Four Seasons. Why don’t you meet me there and we’ll grab dinner close? Someone told me Matt’s in the Market is a Seattle favorite, so I had Lois book me a reservation for seven thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Come to the hotel first. Seven o’clock? We’ll have a drink and walk over. She sent me a map link; it’s only a few blocks away.”

  I smiled. Lois, as always, had covered every detail. “See you then.” I tapped my phone off.

  “Paul is here?” Jane kept her eyes on the road.

  “He wants to take me to dinner.”

  “You sound excited.”

  “I think I am. I feel more whole than I’ve felt in a long time, and I feel like I have something to offer Feast again.”

  “What are you going to offer Paul?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard talk about Paul for years. A man doesn’t send flowers to an employee’s sister and fly across the country to check on said employee, especially one who’s already returning in a couple days.”

  “He’s here for business.”

  “If you say so . . . What are you going to wear?”

  Chapter 37

  I PULLED JANE’S CAR INTO THE FOUR SEASONS ROUNDABOUT and smoothed my skirt. I smiled as I remembered her comment. You’re so New York tonight. I forgot how intimidating it is.

  She was right; I’d gotten awfully comfortable in jeans and a few borrowed sweaters and flannel shirts. Granted, they were J. Crew, adorable and slim-cut, but the shirts were still flannel. Not tonight. Tonight was game on in high Manolo black heels, a long patterned Armani skirt, and a sleek, carpaccio-thin navy cashmere sweater.

  Paul crossed the lobby upon my entrance and kissed my cheek. He gently took my hand. “How is it?”

  I slowly bent the fingers within his, then held it out. It was still pale, crisscrossed in red, and vulnerable looking. I had wanted to wrap it, but Cecilia said it was time to move it and expose it to the world—carefully. “Working well. See? Stitches out and everything.”

  “Physical therapy?”

  “No need. I didn’t do much nerve or muscle damage. Went straight for bone.”

  Paul cringed. “I keep forgetting that none of that bugs you.”

  I laughed because he was right. A chef can’t be squeamish around blood and bones. If you want fresh meat, poultry, or fish, you’re part butcher, part surgeon. “This almost had me on the floor, I’ll admit. It wasn’t pretty.” Nick immediately came to mind. I heaved him away.

  “Let’s a have a drink, then walk to dinner.”

  Paul directed me toward a barstool. I stopped before sitting. “You always prefer tables.”

  “You always prefer the bar.”

  I blinked. “I do. Thank you. I like to be near the action.”

  “There you go.” He pulled a stool out for me. “I can’t believe you’ve been away so long. How are you?”

  “How’s Feast?”

  “It’s doing well and waiting for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course it is. I was never trying to push you out, Elizabeth; I was trying to save your dream. You lost your step.”

  “I did, but it’s back.” I smiled and relaxed.

  We chatted a bit more before walking over to Matt’s in the Market. It was on the second floor of a building right on the edge of Pike Place, looking straight at the iconic red-lit sign. We sat by the window, looking out on a darkening gray evening sky with sun igniting the tops of the clouds and only breaking through here and there like spun sugar beams. But it was the menu that absorbed my attention.

  My mind started generating menu changes for Feast as I looked at all the fresh options, the bold pairings, and the construction of their menu. I started with the octopus with kimchi, daikon radish salad, and chili vinaigrette. Paul ordered the seared foie gras. When he held up his fork, offering me a taste, I froze—Paul never shared his food. He gently put the bite inside my mouth. Rather than comment, I closed my lips.

  “I bet yours would be even better.”

  “I used to make a seared foie gras. I haven’t in years.”

  “You should.” Paul smiled warmly.

  I then moved on to sturgeon, with fava beans, English peas, mint pesto, radishes, and wild greens. The plate was green and fresh. I smiled as I thought of all the wonderful produce in season—the spring vegetables that were just coming in when I left New York would now be in full bloom. I’d incorporated lots of greens and fresh purees in the food I’d cooked for Jane, but had hesitated to freeze some of the fresh local favorites.

  What if I did? Pestos? Purees? Peas? Kales? Smoked, grilled, braised? Then frozen? Perhaps in separate containers as I had done with Tyler? I could even couple them with toasted seeds or grains. The starch would help them withstand freezing. And dividing meals into more discrete elements would not only allow for crossover and greater variety, but people with different side effects from chemo, different needs and tastes, might be able to pull from many of the same dishes. That was the element necessary to take the catering idea larger, to help more people and make it a commercial venture. Nick’s id
ea had consumed my imagination for days, and, while more precise consulting and individual catering work to patients would be the focal point, a provision store could help it float financially and broaden its base. That’s what Nick hadn’t considered—I stopped myself and flicked a glance to Paul, sure my face had betrayed that I’d completely left him and Feast, if only for a moment.

  “You know, Elizabeth, you seem good here. You were right to take the time.” I simply nodded. Paul’s inflection told me there was more. “But . . . I’m delighted you’re coming home. I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?”

  “I wanted to tell you months ago, but you were so distracted and I didn’t want to add pressure. But that’s not the case now. This is the Elizabeth I know. The beautiful, confident chef ready to take on the world.”

  Part of me reveled in his description while another part wanted to protest that I was no longer that woman. I didn’t want to take on the world, just to make a difference in one small important corner, but the idea was so new, so fleeting, that I said nothing.

  He pushed a small blue box across the table. I opened it and found a gold charm, a delicate chef’s hat.

  “This is the charm you gave me when Feast opened, but mine is silver.”

  “Gold for the next restaurant.”

  “The next . . . restaurant?”

  “I secured the lease on a small space in the Village about a year ago and took possession in November. Work is almost complete and it’s ready to go.”

  “Another kitchen?”

  “That’s the way this business works, Elizabeth. It’s not just about the food; it’s about a name and a presence. Murray was vital to that, but you’re the muse and it’s your food. That was one of the reasons I encouraged you to take the time here and recoup before we fired up the next one.”

  “What’s it called? How big is it? What’s the menu? What’s—”

  “Slow down. It’s small. Half the dining room of Feast. Very intimate. No name and no menu. That’s for you to decide.”

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t say anything. Just fly back with me tomorrow and I’ll show it to you.” Paul reached out his hand and covered mine.