A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  She nodded into the room. “I see.” She stepped in and moved a pile so she could perch on the bed. “Back to Hood River?”

  “Seattle. I’m going to open a catering business. I’m going to be a sister and an aunt and a chef. I’m going to start that business I told you about, cooking for cancer patients with a provisions store on the side.”

  “Good for you. What about a girlfriend, maybe a wife?”

  “Ah . . . I just said good-bye to that.”

  Suzanne looked startled.

  “Paul . . . it wouldn’t have worked . . .”

  “I was talking about Nick.”

  “He’s gone too.”

  “You sounded like you really liked him. I assumed he was part of this.” She spread her hands around the room.

  I plopped next to her. “I did really like him, but he’s moving in a different direction.” I covered my eyes with my hands. “And oh . . . you should’ve heard what I leveled at him on my way out of town. I was horrible.”

  “Elizabeth—” She started to reprimand me, but her eyes caught the letter. “What’s that?”

  “It’s from my mom.” I handed it to her. “Please. Read it.”

  She sat silent a few moments, reading. “I always wondered about your mom. It’s beautiful.” She carefully folded it and placed it back in the envelope.

  “She was beautiful. And she knew much more than I gave her credit for. I’ve messed up, Suz.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me the whole story.”

  “That would take all night.”

  “Then we’ve got some talking to do. I’ll order in.”

  She ordered Thai food and we sat on the couch eating, talking, laughing, even crying. I told her more about Nick, Jane, the kids, and my final blazing farewell. I told her about Paul, Feast, Trent, and Tabitha, and the catering business that was coming more alive in my head with each moment.

  “How are you going to fund it? Paul backed Feast, and I don’t think he’ll be interested in this.”

  “I’m going to call Palmer and get his advice, and I’ll take out a loan.”

  “I’ll run some numbers for you. You’ll need a business plan.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suzanne stared at me a moment. Her expression wasn’t that of numbers and business. It was softer, like the expression she held when Grant’s name flashed across her phone screen.

  “What?”

  “You have to tell him.”

  “He’s not the reason I’m going back.” I shifted my legs under me. “I’ll admit he got under my skin. I don’t know how or why. Looking at him, you wouldn’t see it. Not my type, nothing like Paul, but we understood each other.” I shrugged. “This business was his idea, and maybe that’s what knowing him was really about. There are some friendships that you need in a season, others in a life. He was a season.”

  “Don’t you want a life?”

  “That’s what I’m chasing. My life.”

  She held her hands up. “You’re right. I’m clearly feeling romantic, but I’ll say this—don’t go at everything alone just because that’s what you’ve always done. Dare to imagine something new.”

  My mother’s words, We are a team, flashed through my brain. “I’ll try . . . I’m trying. I’ve got a family to rejoin . . . if they’ll have me.”

  “And if she won’t?”

  I sank back in to the chair. That was what I hadn’t fully sorted. I could ask for forgiveness, but there was no guarantee Jane would grant it. “She hasn’t got the most malleable or forgiving personality, but I need to try.”

  After a couple wonderful hours of sharing, our natures got the best of us and we started making lists. We pulled out our laptops, paper, and pens, and noted moving companies, the Salvation Army and Goodwill, real estate companies, car dealerships. We looked up the small storefront on Madison Street, printed our apartment’s release forms, canceled my gym membership, researched Seattle professional societies, and finally and most painfully, we canceled all the reservations I’d booked for haircuts, color jobs, massages, facials . . .

  “This is unbelievable. I had no idea how organized you were.”

  “When you go through it like this, it doesn’t have much texture, does it?”

  “You were busy. It’s orderly. I almost envy it.” She checked the pad of paper beside her. “Do you really think you can make that flight?”

  “Three days. I want to pick up the wig and head straight to the airport.”

  “Let’s keep at it then. What else?”

  Chapter 42

  SOMEWHERE OVER NORTH DAKOTA I SMILED, COMPLETELY stunned by my to-do list. I’d lived in New York for fifteen years, and all I left behind me was one measly item. Suzanne had made it too easy.

  “The movers arrive Saturday, and Grant will be here to help direct them.”

  “You’ve left me nothing to do.”

  “You’ll need to transfer the utilities into my name. I e-mailed you the forms yesterday; you have to print, sign, scan, and e-mail them back. That’s something.”

  “It’s only one item. I need a better list.”

  “You may need to watch a movie or read a book.” She shoved a small book wrapped in brown paper into my hand. “Here, I got you one.”

  I shut my laptop and reached for the book in my lap, One Thousand Gifts. On the inside of the cover she’d written, Enjoy the Feast! Love you, Suz. I sighed. She understood, probably always had, what my mom had meant. I wasn’t in my eleventh hour, and I was ready to learn.

  From the airport I took a cab straight to Jane’s house. The wig box bounced on the seat next to me. Would she understand? Could she forgive? The questions bounced in tempo with the box. By the time I arrived, I felt fully shaken and unnerved.

  Heart in throat, I rang the doorbell.

  Jane opened it and stared at me. She looked thinner and paler and sported a black Neff ski cap on her head. I stood silent, waiting for some sign, some word, but she only pressed her lips together, as if holding something in.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry, Jane. Can you please forgive me?” I held out the box. “I brought you something. It’s not much, but it’s—”

  She grabbed the box from my hands, plopped it on the floor, and pulled both my shoulders into a hug. She didn’t push back to look at me. She didn’t pat my back. She didn’t say anything for a full minute. We simply held tight.

  Eventually I heard a small, soft whisper. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  We both laughed, sobby and joyful—until one of us snorted.

  We spent the afternoon talking and laughing and crying. I had brought my letter and for the first time, we shared rather than fought over Mom. I also told her about the test.

  “How could you do that and not tell me? When did you do it?”

  “After you mentioned it, I got obsessed. Dr. Chun took pity on me and did the blood draw. You were napping one day.” I pulled at a cuticle. “I couldn’t tell you. I’m not used to sharing, Jane. I was . . . I was scared.”

  “Of course you were. What are you going to do?”

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Chun next week to discuss my options. I’ve read over all the websites on a pamphlet she gave me and there are lots of options. It sounds dramatic, but I’m leaning towards a double mastectomy—get rid of the risk, if I can.” I took a sip of tea. “Could you come with me and help me think it through?”

  “Absolutely.” Jane leaned over and gripped my hand. “Let’s just not have surgery together.”

  “Too much sister bonding?” I laughed.

  When the kids came home, we moved into the kitchen and continued our talk, a twenty-three-year download, while baking cookies. She pranced around the room and kept the kids in stitches tossing her new hair over her shoulder. And I watched her, studied her, and tried to lay down my assumptions and see my sister for exactly who she was.

  When we heard Peter come in, she lit up. “He’s here. Hide.”
Jane pointed under the kitchen table.

  “Why?”

  “Shh . . . just do it.” She turned to the kids. “Sit down and don’t say a word.” They grinned and pulled out chairs, bumping me with the chair legs and knobby knees.

  I tickled Kate’s ankle and she giggled.

  “Shh, stop it,” Jane hissed as Peter opened the door. Footsteps shook the floor beneath my hands and knees. Jane spun around at the sink, offering him her back.

  “Lizzy?”

  She flipped her hair as she swung around. “I got you! I got you!” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Lizzy, I got him.”

  I crawled out from under the table in time to catch Peter’s stunned expression. “You’ve got hair.”

  Jane twirled her fingers through it. “Isn’t it fun? I’ve always wanted wavy hair. Lizzy brought it.”

  Peter caught my eyes and smiled, but crossed the room to kiss his wife. “I love it.”

  “But not more than my real hair, right?”

  I bit my lip. It was not the time to tell her what Saskia had told me.

  Peter laughed. “This is a nice substitute, but yes, your real hair was and will be more beautiful.” He looked over at me and winked. “You’re back.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I am.”

  “It’s about time.” He pulled me into a quick hug. “Good to see you.”

  “You too.”

  “She’s moving here,” Danny added.

  “So I gathered.” Peter turned back to me. “Seattle’s a great food town, plenty of restaurants.”

  “I’m thinking something smaller, more personal. A catering business and a provisions shop.”

  “That’s exciting. Are you going to work with cancer patients, like you did with Jane and Tyler?”

  “That’s the central plan, but I’d like to take it a little bigger with a storefront too. I contacted a Realtor a couple days ago. We look at spaces tomorrow, including the one on Madison Street down from Starbucks.”

  “We’ll get to see you.” Peter smiled as if the very idea made his family complete.

  He and the kids soon drifted out of the kitchen while Jane and I finished dinner. She’d planned broiled salmon, quinoa, and spinach.

  “I wouldn’t have thought this sounded good to you.”

  “It doesn’t.” She bit her lip. “I couldn’t think of what else to make. I haven’t eaten anything in days and—”

  “What?”

  “Last night I couldn’t do it. I let them fend for themselves.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I found the kids’ plates in the basement this morning.”

  “Stop it. It’s okay.”

  “I can’t go back there . . .”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Oh, Lizzy—Sorry. Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t. It doesn’t hurt . . . I like it.” I shook my head. “Move aside. In fact, go sit over there. I’m taking over your kitchen.”

  Jane smiled and obeyed. She sat silently for a few moments while I figured out what to do with her dinner plan.

  Stillness filled the room as I started to chop. “You can talk, you know.”

  “I was thinking.” She crossed back toward me to get a glass of water. “What about Nick?”

  My knife stalled and I looked down at my hand. I was flexing it, a muscle memory, not of the injury, but of his care during that time. “Nothing doing. I’m sure I’ll run into him. In fact, if you see him, will you let him know I’m back? But I’m not going to seek him out.”

  “You could at least be friends. He could help you with your marketing. I don’t think I can.”

  Her hand tightened into a fist, and I reached out and grabbed it. “Stop.” I rubbed her fingers.

  She looked down and huffed an impatient breath. “I didn’t even feel it.”

  “It will all come back to you, Jane. Just like your hair. It’ll be different, but it’ll come back. Relax and wait.”

  “It doesn’t always change. It could still be blond or—”

  “I love you.” I smiled indulgently like Mom did during our whiny tantrums.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  I flashed her my stern look.

  “Fine.” She huffed again and took a sip of her water. Her voice then came out singsong and perky. “Elizabeth, I’m not taking on new clients at this time. May I suggest a capable colleague with whom I’ve entrusted my own clients?”

  “Much better, but no, you may not. Nick and I couldn’t work together. That’d be too tough for me.”

  Chapter 43

  THE WEEK ROLLED BY QUICKLY. THE REALTOR WAS frighteningly aggressive, but after fifteen years in New York I was used to the sharks. And she was my shark, so I let her do her job. She got me a lease on the Madison Street storefront that was so favorable I signed a two-year contract. I was committed. She also found me a small, two-bedroom house in Madrona, about a mile south of Jane. Again, the lease was favorable, and I signed within a couple days. I couldn’t believe how fast life changed. I almost asked her to visit the car dealership with me.

  Soon I was unpacking my scant furniture and few boxes from New York and had my head shoved into my own oven.

  “Lizzy?”

  “Back here.” I pulled myself out and sat on my heels.

  Jane pushed through the door of my tiny storefront and stared at me. “Funny finding you there.”

  “You want in?”

  “No. This is all yours.” She looked around. “It’s interesting.”

  “Code for small, dirty, and dark?”

  “Something like that.”

  “See the potential. Flip that switch over there.”

  Jane flipped the last switch on a bank of six, and the room flooded with light. “Oh, it’s just small and dirty.”

  I stood up and straightened my back. “Cute. Dirty I can fix, and it’s actually the perfect size for what I want. It’s got a great layout and plenty of counter space.” I pointed to a bag she’d rested on the counter. “What’s that?”

  “A welcome home or new business gift, I can’t decide. Open it.”

  I unwrapped the small box inside. “I never wear perfume.”

  “I know, but the girl who smells everything needs some good perfume. Open it up. It’s fresh and has a little bite, just like you.”

  “Funny.” I pulled the cap off the bottle of Jo Malone English Pear & Freesia and sprayed a little on my wrist. “I love it. It is me! How’d you do it? It’s actually me.”

  Jane laughed. “I thought so.” She glanced around again. “What are you going to do out front?”

  I took a last sniff and then dragged Jane to the front of the store. “I ordered a huge double-glass door freezer for here, and I’m going to put shelves of provisions, maybe a small display cabinet with locally cured meats and cheeses and prepared salads, all through here.” I spread my arms around the room, much too grand for its size, but appropriate for my dreams. “I’m flirting with the name Feaster.”

  “You can’t be serious. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t want to use Feast. This is something new, but I like what Mom said, I like the idea of choosing the feast, being thankful, being present, coming to grace, and celebrating the freedom—being a ‘feaster,’ always. I want to live large, Jane, and help bring the feast to others.”

  “You can’t.” She shook her head. “I mean, you can do all that and you’ll be wonderful, but you can’t use that name.” She paced around the small space. “What about Evergreen?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s always alive, growing, changing, choosing life, thriving—all the same stuff you’re after without the completely awful name.”

  “It’s not bad, but—”

  Peter pushed through the door. “Peter, I picked a name,” I told him. “Feaster.”

  “Fester?” His brows drew together.

  I turned back to Jane. “Evergreen it is.”

  THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I INVIT
ED KATE AND DANNY to walk to Evergreen after school so Jane and Peter wouldn’t have to rush home from her final chemo session. As the kids ate cookies in the kitchen, I waited for them, leaning against Evergreen’s doorjamb and feeling almost completely and thoroughly happy. The business hadn’t opened, but I was cooking, prepping, babysitting my niece and nephew—and relishing each sight, smell, taste, and moment. I held my wrist to my nose and breathed deeply. Maybe that was what I’d been missing all along—a good perfume.

  The moment of peace felt well earned after a frenetic Thursday and a dinner at Jane’s house for ten of my dad’s firefighter buddies. They had come all the way from Hood River to clean my kitchen and refurbish the storefront—a huge home-cooked feast was their reward. I leaned against the doorjamb and recalled the work, the dinner, and the miracle it had brought.

  “I can’t believe you’re opening your own catering business.”

  I had turned to Tubs yesterday (if he has a real name, I’ve never heard it) and replied, “Technically one could call this a demotion, you know. I ran a restaurant in New York for years.”

  Tubs shook his head, clearly not hearing me. “Your very own business.” He drove in a nail, chuckling to himself. “Who’da thought when your dad kept calling that school that it would come to this? I thought he was crazy to think you’d make it big.”

  “What calls?”

  “That school where you cooked.”

  “Dad never called me there.” I felt my shoulders slump as I remembered that I hadn’t called my dad either—not once that entire summer. I had sent an occasional e-mail letting him know I was alive, but had made it clear I didn’t want more. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing between us.

  “Not to talk to you,” Tubs said. “He and that director talked all the time.” Tubs shook his head again and walked away, carrying a stainless steel sink to the back Dumpster.

  I stood there for a beat, then beelined to the front of the store. “Tubs said you called the Institute.” I knelt down next to Dad, who was painting the baseboards.

  “I’d forgotten that . . . John. Good man. What brought that up?”

  “Tubs was waxing nostalgic.” I sat back on my heels. “Why’d you call Chef Palmer, Dad?”