The All You Can Dream Buffet

by Barbara O'Neal

  He shifted his gaze away from the window and settled it on her face. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She looked over the menu carefully, asking her stomach what it could tolerate. Nothing much, it replied. Tea and toast or Cream of Wheat to start.

  Jack asked, “If I order eggs and bacon, will the smells bother you?”

  “I don’t think so.” She smiled. “No promises.”

  “Understood.”

  When the waitress had taken their order and headed away, Ginny said, “I’m feeling guilty about all this. You had to have been quite a ways down the road. Did you have to detour because of the fire?”

  “I did. And don’t worry about any of it. I called and made everything all right, and I’ll follow you into Portland.”

  “No,” she said with a scowl. “I’ll be fine.”

  He measured her. “I don’t mind.”

  “I do.” She met his gaze steadily. “I appreciate you coming back for me, appreciate everything you did, but I need to make this trip on my own.”

  He leaned back as the coffee and tea were delivered. “I swear I won’t pressure you to do anything, if that’s the problem. You’re married, I get that.” Ducking his head, he reached for a packet of sugar. “Did you … uh … get anything from Veronica?”

  “A note, you mean?”

  “Kinda silly, I guess.”

  “Not silly. Really touching and …” She found herself looking at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to taste it, how he would kiss. How he would touch her. How she might touch him. What it might be like to have a man inside her after all this time.

  Her long-starved nerves rustled to attention. “I liked your note, Jack, and … I like to look at you, too. But I’m not the kind of person who has an affair.”

  “What if it’s not an affair?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

  “What if we’re just friends, Ginny? What if we stay in touch because we like to talk? And maybe sometimes we can hang out.”

  She had a sudden flash of memory, his gentle hands washing her face and neck with a cool cloth. She had reached for his face, touched his cheek, and felt the whiskers on his jaw. The memory brushed every nerve in her body into full alert. “I don’t know.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it right now.” He gave her a sideways smile. “I just finished listening to Stranger in a Strange Land, the old Heinlein book. You want to borrow it for the rest of your day?”

  “Maybe I do,” she said, accepting the shift in conversation. “I definitely do.”

  After breakfast, they walked out to their vehicles, slowly. Ginny let Willow out of the backseat and leashed her so they could walk along the side of the grass. “I bet she’s going to be happy to get to the farm finally.”

  “She probably just likes to be with you, wherever that is,” he answered, reaching down to scratch the scruff of Willow’s black neck and her gold ears. He moved both hands over her, rubbing, stroking. “Her fur is great, so thick.”

  “She molts, though. Giant hunks of hair.”

  He stood. Brushed his hands off. Looked at his rig, then back to Ginny. “You going to be okay now?”

  “Yep. The food did the trick. I’m a little tired, but I’ll take it easy.”

  “Guess I’d better get a move on, then. You still have my phone number?”

  “I do.” Earnestly, she looked up. “Thank you so much for everything you did, Jack. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have met you, but it was good luck for me.” She hesitated. “Is it all right to give you a hug?”

  “You bet.” He opened his arms and Ginny moved forward, wrapping her free arm around his waist. His arms fell around her, and their bodies touched.

  Time expanded, stretched, somehow turned upside down. As her chest touched his, as their arms locked around each other, she closed her eyes and turned her head so that she could press her cheek into his shoulder. His body was both harder and softer than she had expected—a little soft in the middle, very strong in the shoulders and arms, and she let herself really feel that, feel the body of a man against her own body. Her skin rippled faintly, up and down, and she caught another flash of memory, of him turning her away from him so he could take off her shirt and wash her back, protecting her privacy as much as possible. She thought of his hands on her skin and shuddered faintly. He held her closer, making a low sound in his chest.

  But it was the scent of him that was her undoing. He smelled of himself, of man and bacon and the sugary essence of cake baking, and it cut through every inhibition she carried, as if it were a magic spell, as if he could change her just by being so close. His hand moved on her back, and Ginny raised her head, not letting him go. He looked down into her face, and she saw that he was not young, that there was loose skin around his jaw, those deep creases beside his eyes. Yet as he bent to kiss her, she could only think he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

  His lips touched hers and her knees literally went weak, buckling her closer to him. It was gentle, his mouth full and exploratory against her own. Only lips. Lips touching, pressing close, releasing, a series of small, then longer kisses. His hands moved on her back, and she found herself arching, wanting to rub her body back and forth across his.

  His hands made their way into her hair, and she tipped her head backward into the clasp of his palms. “You smell like peaches,” he said gruffly, and kissed her for real.

  For real.

  At the touch of his tongue, Ginny’s body burst into flames and she could see the fire points: blazing nipples burning away her shirt, fire shooting from between her legs, melting her jeans, her fingertips burning away his clothes, searching for his skin, his bare skin, his—

  She broke away. “I—uh—” She put her flaming fingers to her blazing mouth. Licking her tongue over her blistered lips, she took a step back, shaking her head. “I’m not that person. I’m sorry.”

  “Ginny—”

  Shaking her head, she turned away, pulling Willow along. She felt the truth blazing down her spine, and some part of her—the biggest part of her, if she was truthful—wanted him to come after her, put his hands on her again, take away her clothes, and…

  Dizzy with desire, she yanked open the car door and let Willow back in. The dog gave a soft whine, looking over her shoulder, but Ginny couldn’t allow herself that last glimpse, lest she turn to salt like Lot’s wife or, worse, a whore flinging herself at him, begging for just one night.

  She closed the door and put her head on the steering wheel, breathing deeply to bring her soul back from wherever it had gone. The smell of him lingered on her palms, maybe in her clothes, and she couldn’t stop trembling.

  After a minute, she heard his rig fire up and the gears moving. It eased past her, but she didn’t look up until the sound of it had gone so far down the road that she couldn’t hear it anymore.

  Only then did she take a deep breath of relief, start the car, and get on the highway herself. After a few miles she even turned on the CD player, realizing that she’d forgotten to pick up the book he promised to lend her.

  FROM: Ginny@cakeofdreams.com

  TO: FoodieFour@yahoogroups.com

  SUBJECT: checking in from Missoula, MT

  I have had the weirdest twenty-four hours! Detour for a fire, food poisoning, ghostly visitations (not kidding!), help from strangers.

  I am posting this from an Internet café in Missoula, Montana, and the place is grimy and filled with kids with backpacks who haven’t bathed, so I’m not going into detail. Just wanted to let you know that my phone is dead and I can’t get on the Internet without it, so don’t worry. I had a nasty case of food poisoning, and I’m a little on the peaked side, so probably won’t get there until morning.

  Weird, weird stuff has happened. Good and weird, and weird and not so great, and just plain weird weird. Can’t wait to tell you. Can’t wait to SEE you all!

  Will one of you go by the blog and post some
thing? I’ve been trying and trying to get on and I can’t access it. It’s Wordpress—ginnycake and pwd frosting.

  Love,

  Ginny

  FROM: Valerie@winedancer.com

  TO: Ruby@flavorofabluemoon.com, Lavender@lavenderhoneyblog.com

  SUBJECT: DON’T SPOIL THE SURPRISE!!!

  Lavender and Ruby—don’t let Ginny know I got here. I want to surprise her!!!

  FROM: Valerie@winedancer.com

  TO: FoodieFour@yahoogroups.com

  SUBJECT: re: checking in from Missoula, MT

  Thank goodness you’re okay! It’s not like you to be out of touch.

  All is well with Hannah and me, except she’s turning into a Lakota Indian and will run away from home when she turns sixteen to go on the powwow circuit.

  Wish I could be there with all of you.

  Valerie

  FROM: Ruby@flavorofabluemoon.com

  TO: FoodieFour@yahoogroups.com

  SUBJECT: re: checking in from Missoula, MT

  Ginny! Ghostly visitations??? I cannot wait to hear about that.

  We are eagerly awaiting your heralded arrival, ma cherie. They are building the dancing stage for Sunday night’s festivities and stringing little tiny white lights, and we’re all praying there will be no rain, only a big full blue moon.

  The lavender is astonishing, Ginny-girl. You’re going to have a field day (snort!) shooting it. I keep imagining you up to your ears in it, shooting, shooting, shooting. I was going to snap a pic on my cell phone for you, but that would spoil the stunning surprise of it!

  Hurry, hurry, hurry. (But also be careful!)

  Love,

  Ruby

  FROM: Lavender@lavenderhoneyblog.com

  TO: FoodieFour@yahoogroups.com

  SUBJECT: arrival

  We have your parking spot swept and ready for you. We can’t wait to see you and Willow, and Coco, the trailer!

  Sounds like you found adventure, just as you hoped.

  xoxo

  Lavender

  The Flavor of a Blue Moon

  a blog about great food…

  A rainy day here at Lavender Honey Farms. We all want to be outside, dancing in the sunshine with the bees and the scent of lavender in the air like the promise of happiness and calm, but we are stuck indoors. Knitting, reading, looking up appropriate goddesses for one another. (It would spoil the surprise to tell you who is who, but check back Monday for a full report on our Blue Moon Festival, also known as Lavender’s birthday.)

  This kind of weather always makes me want comfort food. Lots of omnivores think that comfort food and veganism are incompatible terms, but here is a dish you could happily serve to any meat eater, and (shhh!) they’ll never know the difference.

  KINDLY SHEPHERD’S PIE

  Serves 4 generously

  Olive oil, 2 T, plus 1 T

  2 ribs celery, 1 monster onion, 2–3 carrots, all diced

  5 cloves garlic, smashed, peeled, roughly chopped

  1 medium parsnip, diced (optional. Some people don’t like the sweetness of this vegetable, but I really, really do)

  1 cup fresh or frozen peas

  1 T tomato paste

  1 qt. high-quality vegetable broth

  1 bottle heavy red wine, such as zinfandel (the deeper the body, the better)

  2 T tamari

  Splash of Worcestershire sauce (be sure it doesn’t have anchovies)

  1 T fresh thyme

  1 cup porcini mushrooms, cleaned and sliced

  1 cup button mushrooms, cleaned and sliced

  2 cups ground-meat substitute, such as Quorn or MorningStar Farms crumbles

  4 large red potatoes, peeled and diced (or, for a more rustic dish, leave the skins on)

  ½ cup margarine

  ½ cup soy or coconut milk

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Prepare all vegetables except potatoes and have them ready. In a Dutch oven or heavy, large saucepan, heat 2 T olive oil (or more—this is not a high-fat dish, so using 3–4 T would not be amiss). Add onions, garlic, celery, carrots, parsnip, and cook over medium heat until softened. Add tomato paste and stir into vegetables.

  Open the wine. Pour one generous glass for yourself, then pour the rest in the pan.

  Add vegetable broth, spices, and tamari, and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer until liquid is reduced by at least half.

  Meanwhile, peel (or don’t) the potatoes, cut into chunks, and cover with water.

  Bring to a boil, then slightly lower heat. Simmer until potatoes are tender.

  Taste broth, correct seasonings. Add peas and mushrooms, and ground-meat substitute if you are using it, and let simmer on low heat while potatoes cook.

  Heat oven to 400 degrees.

  When potatoes are tender, drain the water and add margarine. Mash or whip until the potatoes are smooth, then add milk to make a slightly soft mash.

  Taste the stew. Liquid should be thick and velvety, with a rich, deep taste. If it needs more flavor, add salt or a little more tamari, or one cube of veggie bouillon. If it is not thick enough, remove some liquid from the pan, stir together with two tablespoons of flour until very smooth, then add back into the stew and let thicken.

  When the stew is right, pour it into a 10-inch glass pie pan or cast-iron skillet and top with mashed potatoes until it is covered completely. Using a spoon or fork, make peaks in the potatoes so they will get brown and beautiful in the oven.

  Place under broiler for five minutes or so, just to brown the top. Let cool for five minutes; serve in generous portions.

  Chapter 20

  It started to pour down buckets of rain around lunchtime. The women huddled in the tiny living room of the cottage, arranged on the deep couches and overstuffed chairs with fading tapestry patterns. Ruby draped her legs over one side of her chair and settled her laptop on her thighs. She refreshed email every so often, but so far there had been nothing from Liam. Maybe he wouldn’t even acknowledge the email.

  That would be terrible.

  Valerie knitted a sweater from soft wool the colors of a harvest table, her reading glasses perched on her perfectly straight, elegant nose. Hannah, hair simply braided out of the way, slumped in a corner of the couch, reading a Western romance novel with an old-school cover of a bare-chested Native American man with feathers in his hair. He looked, Ruby thought, a bit like Noah. That aggressive nose, the strong shoulders.

  Lavender sat at the table shoved up against the wall, going over paperwork of some kind. She fiddled with her pencil, flipping it back and forth.

  “I wish it would stop raining!” Hannah growled. “This is so boring!”

  “You’re reading,” Valerie said mildly. “There are other books in the trailer.”

  “I’m kinda sick of reading, all right?”

  “You want to play a game or something?” Ruby asked. “I saw a backgammon board over there.”

  “No.” Hannah caught her mother’s sidelong glance and added, “Thanks.”

  Ruby was bored, too. Hours of rain were no fun for anyone. She hit the refresh button again, then, tired of herself, typed in “mead.” A long list of websites scrolled open, history and supplies and legends and lore. She clicked on one at random and found a medieval-looking site, dark as an oak barrel. The drink of Vikings and medieval kings! it proclaimed. In the back of her mind, a lute played a lively tune, and she had a vision of a woman in a red and gold dress dancing on a stage. “Maybe we should all dress up for the Blue Moon Festival,” she said. “Like in costume or something.”

  “Now you tell me,” Valerie said. “I have three tutus in various styles in boxes somewhere on the way to San Diego.”

  Ruby hooted in delight. “Tutus! That would be so cool, wouldn’t it? We could be barefoot ballerinas.”

  Lavender grinned. “You girls would look lovely. I’d look like a silly old bat.”

  “No, no, no!” Ruby cried. “You would be the Snow Queen! We could put you in a”—she narrowed her eyes—
“a silver tutu, with lavender flowers in your hair.”

  “A Snow Queen with flowers in her hair?” Lavender said with a snort.

  “Maybe it’s not a Snow Queen, then, but I’m right about the flowers and the dress. And, Hannah, I see you in orange, or maybe red—Persephone.” A shiver ran over her arms at this, seeing it in her mind.

  “Who is Persephone?”

  Valerie, without ceasing her knitting for a single moment, said, “She is Demeter’s daughter, who was stolen by Hades and taken to hell. It is a myth about winter and the renewal of spring.”

  “Eww. I don’t want to be her.”

  Ruby rubbed her hands on her thighs. “Her mother saves her, and she becomes the queen of the underworld, very powerful.”

  “Who would you be, Ruby?” Valerie asked, again not skipping a beat. “Demeter?”

  “I’m not wise enough. I would wear blue, I think. Who wears blue?”

  “Demeter,” Lavender said.

  “Who else?”

  Hannah tapped into her phone. “How about Ariadne? She is a moon goddess, which we would need, right? And she’s called the high fruitful mother.”

  Ruby pointed at Hannah. “There you go. That’s me. Ariadne.”

  “Isn’t she also a storyteller?” Valerie said. “The weaver of tales.”

  “Whatever. I love the fruitful-mother part.”

  Hannah, still scrolling through her phone, added, “And she’s blond.”

  “Okay,” Ruby said, wiggling in her chair. “Lavender is the Snow Queen. Hannah is Persephone. I’m Ariadne. Who are you, Valerie?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice was droll and she looked over her glasses. “The queen of something, I expect.”

  Ruby laughed. “With rhinestone sparklies, right?”

  “And a crown.”

  Hannah laughed, too. “And a—what do you call the thingy they hold, with jewels on the end?”

  “A staff?” Ruby guessed.

  “Scepter,” Valerie said.