"Never owned it," Teeny declared. Her gaze darted past Laura to scan the market, then fixed on her again. "My husband-lovely Italian man, may he rest in peace, he owned it. When he died, my son owned it. He wanted to make wine so now my daughter owns it, with her husband. She got all the Italian. My son he got all the rest from my side of the family and he makes a good wine. You go try the whites at his place, okay? Okay."
"What's it called?"
"'Just Outta Town on the Right.'" She shrugged when Laura cocked her head in puzzlement. "He thought it was amusing. I said nobody is going to know what town and he said it didn't matter."
"It's memorable," Laura said. "I'm more likely to remember that than I am Stag's Leap and Leaping Stag and Home of the Stag that Leaps."
Teeny laughed. "You come back, okay? Okay." She darted in the direction of a customer who had decided to restack the heirloom tomatoes.
It was a long way from New York, but Teeny certainly had a welcome eccentricity. Laura smiled at the ear of corn in her hand-and then she had a brilliant idea.
Super brilliant. She checked her watch. Plotted the time and fumbled for her headset and phone. If Chef Emery would help her out, she could pull it off in the little over two hours she had to get back to Helen Baynor's house.
He sounded grumpy when he answered, which was consistent with every time they spoke. There was the steady beat of more than one knife on a cutting board in the background.
"I don't suppose I could borrow a corner of your kitchen for about forty minutes?"
"What'll you give me?"
"I'll do prep for fifteen minutes first. You've seen me prep. You know-"
"Deal."
She bought six ears of corn, a sweet onion and two limes. She was sure Emery wouldn't begrudge her a couple of tablespoons of his extra-virgin olive oil and a dash of sea salt. And she'd sweet talk him into ten minutes with the vegetable grill. Her spoils cradled in one arm, she bought a thick, crusty batard from the bakeshop-cum-cheesemonger next door and then pointed the car toward Emery's, the restaurant inside the Woodside Country Club. Long ago, Emery had worked for her at a Cunard resort in the Caymans, and contacting him on her arrival had given her access to a clean commercial kitchen, should she need one.
He greeted her from his six-two height with, "I need onions, fine dice."
"Bastard," she answered, and she didn't bother to make it sound like a joke.
"I can't find anyone who understands what... A... Fine... Dice... Is!" The last word echoed the length of the kitchen and the four kids hunched over the cutting boards tucked their heads down between their shoulders and kept chopping. Emery pointed out the bag and Laura rolled up her sleeves.
Part of her wondered just how this new life plan of hers was working out if she was reduced to dicing onions. She'd run her own kitchens and cooked for Rockefellers and the like. But she liked the smooth feel of an onion's peeled exterior. She marveled, as she always did, at the ring structure of one of the few plants regularly consumed around the entire planet. Any cook, trained or self-taught, professional or amateur, knew onions.
Peel, halve, transecting cuts up to the root, then fine slices for the dice. Root tossed in the compost can. Next.
Ten onions later Emery told her to switch to leeks. They were already rinsed, which was helpful, and far easier on her tear ducts. In fifteen minutes she finished both jobs.
He surveyed her work. "If you persist in this madness of going private, I'll always be happy to hire you to do prep."
"Call me crazy-"
"Nice to meet you Crazy."
"I have a follow-up interview with a very famous stage actress-that's why I need the kitchen. I thought I'd audition a simple snack." She pointed out the ingredients.
"I have no doubt it'll be delicious. But seriously?" He gave her his grouchy teddy bear glare. "You'd rather do that than plan the menu for your own place?"
Laura nodded. "It makes sense to me. It's what I want...right now. A couple of years I could change my mind." She began shucking the corn. "I had to get out of commercial work."
"From what you said of that bastard at the last place-" His head whipped around. "No, no. You're steaming that bacon. Boiling it! It needs to be fried!" With that he left her to her own devices.
She selected the corner farthest from the cowed sous chefs. Emery yelled. It was his only fault as a boss, she suspected. He had a gift for menu design and his irascible nature seemed to endear him to other divas, and divas were plentiful in country clubs. He was happy. She hoped to be happy again too.
She quickly sprayed down and wiped the surfaces and cutting boards, then set a large pot on to boil. Six minutes later the ears of corn were shucked and she'd carefully removed all the silks. She blanched them in the boiling water to bring out as much of the yellow as she could, then plunged them into an ice bath. They emerged looking much brighter and giving off an almost caramel scent.
She checked her watch, then diced her own sweet onion, rolled the whole limes on the counter, then cut and juiced them over the onion. Emery's vegetable grill was impeccably clean and quickly sizzling hot, so she trusted her food wouldn't pick up cross-contaminants. She babied the ears of corn as she slowly rolled them on the grill, letting many kernels turn a mouth-watering toffee brown. Some burst and the sugars coated the rest of the ear to a state of gleaming succulence.
Her real time crunch was letting them cool enough so she could cut whole slabs of kernels off without them falling into pieces. If she didn't succeed she had a Plan B, but there was a wow factor to slabs. She set them on a tea towel and tasted a piece of onion. It was still fairly raw, and she could wish it were sweeter. She needed a little bit of simple syrup.
Emery didn't comment when she scooped out some cane sugar from his supply, then raided the pantry for the clearly labeled organic EVOO. Thirty years ago, olive oil had been a staple only in the mom-and-pop pizzerias. Now there wasn't a haute cuisine establishment that didn't buy extra-virgin by the five-gallon jug, and organic was easy to find in fresh supplies.
She stirred a quarter cup of sugar into an equal part water and set the tiny saucepan on a burner. The corn was still too warm to handle, so she cut the French bread batard into slices about half the size of playing cards. She brushed one side with olive oil and lightly sprinkled it with salt, and set the neatly arranged tray of the fifteen slices that resulted under the broiler.
Time to stir the sugar.
Check the corn.
Taste the onion again.
When the toast came out of the oven she started on the finally cool corn. It was a job that couldn't be hurried, and her patience was rewarded when she was left with slabs of cut corn the right size to go on her browned toasts. She dribbled the simple syrup over the onion mixture, then she spread the result thinly on top of the corn. Each toast would take three or four bites to eat, and two would be nearly a full serving of corn. It wasn't a green leafy vegetable, but corn had fiber and it had what food scientists called high satiation factors-the stomach felt more full after eating corn than iceberg lettuce, for example. There were far worse snacks in the world. It was also the kind of thing she liked to prepare to make eating vegetables fun.
It was already half-past four. If she was lucky, Helen Baynor hadn't had time for a snack and le maïs sucré sur batard-sweet corn on toast-would hit the spot. If Helen didn't like it, then the job was probably lost.
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn't easy to find a wide place in the country lane that led to Helen Baynor's secluded driveway, but Laura found one and turned off the engine for just a few minutes. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest and a nervous flutter tickled her throat. Though she was trying hard not to think about it, the feelings were similar to the first time she'd met Helen Baynor-the only time she'd met Helen Baynor, before today. All the intervening years when she'd lingered at stage doors she just hadn't been able to force her way forward to say, "Remember me?"
Mostly her shyness had been because sh
e'd been afraid Helen wouldn't remember her. The minutes they'd shared had changed her life. She'd gone back to New York feeling like someone had in full consciousness accepted her, had precious faith in her and more than anything, she didn't want to waste that. Those minutes were a secret. They were a treasure, even. It wasn't likely they had had the same meaning to Helen, even if the dreams Helen had spoken of had all come true for her.
But she also feared being remembered, and discovering that Helen's kind words of twenty-plus years ago had been easy to say to someone she'd never see again. People could so easily say I understand. That didn't mean they'd welcome you into their home, or near their kids, that they wouldn't see ADDICT tattooed on your forehead every time you walked in the door. Of the few times she'd told colleagues or employers about her drug use as a young twenty-something-let alone the two additional times she'd fallen off the wagon and regretted even more deeply-none had gone well.
A eucalyptus-laden breeze wafted through the open car window and the ice underneath her plated snack cracked and shifted. Funny how life worked out. She'd wondered for years if she'd be remembered, but when it came down to it today she was glad Helen had no idea who she was. She didn't want to talk about mistakes. Nevertheless, not being remembered...it stung, just a little.
Enough of that, she thought, glancing at the clock. Show time. She pulled back out into the country lane and swung carefully around to park once again along the gravel circle. She carried her covered plate cradled safely in the crook of her arm, a trick she'd learned from watching seasoned waiters move through crowded rooms without dropping a thing.
The housekeeper was a tall, ascetic woman in crisp khaki slacks and a starched white blouse, with a severe ponytail of rich, black hair that didn't make up for the years the style added to her face. She could have been thirty-five or fifty-it was hard to say. She spoke in a soft voice that Laura had to strain to hear, introducing herself as Grace Olmstead.
The foyer was slightly warmer than it had been earlier in the day, and the gleaming parquet floor reflected some of its rich warmth onto ivory walls. The plain walls set off two large English landscapes that flanked the large foyer. Her gaze was drawn again to the dramatic staircase and the two-story atrium over her head. It was easy to imagine a glamorous star making a sweeping entrance. To her right was an expansive, high-ceilinged great room done mostly in cream and white tones. It seemed a bit sterile, in spite of plants and vibrant abstracts on the walls, but perhaps when the large fireplace at the end was lit the room would come alive.
The rest of the house was certainly more alive at this time in the day, however. A door slammed somewhere in its upper-floor recesses. A girl's voice cut across the atrium and knifed down the central staircase with, "Stay out of my room, you perv!"
"Stop taking my T-shirts!"
"I didn't take it, it was in my basket!"
Helen Baynor's unmistakable voice, low but likely audible in every part of the house just as it was from the front row to the far balcony in a theater, came from somewhere downstairs. "Knock it off. We're going to have-"
She appeared in a double doorway just beyond the foot of the curving dramatic staircase. With a mild look of chagrin at Laura, she effortlessly continued at her penetrating volume, "I have company now. Understand?"
There was silence and Helen crossed the foyer toward Laura, smiling graciously. "That'll buy us five minutes of peace," she said to both Laura and Grace. "You two have met?"
"Yes, and thank you again for asking me back," Laura said.
Helen's graze lit on the covered plate. Her eyes suddenly sparkled. "Is that food?"
Laura grinned. "It is. Just a taste. Okay, I admit I put maybe a little more into it than I would for a typical afternoon snack, but this is made purely from the ingredients at the local vegetable market-what a great place that is-and a few staples from a trusted kitchen."
"Let's eat and talk. Grace, maybe some iced tea for all of us?"
"I was just going to suggest that," Grace answered, gaze on the floor. She glided from the foyer through the nearest doorway, which meant the kitchen was on the left side of the house-possibly around the rear for a view of whatever gardens there might be.
Helen led Laura to the doorway she'd emerged from, into a formal dining room that was apparently only accessible from the foyer. An enormous oak sideboard could be stocked with food for ten, easily. The room was dim with no natural light, but inset track lighting brought out a golden oak patina in the paneling. The long table would comfortably seat a dozen. It, and the chairs upholstered in mauve velvet that surrounded it, were Victorian. The chair arms were delightfully carved with grape clusters and ended in intricate pineapples. Ornately ghastly, a pain to dust and polish, and yet amusing, Laura thought. A few papers were at one end of the table, suggesting Helen had been working while she waited for the interview.
"I'm honored that you prepared something for me."
"You prepare your lines for a role you want. I cook."
"I take that to mean you do want this job?"
Laura smiled, but kept her tone serious. "I do. I think the two years you need would let me settle in this part of the country for good. I'd enjoy the challenge, and the three days each week you didn't need me would allow me to explore the local culinary scene, get to know growers, travel a little-there are a lot of advantages and no disadvantages that I can see."
Laura believed every word she was saying, but an unbidden pang of guilt sounded for not having reminded Helen of their long-ago meeting. If Helen did remember her, she'd know to ask more questions, and the answers might not sit well. She wasn't being dishonest, Laura told herself, because she knew her mistakes and they wouldn't happen again.
"The two years will fly by," Helen said, her voice losing some of its strength.
The real Helen, Laura was starting to discern, was the one who showed when she talked casually about her kids. None of the Broadway gossip mills had ever linked her romantically to anyone since she'd been widowed while pregnant. That must have been a tough time, Laura thought. The stage was her living, and breastfeeding actresses don't find much work. Yet, she'd had her husband's estate and this fabulous house, and those assets had let her devote herself to her babies and to her career. When she'd returned to the stage, her turn in a revival of Agnes of God had been her first Tony. The play had folded, but Helen went from featured player to leading roles.
The tinkling of ice against glass heralded Grace's return. The cut crystal pitcher caught the overhead light, sending a quick flash of prisms across Helen's face. She didn't look on the edge of fifty, Laura thought. Botox might be involved, but so was a good diet, she'd wager. From the lean lines of her arms, shoulders and neck, exercise was responsible as well.
Laura declined sugar and thanked Grace as she filled a tall glass. Indicating the tray in her hands, she said, "I have plenty, if you wanted to call the kids."
"If it's really tasty, no," Helen said, adding a laugh. "They are quite good at foraging for themselves, especially Justin."
"He eats constantly," Grace said quietly. There was definitely a note of disapproval.
"I'd worry," Helen said to Laura, "if he wasn't six-foot-four and one-fifty soaking wet."
"He sounds like a fuel-burning factory." Laura set the covered dish on the woven bamboo mat that Grace produced from the sideboard. "Does he play sports?"
"His feet are glued to a skateboard." Helen's gaze was focused on the dish.
This was it, Laura thought. Her stomach lurched, as if she'd been jolted out of a starting gate. She lifted the lid, hoping the toast hadn't become soggy. "It's very simple."
"It smells delectable-makes me think of summer," Helen said.
Helen wasted no time lifting one of the toasts from the plate, resting it delicately on one of the linen napkins Grace had lined up. "It looks delicious."
"It conforms completely with your daughter's requirements, contains only a minor amount of fat-"
"You're making it s
ound like medicine," Helen said, just before she took a large bite.
"Can't help it." Note to self, Laura thought, don't tell Helen how good a dish is for her until after she's enjoyed it.
Grace had also wasted no time having a bite of her own. She nodded, her face still impassive. Laura wished she'd make eye contact.
Helen gave an appreciative moan. "So simple, and so yummy. I'd order this as an appetizer any day of the week. Julie is a grazer-she loves finger foods."
In her head, Laura heard the echo of Helen saying, "When I'm a rich and famous stage actress, I'll bring my rich and famous friends to your restaurant." It mattered that she liked the food, and it mattered even more that Helen believed she could trust her kids with Laura's influence. The butterflies in her stomach were swirling madly, and her heart was going clack-clack-clack against her ribs.
Helen was rich and famous now. Laura had had her successes, but she'd had failures which were, she vowed, not relevant to cooking meals for a famous actress and her children. Clack-clack-clack. She wasn't going to be cooking much for Helen, she reminded herself. Mostly for the kids. It was only a job-clack-clack-clack-and there were other jobs. But this one mattered, even if right now, feeling poised at the top of the track, suspended between up and down, she couldn't say why.
Clack-clack... She was holding her breath, not sure if she would fly or fall.
"Well," Helen said, with a glance at Grace, "I made a few phone calls this afternoon, and your references could not have been stronger. Why don't we give this a try, and let's say in a month we put our heads together and see how it's going?"
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