Well look at you, the voice of Moxie drawled. What's with looking at a successful woman and thinking she's incomplete if she's not paired up? Ironic, don't ya think? Besides, just because she hasn't mentioned a girlfriend doesn't mean there isn't one, dollface.
The stock was almost boiling and Laura scraped half of the herbs and garlic into it. "The rice has ten more minutes, so we have to wait a bit."
The microwave dinged.
"Oh-the broccoli's done. I should have waited to start it." She felt herself flush a little. "I never get the timing right."
"Obviously, you save timing for the stage."
That was a comforting thought. "I guess you're right. I hadn't thought of that."
"The broccoli will stay warm. Can I show you a few things about the organization scheme?"
They were chatting about produce in Indonesia, of all things, when Julie discovered them in the walk-in pantry. "Is there dinner soon? I'm starving."
"No, the delicious smells are all to drive you mad." Helen lightly touched Julie's hair, now only a scant inch longer than her ear lobes. "I like this. It's very chic."
Julie glanced at Laura. "Are you talking about the herb garden? I was serious-I'll do most of the work."
"Actually we weren't." Laura shooed them out of the now overcrowded pantry. To Helen she said, "Honest, I didn't pay her to nag you."
"I like the idea. Grace can ask the gardeners-"
"I want to dig it myself," Julie said. "I can turn it in as an environmental sciences project for extra credit. And I thought blogging it with photos I could maybe use for a college application extra."
"Julie's been our environmentalist member of the household for years," Helen explained to Laura, who was peeking under the lid atop the rice.
"About five minutes until it's ready. Julie was telling me about her ideas for sustainable gardens. It's fall, so there are things she can plan and measure now, and I think there are some organic soil treatments she can do before spring planting."
Julie and Laura were off to the races, discussing the plants that Julie wanted to include and Laura reining Julie in on her initial idea of how big to make it.
Helen hated to say it, but she had to. "Don't forget, honey, that in two years you won't be here to care for it, so I'd prefer you didn't plant an acre of zucchini."
"Just herbs, Mom." Julie stared into space with one of her usual pensive frowns. "You're right, I guess."
Helen caught Laura giving her a searching look. She turned quickly to the stove. "About time to poach the shrimp?"
"And clarify this butter." Laura turned up the heat under the saucepan of butter.
"Can I make a salad?" Justin asked from the doorway. "I'm good at salads."
"I meant to ask you," Helen said to Laura, "where is the pod that contains my real son?"
Laura laughed, and it was nothing like a drunken donkey. "We don't need a salad tonight," she said to Justin. "Tomorrow night you can branch out into grilled romaine for a manly salad you eat with your hands."
Justin grunted, Julie told him he was gross and Helen decided that Laura was far too nice to hate. She was going to have to look hard to find some imperfections. Maybe she was single because she was hard to live with. She should introduce Laura to Cass, maybe, if that was the case. Two hard-to-live-with people might just make it work if they lived three thousand miles apart.
Part Three:
Corkscrews
CHAPTER NINE
Though Laura tried to fill every morning before she went to the Baynors' with something useful, Friday morning proved to be empty of any pressing To Do items, and she lacked the ambition to make up a new list. The interior of her hotel room was exceedingly dull-she was heartily sick of it. The boxes stacked three deep and six high in all possible places made it crowded and constantly reminded her that it was impermanent. Yes, she could make a meal, but she was tired of barking her shins.
She was stymied in her search for new housing closer to Woodside, however, because the real estate agents weren't exactly jumping to help her out. She didn't know if their "we'll give you a call if we see something come open" attitude was a reflection of a tight housing market, or if her skin color was influencing them. There were plenty of people with mocha, tea and chocolate skin colors in East Palo Alto and it wouldn't be surprising to find that the milky confines of Woodside wanted to keep them all there.
Maybe she should call Helen to ask permission to use her name-she had her number. No, that would be intruding when it could wait. Maybe she should ask if she could drop by before their scheduled meeting on Tuesday. No, that would take a phone call, so ditto about intruding when it could wait.
She really enjoyed cooking for the kids. Grace, not so much, because Grace never seemed enthusiastic about anything except for merchant receipts that were under budget. It was as if all food were sawdust to her. Making dinner with Helen, however, had been surreal. She had so many memories of her on stage wearing many different faces. Helen was a star. But the Helen in her kitchen was the Helen from the roller coaster. Genuine and warm, clearly loved her kids...and why wouldn't she? All of her dreams had come true. It would be strange if she wasn't happy and kind and fun to be around, given those circumstances, but in her many postings she'd met a lot of rich and famous people who weren't happy and let everyone around them know it.
Flicking through email proved no diversion. The one from her aunt in Jamaica was routine. Everything was fine, though no one knew where the money would come from for someone's latest trip to the hospital. No one in her mother's family had ever known where the money would come from. It had been years after her mother's death before she'd realized that her family had treated her mother like an outsider, because she had left to get an education and because she'd worked at any job she could find, every day. Yet they'd all been there when they needed money, with a sad story, a hangover from their substance of choice and a weeping child in their arms for emphasis.
She'd always felt an outsider too. She didn't speak Patois and her "rich" mother made her go to school. In the part of Kingston where they'd lived, far from the tourist maps and next to the water treatment plants, "rich" meant less than six under the same roof and both she and her mother had their own bedroom. The electricity bill was paid, every month, and no one ever came to take back the television or car for lack of hire payments. When she'd complained once that she wasn't like any of her cousins, and no one liked her, her mother had said, "They don't get the fish in your kettle and you don't get theirs. We'll go back to America-just a little bit more money, and we'll go back."
The hard part of adjusting to her new life plan was being alone so much. She was used to fourteen-hour work days. She spent far too much time analyzing the how and why of her situation and it never got her anywhere but right where she was. Yes, she'd been an outsider everywhere she went. If it wasn't her nationality-American, but not quite sounding like it-it was her role as a supervisor, and who wants to be friends with the boss. Or it was the outright objections to her mixed race from whites and blacks alike. Here, in one of the bastions of liberal California, she was hoping not to have to deal with that, or at least accept what she could not change in people's attitudes because she had the means to make them treat her with respect.
Helen did treat her with respect, and importantly, so did the kids. If she had to drop Helen's name to get a rental in Woodside, then she would. The lack of a local referral-maybe that was the entire barrier given how tightly closed the community was to outsiders. She'd proceed on that basis until she had some indication otherwise.
She refreshed her email one more time, liking her iPad more every day. She had a laptop that she used in the evenings, but this little gadget meant she could get up and out in the morning without hanging around for boot time. Of course, she was sitting in her pajamas at ten a.m. with nothing to do.
A new email arrived from the head of Food and Beverage at Florida Grand Keys, her last employer. She read Megan's note with mixed fee
lings. She wasn't surprised her former boss had taken another job elsewhere. He was the type to always get a better job just before hell broke loose on the one he had. That was one of the reasons she'd left. She'd seen so many of his type come and go. If she'd waited him out she'd still be there, but the stress had made her too anxious, and old whispers of easy ways to feel better had started up. She no longer felt the need to test herself with temptation. That was a stupid waste of energy and focus. She'd had the means to leave it behind and her heart knew it was time anyway.
Megan wrote that the new executive chef probably wouldn't last either and that she should apply to come back. Without hesitation she clicked reply and tapped out, "Thanks for the news. I am loving California very much, and have found exactly the post I was hoping for." She asked about Megan's mother's surgery and sent the message, then closed the email app.
"You're not going to sit here for four or five hours until it's time to be at the Baynors'," she said aloud.
A winery-there was a thought. In the mild fall days, most were open Fridays and the weekend. She could easily fit one in and she'd feel better for doing something useful. A couple of clicks let her print a map to the Just Outta Town on the Right winery, the one that Teeny at the produce market said her son ran. Why not?
Braced by her shower, she savored the cool, crisp fall air as she walked out to the car. She'd been told California didn't have much by way of seasonal changes, but this was already more than she was used to. She had the windows down for all of the drive with her iPad playing a favorite collection of steel drum and island music. The island itself might not be in her blood, but Jamaican music never failed to put more blue in the sky.
Her wheels crunched over the soft gravel of the driveway and she was enocouraged by the open doors of the tasting room, which was attached to one corner of a wine barn. An elderly dog was curled up on a cozy looking mat just to the side of the door. It lifted its head as she passed. She clicked softly and added in a gentle tone, "I'm okay. Just a visitor. You sleep."
The tasting room was undergoing renovations and the lingering aroma of wood stain was still in the air. A middle-aged woman in work pants with her arms sunk into a crate gave her a nod and said, "I'll be right with you. We're not doing full tastings today, but if there's something you were interested in, we may have it open."
"Your dry whites. I'm in no big hurry. No worries," Laura said. Okay, she wouldn't get a full range of tastes, but it was still a beautiful day better spent out and about than sulking in her hotel room. "Teeny sent me."
It turned out to be a magic phrase. The woman left her crate and grinned broadly. "My mother-in-law, and she only sends people she has a good feeling about."
"I'm honored, then. I'm Laura." She held out her hand.
"I'm Carol-my hands are covered in crate dust and other things I won't mention that are always in the bottoms of crates." She held them up like they were dipped in toxins. "Let me get my helper to uncork for you. Sue Ellen!"
There was a muffled reply.
"Come open up down here."
Another muffled reply, then a clatter. A moment later a young woman with long blond hair and a bright smile entered from the far end of the room, gliding across the hardwood as if she'd rather be dancing. "Hi. What can I help you with?"
Carol immediately said, "Whites-a full range. She's a VIP."
Laura laughed. "Wow. I've been promoted."
"Seriously," Carol said, "Teeny is really very picky about who she sends to us. She was not happy about the whole idea to buy a vineyard and a bunch of bottles, but now only the very best people get to know we exist. If you talked to her for any length of time, I'm sure you heard the whole story."
"Not a lot-but enough. Family businesses are always full of personality."
"That is an ever-lovin' understatement."
Sue Ellen had meanwhile been lining up a selection of tall green bottles. "How experienced are you with wine? I don't want to prattle on about varietals and sugar content if you know all that."
"I'm no sommelier, but I've worked side by side with them for years."
"Then I'm not going to waste your time telling you how it tastes. This is last year's reisling, which we're really very pleased with. We're the only grower in the area who corks a pure reisling."
The reisling was very light and sparkled on her palate. They chatted about the region's tendency toward chardonnay and merlot grapes as she made her way through gewürztraminer, pinot grigio and, finally, to a deep-bodied, oaky and fruity sauvignon blanc.
"You liked the pinot best, didn't you?" Sue Ellen grinned when Laura nodded. "Knew it. It's all in how people exhale after they swallow."
"I've never noticed that." The tips of her fingers were ever so slightly tingling from the alcohol, reminding her that she hadn't eaten much of a breakfast. She would be glad of the crackers in her handbag. "I'm a chef and I'm going to watch for that now. I imagine it's the same with food."
"You're a chef? Where do you cook?" Sue Ellen leaned on the bar, her snug tee outlining a lithe form. At first Laura had thought she was in her twenties, but now she was guessing early thirties. She had a fresh, blond, does-yoga-religiously look and very lively green eyes.
"I was a chef in resorts, but now I'm trying my hand at being a private chef and learning all there is to know about this part of California. I'd like to settle somewhere nearby. I'm tired of moving around the world."
"But that sounds so interesting. Like where have you been?"
The alcohol was setting off a few alarms. She'd drunk as much as she ever drank at any one time and she was all too aware that alcohol reduced resistance to other things. She ought to have spit out the wine after tasting, as professional tasters did, but she couldn't spit to save her life. But if she chattered for a few minutes the tingle would subside. "As far as the Caribbean, the only large island I haven't lived on for some period of time is Cuba. I've lived in Hong Kong, Thailand, Malaysia, Australia... Monaco. Greece. Wherever there are resorts for the wealthy, I think I've lived there."
"Wow." Sue Ellen crossed her arms on the bar. "That's so culturally exciting."
"Not as much as you'd think. The culture inside a resort often doesn't resemble the culture outside."
"I've never understood why people want to go to a foreign country and stay someplace that's just like home."
Laura shrugged. "California seems perfect to me right now."
Sue Ellen's smile broadened. "Why thank you."
Laura blushed. "I didn't mean-I mean..."
Wrinkling her nose in a particularly charming fashion, Sue Ellen teased, "I'll give you time to mean it."
Nobody had flirted with her in years. Sue Ellen, like California, was a breath of fresh air. "I have to go to work. And so do you."
"Sad but true. Here." Sue Ellen picked up a Sharpie and took Laura's hand. She had three of the seven numbers written in bright red before Laura thought to suggest paper. "That's my four-one-one and I'll leave it to you. I grew up here and I know every leaf and tree."
"Sounds like you'd make a great guide."
"Yes. I would. A great guide. And now my boss wants to know if you want a bottle of the pinot. I couldn't care less-this day is already a total success as far as I'm concerned."
Grinning, Laura said, "A bottle of the pinot grigio-the reserve. And thank you."
Sue Ellen gave her a wink and selected an unopened bottle from under the bar. She told Laura the total as she rolled the bottle in bright blue tissue.
She was very aware of the phone number on her palm as she picked up the wrapped bottle. "Sue Ellen-"
"You can call me Suzy."
"Why is a California girl called Sue Ellen? Isn't two first names more common in the south?"
"My mother was a big fan of Dallas. TV show. With any luck it has never aired anywhere you've lived because I am really not a Sue Ellen." Suzy walked with her to the tasting room door.
"What's a Sue Ellen like that you're not?"
&
nbsp; "Straight, for one thing. I'm sure there are lesbians named Sue Ellen for real, but women hear my real name and they think I'm straight. Now if I decided to call myself Scully...?"
"The X Files I've seen." Suzy had paused in the doorway, gracefully posed against the doorjamb. To get by Laura would have to step very close, and she was shocked by how much she didn't mind the idea.
"If my name was Scully I'd have dates every night of the week."
"I can't believe you don't anyway."
"Leave or you'll say something that will get you kissed."
Things were moving entirely too fast and too pleasingly for Laura to make sense of it. She was in the Volvo-definitely wishing it was a red sports car-and a half a mile down the road before she thought, What on earth just happened?
Chicken breasts with almond and orange infusion were sizzling on the grill by the time she'd convinced herself that the exchange with Sue Ellen-Suzy-had only been a bit of fun on an otherwise dull day.
She might have even forgotten about it if Julie, as Laura plated her chicken for her, hadn't pointed at Laura's hand.
"Did you get some girl's phone number?"
"No, it's not that at all." She was a terrible liar and she knew it.
"Sure. And here Mom said you probably had a life and she was right. What's her name?"
"You're assuming it's a woman or did your mom tell you?"
"There's a rainbow bumper sticker on your car. Duh."
"I forgot." Laura had to laugh at herself. "It's just someone I met and she wrote her number before I was sure I really wanted it."
"Pushy then." Julie dished out two heaping spoonfuls of quinoa flecked with diced mushroom. "I love this stuff. Is there butter?"
"No, we never keep it in the house."
Julie rolled her eyes and went to the refrigerator. "So is she pushy?"
"Not in a bad way."
"You like her then."
Roller Coaster Page 10