Family Tree

by Susan Wiggs

  She took a deep breath and rummaged in her bag for a lipstick. The best she could do was lip balm. Piña colada–flavored. Who thought that flavor was a good idea? She put the lip balm away and hastily chewed on a breath mint. Then she approached the open door of the garage bay, steadying herself on the slippery pavement.

  A flutter of nerves erupted in her stomach, but she forced herself to keep going. “Hi, guys,” she said, stepping into the garage. A filament heater on the wall provided a welcome blast of warmth.

  “Annie! Long time no see.” Fletcher turned to her with a grin of surprise and delight. He looked incredible, even in his coveralls and safety boots. The long rebel hair of his high school days was gone. Yet somehow, the haircut made him even better-looking.

  Fletcher appeared . . . the same, but different. He was bigger. More solid than the boy she had known in high school, or the driven young man who had sent her away because he had no time for her. As he hung up a tool, then said something and grinned at his father, she felt a twist of yearning deep inside. That smile. It was the same one that had regularly set her heart on fire. The memory had never quite left her.

  “Hey there, stranger.” Sanford stepped forward with a slight swagger. “Get on in here where it’s warm. Now, we’d both like to give you a proper bear hug, but that’d ruin your pretty outfit.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.” She went into the cluttered office area to wait while they peeled off their coveralls and washed the grease from their hands at a big utility sink. She took in the smell of lubricant and new tires, the calendar and posters on the walls of girls in bikinis, modeling tires and tools.

  “I just turned off the coffeemaker,” Sanford said. “It’s still hot. I can fix you a cup.”

  “Oh! Thanks, I’ll help myself.” She poured the sludgelike substance into a mug at the coffee station. Living in the city and working at a high-end restaurant had turned her into a coffee snob, but she gamely took a sip. “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “Absolutely fine,” Sanford said, wiping his hands on a towel. “And I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m off to meet a lady friend.”

  “Really? That’s nice.” She noticed a flush of color in his face.

  He put on a parka and gloves, and turned the sign on the door to read Closed.

  “Yep,” he agreed. “It sure is. Fletch, don’t forget to set the alarm when you lock up.”

  “Will do.”

  She watched Sanford go, unable to avoid focusing on the way he walked. His gait was smooth and sure, and when he got into his car, she realized she couldn’t tell the difference in his legs.

  “Is he as good as he looks?” she asked Fletcher.

  “Yep. The prosthesis is state-of-the-art. Microprocessor in his knee. He’s doing great. Spends more time at his girlfriend’s than he does at home these days.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I mean, I’m happy for him.” She leaned back against a counter stacked with paperwork. The feeling inside her tightened and intensified. “How are you doing?”

  He hung his coveralls on a hook behind the door. “I’m good. You?”

  “I’m . . . not so okay.” She felt a tingle of tears in her throat. “My grandmother is sick.”

  “Oh, no.” He turned and sent her a soft look. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She shivered. Hugged herself. “She’s home, but in hospice care now. I’m . . . We’re all just trying not to be sad all the time.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

  “I know. It’s so damned hard. When Gran leaves us, the world will be totally different. I just love her so much, Fletcher.”

  He flipped some switches on the wall, activating the alarm. “Let’s go get a real drink.”

  She poured the coffee down the drain and rinsed the cup and carafe. The idea of drinking with Fletcher was irresistible. “Good plan.”

  The snow was coming down hard as they walked the two blocks to the town center. The Switchback Brewpub was warm and cozy, with a nice fire going in the potbellied stove, a few guys shooting pool. They ordered two pints on tap and sat in a booth, both on the same side of the table. His thigh brushed against hers, and she shifted, feeling a curious warmth. A familiar warmth. Being next to Fletcher was like putting on her softest, most comfortable sweater.

  He took a sip of beer and turned to face her. “How’s school?”

  “Nearly done. Graduation’s only a couple of weeks down the road.”

  He lifted his glass. “That’s great, Annie. You did it. You’re a college graduate.”

  They sat together in silence for a few minutes. A peculiar melancholy settled over Annie, and she started talking with him as if they were mere acquaintances. He used to know everything about her. She used to revel in the touch of his hands and his lips on her body and wonder at the ease with which she gave him her trust, her heart. She thought about the plans they’d once made together. She thought about the dreams they’d shared and imagined where the two of them would be if they had seen them through. Would he really have come to New York, made a life with her there? Or had that just been a teenage fantasy? More likely, they would have ended up like Ginnie and what’s-his-name.

  “Pam said you settled your lawsuit,” she said.

  “Yeah, finally.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “It is.”

  “I don’t know what you went through, but the fact that it took three years . . . wow. I’m glad it’s behind you. Pam says your dad’s a gazillionaire now.”

  Fletcher laughed. “Let’s just say he won’t have to worry about money ever again. He’d still rather have his leg back, but he’s made his peace with that. I think settling the suit gave him a sense of justice, too. The cause of the accident was pretty clear-cut right from the start.”

  “Good. Justice was served. Now what?” There was a tiny flame of hope within her: Could we try this again? Please?

  His grin flashed. “Funny you should bring up justice. I’ve decided to go to law school.”

  “No. Seriously?”

  He nodded. “I learned a hell of a lot with the suit. Got a bachelor’s degree in prelaw, mostly through online classes. The judge in our case was really encouraging, told me to go for it. I scored high on the LSAT, and I’ll be starting classes in the fall.”

  “Fletcher, that’s so cool.”

  “It’s been a long, crazy road. My dad had his struggles, but he’s in a good place now. He’ll be fine without me.”

  “Does he know how lucky he is to have you?” she asked. “Honestly, Fletcher, you’ve been amazing through all of this.”

  He shook his head. “I did what I had to do. And I’m not going to lie. It was no picnic. But I learned a lot, and I found something I want.”

  He had plans, then. He was moving forward. “To us both, then,” she said, tapping the rim of her glass to his. The old ache of yearning pressed hard against her heart.

  He smiled. “To us both. Question.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She flushed. “No. What about you?”

  “No boyfriend. That’s not the way I roll.”

  “Ha ha. Are you seeing anyone?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.” Then he pressed his leg against hers. “I’ve been too busy.”

  “You mean, with the lawsuit?” She felt a warm shiver.

  “Busy missing you.”

  Oh, boy.

  She stared at his eyes. His lips. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Annie pictured their love like the embers in an almost dead fire, buried deep in powdery ashes. Then with a gust of fresh emotion, they burst to life again. The weekend turned into a rampant sex fest. She was starving for him, literally starving. She had no idea if it was born of her sadness over Gran, his relief at the end of his father’s ordeal, or the scintillating chemistry that had bound them together from the moment they’d first met. She only knew that the feel of his arms arou
nd her, the press of his lips on hers, and the joining of their bodies felt completely right.

  They had the house all to themselves. She didn’t ask why, didn’t ask if Fletcher had told his father to stay away, or if Sanford had other plans. All she knew was that being in his arms was like coming home again. Everything in the world took on a special glow.

  “What’s that smile?” he asked, looking down into her face as they lay together in the late morning, drowsy with pleasure from their wake-up sex.

  She ducked her head, nestling into his muscular shoulder. “Just . . . fantasizing. Imagining.”

  “Imagining what?” He traced the curve of her thigh with his hand.

  Annie hesitated. Everything about this moment was magic. She didn’t want to ruin it. “It’s silly. I was picturing the house we’d live in one day.”

  “That house on Henley Street?” He didn’t seem at all surprised by her comment.

  “I can’t believe you remembered,” she said. “Yes, the Webster house. But it’s going to need some work. We have to make sure it has a gourmet kitchen.” She stretched and wound herself around him. “Bookcases in every room. I love books.”

  “I know,” he said. “I know what you love.”

  “Lots of windows and skylights, because, well, Vermont. A garden full of tomatoes and herbs. And the back porch needs a wooden swing. One of those rustic ones of peeled logs, with soft cushions long enough to stretch out on for a nap.”

  “I like porch swings,” he said.

  “I like you,” she said, and planted a row of kisses across his chest. The house she imagined faded into another kind of fantasy, and they made love again. She felt caught up in the wonder of being with him again. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore, and she had questions.

  “We fell apart before,” she said. So that wasn’t a question.

  “We did.”

  “What if that happens again?”

  “I suppose it’s up to us.”

  “All I know is that I want to be with you. All the time.”

  “That’s going to be hard. You’re down in the city. I’m up here until school starts.”

  “We’ll find a way,” she said.

  “Okay. Yes,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Let’s do that. Let’s find a way.”

  Annie’s cohorts in study group organized a screening night for their senior projects. She had trouble focusing, because her mind was filled with Fletcher and what they’d started. With an effort, she reminded herself that final presentations and evaluations were a week away.

  Everyone’s nerves were growing taut. The group had been together since sophomore year, holing up to prepare for projects and exams, propping each other up through romantic breakups, failed tests, family troubles. Over the past few weeks, Annie had been leaning on them hard as she braced herself for Gran’s passing.

  There were five of them in the group, and the screening would take hours, because although the films were short, the discussions and critiques were likely to carry on long into the evening. It was necessary work, of course. This was a make-or-break project for film students. The evaluation committee was headed by the notorious Professor Joel Rosen.

  Annie had taken her first film class from Rosen, so it seemed fitting that he would be evaluating her last. When she thought about how far she had come, she prayed it would be far enough.

  The group screening was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. When she viewed her friend Padma’s piece on a public lying-in hospital in Bengal, Annie could not find a single flaw. Shirley’s film showing the daily life of an assisted-living memory-care facility was unexpectedly funny in all the right places. Moe’s study of prison tattoos was visceral and important. Royston, whom they’d nicknamed Richie Rich, had put his father’s money to good use. He’d flown to Greenland to show in heartbreaking detail how global warming was destroying the Inuit way of life.

  It was the dinner hour by the time Annie’s screening came up. After she’d viewed the others, her confidence was threadbare. Her cadre had all done such wonderful, important films. She only hoped her passion for the topic would elevate it from being just another piece on food. But come on, really? Duck on a bun. What had she been thinking?

  “Let’s not break for dinner,” she told the group.

  The moaning was loud, the cussing even louder.

  “Knock it off,” she said with a laugh. “You know I’d never let you starve. You know I have a plan.”

  “True. Your study snacks are so legit, Annie. Please say you brought something.” Moe clutched at his stomach.

  “You’re all totally spoiled,” she said. “I’ve been spoiling you since sophomore year.” And she’d delighted in doing so. She had treated her study group to samples from her culinary classes or leftovers from work at Glow. Sometimes she made things from scratch, using the humble hot plate and toaster oven in her dorm room. Her iced maple bars were legendary.

  “I did better than that,” she stated. “I brought someone.”

  “This should be good.”

  She checked her BlackBerry. Yes, everything was happening right on schedule. “Follow me,” she said, then turned to the room monitor. “We’ll be right back. And don’t worry, we’ll bring something for you.”

  They went down to the street level. A billow of fragrant steam plumed from the food cart in the parking lot adjacent to the media building.

  “Oh my God,” said Shirley. “What in the world is that wonderful aroma?”

  “You’re going to love it. Trust me on this.” Annie led the way to the cart.

  “I should be on my knees, like a pilgrim going to Lourdes,” said Royston.

  “Please don’t,” said Padma.

  “I’m drooling. I’m dying,” said Moe.

  Martin was doing his signature Martin thing, creating his duck confit on brioche for the study group. Or, in the case of Padma, who was vegetarian, a duckless confit with wild mushrooms. Annie had splurged on two good bottles of Madiran, a red wine from Gascony in the southwest of France. The refreshing astringency of the wine worked perfectly with the hot, smoky confit. Her group went nuts for the salty, falling-apart flavor of the duck.

  “I don’t even know you,” said Shirley to Martin, “but I want to marry you.”

  Martin offered his affable, lopsided grin. “Too late. I’m going to marry Annie.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him. “Very funny.”

  “Just you wait.”

  “Way to butter us up for your film,” Padma said with a teasing grin. “I could watch The Gong Show for the next hour and still be happy.”

  “Are you hating on The Gong Show?” Royston asked. “It’s a classic.”

  “Don’t start,” Shirley warned them. “We’ve got to finish upstairs. We only have the screening room until nine o’clock.”

  Once they had devoured the mouthwatering sandwiches and finished the wine, they helped Martin close up his cart and invited him up for the final screening. “Cool,” he said. “But don’t look for any help from me. When it comes to filmmaking, I’m green as a Granny Smith apple.”

  Annie’s stomach was in knots by the time the room darkened and the blank screen glowed. She might be making a horrible mistake, assuming her film was good because she loved it. But wasn’t that what Gran had always taught her, that if she loved something enough, then she would be good at it? She loved making films. She had to be confident that she was good at it.

  Martin surprised everyone with buttery-smooth homemade chocolate truffles to eat with the last of the wine. “Okay,” said Royston, “you can’t marry Annie. You have to marry me.”

  Martin laughed easily, taking in their admiration with his usual aplomb. He loved food and cooking, and knew he was good at it. Annie wondered if he ever questioned himself the way she did.

  “Okay, let’s start,” she said, taking a final sip of wine. The lights went down, and the screen came to life.

  The opening was unscored, beginning with one sound alo
ne—a sizzle. Then there was a clatter of utensils. Crowd noises faded in, each element layering on more texture. Sounds were added like instruments coming into the overture of an urban symphony, quietly building to a crescendo—the ambient street noise around Washington Square Park. Dogs barking, children laughing, car horns and sirens, a street performer tapping a marimba. Then the shot peeled back to reveal the topic—Martin Harlow and his food cart.

  “Oh my God,” Shirley declared, smacking Annie’s arm. “This is genius.”

  “Shh.” Padma shushed her.

  The shot lingered on Martin working at his grill. Then the score rolled as the credits began. Annie felt a shiver of pride as the title scrolled: The Key Ingredient. A film by Annie Rush.

  The narrative plunged right in. She had made the choice to let the story tell itself as opposed to a back-and-forth interview. Martin was a natural raconteur who spoke as he worked. She had edited each scene so that the motions of his hands and utensils coordinated perfectly with his words. His banter with customers was unforced, particularly with the good-looking female customers. Their trip to the farms upstate formed a backdrop for Martin’s story. He talked about the family barbecue restaurants in Texas, his travels, his ups and downs as he tried to launch an enterprise of his own in New York.

  The piece concluded with a montage of faces, accompanied by a great song Annie had found—a fusion of French music and country guitar. The credits rolled to a slow, thoughtful end. Then she held her breath, waiting to hear what the others thought.

  “Before we start, let’s hear what the subject of the film has to say,” Padma suggested.

  Martin sat forward in his chair, resting his wrists on his knees and blinking as the lights went up. “Wow,” he said. “I’m blown away.”

  “In a good way?” Annie asked.

  “Oh, hell, yes. I’ve never watched myself working. It’s kind of surreal. In a good way,” he added with a grin.

  The critique was mostly complimentary, and Annie breathed a huge sigh of relief. They liked it.