by Susan Wiggs
“Look at us,” she said to Knox, remembering how handsome and grown-up Fletcher had looked. His rented tux wasn’t a perfect fit, and it had a faint odor of benzine and mothballs, but he had shown up with a corsage and his heart in his eyes, and they’d danced the night away. The beaming young woman in the photo had no idea what the future held. “We were so happy. So clueless.”
Her nephew gave a solemn nod, but was more drawn to a cluster of Mardi Gras beads. There had been an early sap flow one year, and her dad had celebrated by throwing a Mardi Gras celebration for all the workers and friends.
“I’m hungry,” Knox said, draping the beads over his head.
“Me, too. Let’s go make breakfast.”
He took her hand and they went down to the kitchen together, with Dug skittering along behind them. Holding on to his tiny fingers, she decided that there was more healing power in a little kid’s touch than in all the hours of therapy she’d had. Knox had an open mind and an open heart. He didn’t judge, but simply observed, and he said exactly what was on his mind the moment he thought it.
They were the first ones up. Light from the rising sun flooded the room, touching the countertops and utensils with gold. Annie had always loved the way the kitchen looked in the morning, before anything had been touched. The copper utensils gleamed over the stainless-steel countertops. The glassware and baking pans were lined up in the cabinets. The empty table seemed to be waiting just for her. She stopped and took it all in, her senses filling not just with memories, but with a feeling of possibility. The daily nausea of fear was gone, just like that.
She touched her nephew’s shoulder. “What’s the best thing for breakfast?”
“Blueberry muffins,” he said without hesitation.
“I think we can handle that.” She fired up the gas oven.
Most of the ingredients and utensils were stored where they had always been. The big pantry still held the dry scent of flour and spices. The iron Griswold muffin pan, Gran’s favorite, was in the baking drawer. Gran would never use any cast iron but Griswold, which was challenging, since the line had been discontinued decades ago.
Annie set her nephew on a barstool at the counter, and they got to work. She narrated the recipe to the little boy as she put together the ingredients—eggs and buttermilk, a dab of melted butter and the dry ingredients, the frozen berries. “I sound like Gran,” she said softly, “talking to me.” She smiled at Knox. “She was my grandmother, and my very best friend, all my life. Do you have a best friend?”
He nodded at Dug, who sat eagerly nearby, hoping for a morsel.
“That’s nice,” she said. “Dug is a great friend to have. Let’s see if he likes blueberries.” She tossed one to the dog and he sniffed it with suspicion. Then he lapped it right up.
She got back to work on the muffins, her mind settling quietly to the task. The work was restorative, giving her a sense that she was reclaiming herself. Knox happily helped her stir and fill the pans, and she let him steal a few more blueberries. While the muffins baked, she made a pot of pour-over coffee and set out the cream and sugar, the butter and jam. As the smell of the baking muffins filled the kitchen, Knox put his sticky hands on her cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, his eyes wide with apprehension. “Does your head hurt again?”
She took his hands, placed a kiss on each one, and summoned a smile. “I’m not hurt. I’m the opposite of hurt. This morning, you made me very happy. Being in this kitchen makes me happy. We took what we had and we made something, and it’s going to be delicious.”
“When?”
She indicated the windup timer. “As soon as you hear the ding.”
The aroma of coffee and breakfast brought the rest of the household to the table. Annie dried her tears, but they nearly flowed again when she watched her family gathering around the counter. The sight of her mom pouring coffee, Beth loading up her tote bag for work, the other three kids digging in, Kyle reading some kind of farming journal, filled her heart. She was home with her family. A lovely sense of rightness enveloped her.
The older kids doled out hugs and hiked down the steep driveway to the school-bus stop, and Beth headed off to the academy. Knox declared that he was going to make a fort for his trolls, and got to work under the dining room table with a cardboard box and some Lincoln Logs. Annie, Kyle, and their mother lingered over second cups of coffee at the kitchen table.
“What are you reading?” Annie asked her brother.
He held up the journal.
“Cannabis Selection Guide? So you really are planning to grow pot.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m going to plant a sunny acre on the south slope.”
“Seriously? Was it legalized in this state while I was asleep?” Annie asked.
Her mom shook her head. “No, and I keep trying to tell him it’s a waste of time. If you put all that thought and energy into the sugarbush, we could probably turn things around.”
“I’m laying the groundwork,” Kyle declared. “The legislature’s going to approve legalization for recreational use—there’s a bill before them now—and when it does, I’ll be ready. There’s a fortune to be made, and I’ve got four kids to feed and educate.”
“Cool,” said Annie. She remembered smoking pot. She had gotten high just enough times to decide it wasn’t for her. All it did was make her muzzy-headed and lazy. “Is Beth on board with this?”
“It’s . . . a negotiation.”
“Ah.” Their mother scowled at him. “I suppose it could be problematic if the director of a school for wayward teens was a pot farmer.”
“Not after it’s legalized,” Kyle said. “She’ll come around.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Mom asked, sipping her coffee.
Kyle went back to his reading.
Before her parents’ divorce, Annie remembered tense conversations between them, sotto voce—as if she couldn’t hear. The disconnect between Dad wanting to head to the tropics on an adventure and Mom wanting to stay at the farm had never been resolved. His yearning for something different had been like water in the cracks of solid stone, freezing and ultimately breaking the whole thing apart.
“Half of all marriages end in divorce,” Annie pointed out, peering at her brother over the top of the journal. “So, statistically, my divorce is good for you and Beth, right?”
“Beth and I are fine,” he said, getting up from the table. He cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went to work. He was logging today, taking some of the spent maples to a mill over in Greensboro to be peeled, milled, and cured for lumber. The bark would be used to mulch the garden and orchard.
Annie felt a wave of affection for her older brother. He was devoted to his family. He never seemed to be looking beyond the life he had at something else, like a surf camp in the tropics . . . or a TV career in L.A. Annie envied Kyle his clarity in knowing what he wanted.
Yet based on the financials her mom had shared, she worried about the old place. What if it had to be sold? What if a developer bought it, or a big sugar operation?
After Kyle left for the day, Mom sorted through some mail, making a face as she showed Annie a mailing from a retirement organization, touting effortless senior living. “How did I get on this list? Oh, that’s right. I’m old. When did that happen? When did I get old, and how did I forget to have a life?”
“Don’t say you’re old, Mom. You’re not. You look fantastic. And just look around this room. You do have a life.”
The kitchen and breakfast nook were filled with family pictures, keepsakes, and artifacts from eight generations of Rushes. The walls were ice blue, hung with her mother’s original paintings in frames that coordinated with the leaded glass of the bay window.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I do. Of course I do. Is it the life I want? I have no idea.”
“Now you’re whining. Go paint something. You’re always happy when you’re painting. I’ll watch Knox.”
“Maybe later. There�
��s something I need to show you. Two things, actually, and I know you’re going to have questions.”
“Okay.” Annie was curious as she followed her mother to the den. They turned on Sesame Street for Knox and then sat together on the sofa. Her mother handed her a thick, ivory-covered photo album with Our Wedding embossed in gold letters into the cover.
“Only if you feel up to it,” Mom said gently.
“I made blueberry muffins this morning. I’m ready for anything.” Annie’s hands felt cold, though, as she laid the book in her lap. The photographer’s name was printed on the inner cover under Annie+Martin.
Turning the pages slowly, she felt herself tensing as she took in the shining expressions of the people in the photos, assembled on the beach on a golden evening in September.
“We were all so happy for you that day,” Mom said.
“Everything seemed just right, didn’t it?” Annie and Martin had planned the beachside ceremony together, focusing on good food, live music, and nonstop dancing. The barbecue meal had been hosted by Martin’s family. Though the Vermonters and the Texans had little in common, they bonded over pulled-pork sliders, Texas sheet cake, and wine from the Santa Ynez valley. Annie perused a montage of the Rushes and the Harlows. “Even our families got along great, as far as I could tell.”
“We did,” Mom agreed. “The Harlows seemed like lovely people, and I could tell they adored you. Martin’s mother told me how excited she was about the show, and how grateful she was that it had all started with you.”
Annie gazed down at a group shot of herself with Martin and his parents and siblings. It was like looking at a picture of a stranger. A stranger in a beautiful dress with a beautiful smile.
She didn’t know what was going through her head at that moment. She could see, just vaguely, the diamond ring on her finger—a conflict-free, princess-cut solitaire in rose gold. He’d sold his motorcycle in order to buy it.
Had she loved him? Yes, she had.
The way she’d loved Fletcher? Not even close. It was like the difference between a lightning bug and a lightning bolt.
But Annie hadn’t known that back then. She and Martin had a dynamic, exciting partnership. They were utterly compatible. They worked as a team, challenged each other, talked about plans for the future, made each other laugh, gave each other lovely orgasms on a regular basis. It was love. A kind of love. Now she realized it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t loved him enough.
Where was that ring now? Annie wondered. She’d found it in her Patient Belongings bag. What should she do with it? Hock it?
She lingered over a picture of Melissa wearing a Céline sheath, her slender arm raising a glass of sparkling water as she gave a toast. Annie could still remember the music and the laughter that day. She remembered Melissa asking her if it was the happiest day of her life. They had been friends, she and Melissa. Annie had handed the woman a role on the show. Now she couldn’t recall how she’d answered Melissa’s question.
“Well,” she said, closing the album with a thud. “I have no idea what to do with this. I mean, what do you do with pictures of people you’re done with?”
Mom hesitated. “You don’t have to decide now. Here’s something else.” She handed Annie another thick, leather-bound book. “I’ve always meant to organize this into a scrapbook. I thought that one day I would surprise you with it, but . . .” She hesitated again. “It’s never finished.”
Annie looked at the cover. “My Brilliant Career. I guess it’s finished now, eh?”
Mom gave her a gentle shove. “Stop it. This is a new chapter, and it’s going to be even more brilliant. In fact, that’s what I’ll call the next part—My Even More Brilliant Career.”
“Right.”
“I’ve always been so proud of your accomplishments, Annie. And you are brilliant, and you’ve done so much in a short time.”
Annie was touched. “Well, then. I feel the same way about your career. And I don’t think I ever told you that, and I should have.”
“What? My career? I have no career.”
“You have something better. Your family and your art. When you showed me your abstract paintings, I nearly fainted. I love how talented you are, and I’m going to nag you until you do something besides collect your paintings in the studio.”
“Do something,” Mom said. “Like what?”
“You tell me. Have a show. Pursue your studies. Do more with your art.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched.”
“About as far-fetched as me producing a TV show straight out of college?”
Her mother opened her mouth, closed it, then gave a short laugh. “When did you get so wise? Was it that bump on the head?”
“Maybe.” Annie opened the album, which seemed to be filled with photos and clippings about her dating back to the toddler years. “Wow. I can’t believe you did this.”
“It’s a work in progress. I always meant to embellish the pages, or something, but I never got around to it. Oh my gosh, look how cute you were.”
There were pictures of Annie in the kitchen, sometimes with Gran, sometimes solo. She always looked utterly serious when she cooked and baked. The photos showed that this had never been a form of play for her. It had been more of a calling. A passion.
Judging by her deep satisfaction with this morning’s baking, it still was.
There were clippings citing her performance in high school swimming, her appearances on the dean’s list in college and write-ups of Glow, the restaurant where she’d worked. After the college years, the collection expanded to include articles from glossy national magazines—Variety, Entertainment Weekly, Food & Wine, Good Housekeeping, People.
The headlines shouted out the growing popularity of her show: Upstart Network Rolls Out Fall Schedule. Atlantis Productions Launches Innovative Cooking Show. Rising Star Martin Harlow Takes Cooking to the Streets. The Key Ingredient Is Key to Success for Cooking Show. Key Ingredient Wins Third Straight Emmy.
“I won an Emmy for single-camera editing,” Annie said. “Oh, my Lord, that was amazing.”
“I know. We all got dressed up in red-carpet outfits and watched the webcast,” said her mother.
Annie studied the accompanying photo of herself holding the trophy and thought about what a big moment that had been for her. She wore a victor’s smile, and a dress that had cost her more than she’d spent on her first film. Since it was a technical award, it was a Web-only broadcast. All the big food journals had covered the event.
“I burst into tears when your name was announced,” her mom said. “Such a moment. And it all started with your senior project in college.”
“I never could have predicted the impact that one video would have.”
“No one could have. But I always knew you’d make it, Annie. All that talent.”
Annie found an article from a day she remembered well. “This was my first dual interview with Martin. TV Guide, 2007.”
The photograph showed them beaming at each other and toasting with champagne flutes. The flutes were by Lalique, the premier sponsor of the show’s website.
“Look how happy we were,” Annie murmured. She and Martin were newly engaged and flushed with excitement over the series premiere. The maple syrup episode—which she was sure would be a disaster ending in cancellation—had been a ratings triumph. Landing the interview had only enhanced their sense that they were on the right path.
The interview started out with their oft-told “meet-cute” story—an eager film student, a penniless but gifted chef, combining their talent to create a new kind of show. The interviewer’s questions were not exactly hard-hitting, but now Annie remembered a moment that had surprised her. The journalist asked Martin how he had come up with the show’s title—The Key Ingredient.
“It grew organically out of the content” was his unhesitating reply, which had been printed right there in black and white. “Each dish has that one key ingredient that defines or elevates it. The story focuses on tha
t.”
Annie recalled being totally taken aback by his response. She hadn’t contradicted him during the interview. Afterward, she felt mystified rather than hurt. She had no idea why he hadn’t told the truth. When they were alone, she’d asked, “Why didn’t you give me credit for coming up with The Key Ingredient?”
“We came up with it together,” Martin had replied with a breezy wave of the hand. “That’s how I remember it.”
She had let the moment pass. In all the whirlwind of the show’s success, it seemed a minor point. Maybe she should have called him on it. As time went on, other seemingly minor things cropped up—he would appropriate a twist on an idea, a turn of phrase, and each time, she’d let it pass rather than make a fuss over it. They were a team, after all, she rationalized. It was their job to work together.
In light of what she had discovered later, she had to wonder if his manipulation had been deliberate. Had he meant to eclipse her, positioning himself as the driving force behind the show?
“He took things from me,” she said to her mother now. “Little pieces, here and there. Ideas. Inspiration. Credit. Nothing major, nothing I could really call him on. He simply helped himself. And I let him.”
“You were a couple,” her mother said. “You seemed happy.”
“I was. But . . .” She felt a niggling discomfort, and quickly turned the page: Culinary Duo Makes a Splash. The article focused on the relationship between Martin and his cohost, Melissa. “I wanted to host the show with him,” Annie said quietly. “But I was voted down.”