Family Tree

by Susan Wiggs

  “And it does,” their mother assured them. “You’ll see.”

  Annie took a gulp of her champagne. Dear Lord, it was delicious. She took another sip and stared across the table at her parents. Her reaction was a jumble of feelings that were going to take a long time to sort through. She was completely taken in by the sweet fantasy of a mended family, by how young and fresh this renewal made them seem. At the same time, she felt a dark rumbling of resentment. Why couldn’t they have figured themselves out years ago, back when she was a kid who needed both her parents?

  Love comes in its own time, Gran used to say. You don’t get to declare when or how.

  It’s never too late to have the life you want.

  “When?” Annie asked.

  “When you’re better,” Mom said.

  “Oh, come on. Do you mean to say you’re waiting for me to give you the green light? Don’t you dare put that on me.”

  “Seems like we’re all full of new plans,” Dad said, wisely changing the subject. “What about you, Annie? What do you want your role in this to be? Besides goddess of barrel aging?”

  “You have a clean slate,” Mom added. “Life anew, like Dr. King said. You can go anywhere. Do anything.”

  Her brother polished off the last of the champagne. “If you could do anything you want right now, what would it be?”

  She felt a wave of love as she looked at them—her family. They had pulled her out of the dark, rescuing her from a twilight existence. She owed them everything, yet all they seemed to expect from her was to begin again.

  Fletcher was just stepping out of the shower when his mobile phone and the doorbell rang, almost at the same moment. Out on the back porch, Titus gave a woof of warning. Great timing. He slung a towel around his waist and went to find the phone, leaving a trail of wet behind him. He found the phone on his bedroom bureau—missed call from Annie Rush.

  Annie was calling him. She’d finally decided to return his messages.

  The doorbell rang again, so he tugged on a pair of jeans and hurried to the door.

  Annie.

  “Hey,” he said, holding open the door. “Come on in.”

  She slipped inside and stood in the foyer, her hands gripping a recycled shopping bag with undue tension. Her gaze felt like a butterfly unsure of where to alight as it moved over his damp bare chest.

  It didn’t suck to have her checking him out. She looked beautiful tonight. Different . . .

  “I was in the shower,” he said, taking his time as he did up the top button of his jeans. “Just got in from mountain biking.”

  “I tried calling first, but you didn’t answer.” She offered a shy grin. “Okay, I called you from the driveway.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t mind you dropping in. Not one bit.”

  “You’re sure? I mean, Friday night—”

  “You’re not interrupting a hot date.”

  “Maybe I am the hot date,” she said. His reaction must have been transparent, because she quickly added, “Don’t panic. I’m kidding.”

  He wished she wasn’t. “Come on in.” He led the way to the big living room, which connected to the open kitchen.

  “You bought the old Webster place,” she said, looking around at the fireplace, the bookcases, the leaded-glass windows and skylight over the kitchen, the French doors leading to the back deck. “It’s really beautiful, Fletcher.”

  “We picked it out together, remember?”

  “Of course I remember, even though it was forever ago.”

  “Olga did the decorating.” He ducked into the laundry room and found a T-shirt in the dryer. He didn’t want her thinking he was some tool who walked around the house with no shirt on.

  “Olga’s great.”

  “She says the same about you. Ever since she heard you created her favorite show, the woman hasn’t stopped talking about you. She’s obsessed with The Key Ingredient.”

  “It’s not my show anymore,” she said.

  “Olga says it’s gone downhill lately.”

  Annie winced, and he was sorry he’d said anything. “It’s Friday night,” he said. “Let me get you something to drink.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I brought something.”

  “Yeah? Now, that’s service.”

  “It is not,” she said. “I just didn’t want to drink alone. Is Teddy here?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “With his mom.”

  “Okay.” She paused, bit her lip in a way that made him want to grab her and kiss her. She set out a bottle of bitters and an orange. “I need ice and a shaker. And a muddler, if you have one.”

  “Pretty sure I don’t have a muddler.”

  “A wooden spoon, then.” She instantly made herself at home in the kitchen, reminding him of the Annie he used to know—smart and a little bit bossy, sure of herself. She found a cutting board and knife, and helped herself to a pair of glasses, the fancy lowball ones a client had given him back when he had the law office.

  “We’re having old-fashioneds,” she said. “Pam and I came up with a special recipe to highlight our barrel-aged maple syrup.” She took a bottle from the shopping bag. “Here, open this. And have a taste while you’re at it. We just finalized a deal to distribute it.”

  On impulse, he touched the tip of her finger into the syrup and licked it off.

  Annie gasped and snatched her finger away. “Hey.”

  “Wow,” he said with an unapologetic grin. “I didn’t think you could improve on maple syrup, but this is out of this world.”

  “Sugar Rush has gone gourmet,” she said. “We already have standing orders for the new batch.”

  We. Did that mean she was back to the family business?

  Working with complete focus, she mixed the drinks, finishing with a brandied cherry and a twist of orange peel. The drink was amazing. He was usually a beer-and-pool kind of guy, but this one seduced him totally—the bite of Pam’s whiskey, the remnant of syrup coating the bottom of the glass, and most of all, the way his eyes met Annie’s as she tapped the rim of her glass to his.

  “To . . . new beginnings.”

  “Are you getting the help you need from Gordy?”

  “I think so. It can’t be fun for him, dealing with a piece of work like Martin Harlow,” she said.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he said. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been strangely easy to get over him.”

  “Because he cheated?” Fletcher would have cheerfully flattened her ex if the coward would show his face.

  “Yes. Also because . . .” She set down her glass and folded her arms in front of her. “Because I didn’t love him enough. And this is going to sound crazy, but I feel guilty about that. We were a good team, working together. The marriage part . . . it was a little stale. It happened gradually and I didn’t realize there were problems, or maybe I was in denial.”

  Oh, man. Fletcher knew what that was like. He had been determined to make his marriage to Celia work. They both wanted the best for Teddy. He had cultivated their family like a master gardener, planting roots in this town, encouraging Celia to surround herself with the things that made her happy. In the end, he came to the same realization about the marriage as Annie had—there was love, but not enough.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  She offered a fleeting smile. “Do I look like I’m beating myself up?”

  “You look like you’re enjoying a delicious cocktail.” He took her hand. “Let’s go out back, enjoy this weather. And there’s someone out here you should meet. His name is Titus.”

  Titus, the Bernese mountain dog Fletcher had adopted soon after the divorce, greeted them with snuffles and sneezes of joy.

  “He’s beautiful.” Annie handed Fletcher her drink, then sank down on one knee and cradled the dog’s big head.

  Celia had deemed dogs messy and smelly—which they were—and refused to have one. The moment Fletcher
was on his own, he’d acquired the messiest, smelliest dog he could find. Titus had a broken tail and a crooked smile, and he’d been abandoned at the edge of town. Fletcher and Teddy loved him like crazy.

  Annie stood and brushed the dog hair from her dress. She stopped abruptly as a soft gasp escaped her. “You have a swing.”

  “I have a swing.”

  “It looks exactly like . . .” Her voice trailed away. She slipped off her sandals and sat down on the swing, causing the chain to quietly click.

  “It’s no coincidence.” He sat beside her, not close enough to touch.

  She tucked one leg up under and dangled the other on the porch floor, turning to face him. “You remembered.”

  “I did.”

  “The other things, too,” she said softly. “Bookcases in every room. Windows and skylights and a fireplace. A garden full of tomatoes and herbs. You remembered everything.”

  “I did.”

  She swirled her drink in the glass, then set it on a side table in a nervous gesture. “My brother’s going to start growing pot on our property.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “How can you say that? You’re a judge. You’re supposed to frown on things like that.”

  “Not if he’s operating lawfully. Kyle is doing it lawfully.”

  “And you know this . . . how?”

  “Because I know Beth Rush and her crusade to transform the lives of every kid who comes through the doors of her school. No way she would jeopardize her mission.”

  “Good point.” Annie surveyed the yard. It was surrounded by a tall fence and a taller hawthorn hedge to contain Teddy and Titus.

  Annie settled deeper into the cushions of the swing. “My parents are getting back together.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. They’re moving to New York City. They took the train down from Burlington after lunch today to check out warehouse space, or so they said. Something tells me they just wanted to get away together. So I’m . . . I guess I want to be happy for them. Still processing it.”

  He was full of questions. He wanted to know why she was here. He didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to scare her off. So he waited. Listened. It was something he’d learned on the judge’s bench. Get quiet and listen, and the story would come out.

  “They’re going to do what they’re going to do, and I’m okay with that. But then I asked them when this grand plan was going to unfold, and they said after I’m better. That’s passive-aggressive, right? I’m already better. I can drive. And drink—not irresponsibly. I can think. What are they really waiting for?”

  She set the swing in motion with a nudge of her foot. “My world has changed many times since the accident. I’m finally coming out of the fog, and I don’t need anyone hovering around, worrying that my head is going to explode. My head is fine. Fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Fletcher said. “I’m glad you’re better.” He got up and lit a few citronella candles to stave off the bugs as the twilight deepened.

  “I need to make a plan,” she said. “That’s the part that scares me. Every time I make a plan, something happens to screw it up.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Look at everything you’ve accomplished. College, then your own show right out of school, now this new syrup—”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. But remember, I made a plan to be with you, the summer after high school, and it turned out your dad needed you more. And then we tried again, and it seemed like it was really going to work, and I went to California, and by the time I came to my senses, you were having a baby with Celia. So I don’t see the point of planning anything.”

  “Then don’t make a plan,” he suggested.

  “Thus proving you don’t know me at all,” she said.

  “I know you too well,” he pointed out.

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  He carefully set down his drink, turned to her, and took her face between his hands. “I know you,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I know you like porch swings and bookcases and fireplaces. I know you can make sugar cookies without looking at a recipe. I know you had a secret hiding place in your bedroom where you stored your keepsakes, and some of those keepsakes have amazing stories. I know what you see when you point your camera at a subject. I know that when you smile, it makes your lips look even softer. And by the way, I know exactly what those lips feel like. And taste like, and how they feel when they kiss me anywhere on my body . . .”

  “Fletcher. Are you coming on to me?”

  “Absolutely. I thought about you when I hung this swing,” he said.

  “Thought of me. How?”

  “Well,” he explained in a low voice, “kind of like this.”

  “Fletcher!”

  “Shh. I’ve got neighbors.”

  She laughed softly. “A reputation to uphold. Maybe we should go inside.”

  “Or not.” He turned her just so, and the swing became a slow carnival ride, and she made a gasping sound that was probably audible next door, but he didn’t care.

  24

  Spending the weekend with Fletcher had not been Annie’s plan when she’d knocked on his door. But she was beginning to think the best things that happened weren’t part of any plan. They just happened. She disappeared into the experience as though diving into a stream, following the current wherever it took her.

  He was different, all these years later. She was different. But the deep, powerful connection that had always existed between them was still there.

  Now that her marriage had ended, intimacy took on a special significance. After being with one partner all this time, she found herself wondering, Am I still good enough? Desirable enough? Can I still please someone new?

  But Fletcher wasn’t new, was he? There were things about him that she’d never forgotten. There were things he knew about her that no one else had ever known, from the smallest of secrets to the grandest of truths.

  After the old-fashioneds and the porch swing, she’d raided the mostly unfortunate supplies in his kitchen—boxed mac and cheese, white wine, a handful of cherry tomatoes and basil from his garden—and put together a dinner from his humble ingredients. Afterward, they curled up in bed together with bowls of maple-walnut ice cream and listened to Serge Gainsbourg songs drifting from a hidden speaker. Then they made love again, and later they half woke in the night and went at it yet again, and in the morning, they greeted the dawn with fresh ardor. It was marathon sex, unflagging and voracious, as if they had been flung back to their teen years, just discovering each other.

  On Saturday, they walked to the farmers’ market, loaded up on fresh food, then brought it back to Fletcher’s. Annie fixed fresh mint martinis, a tomato tart with Cabot cheese, buttery lady peas with charred onions, and for dessert, huckleberries drowning in crème fraîche flavored with nutty Frangelico liqueur.

  “I’m never letting you leave here,” Fletcher said, bringing a second helping of berries into the bedroom after dinner.

  The berries and cream sweetened their lovemaking, and they lay together deep into the night, listening to the peepers singing in the garden. Miles from sleep, Annie got up and made a batch of salted maple popcorn, then climbed back in bed with him, bringing along her laptop.

  “I want to show you something. These are the very earliest tapings I did with Martin, back when The Key Ingredient was in its formative phase. The segments never aired because they cast someone else.”

  She felt as though she was looking at a different person. Yet despite the rough quality of the reel, the Annie in those pieces was eager and bright, bursting with passion for the topic. It felt strange, seeing Martin by her side. She was able to regard him with dispassion. There was no ache of loss, just a sense that he was someone she used to know. She wondered why losing him didn’t hurt more.

  Because she’d never loved him the way she’d loved Fletcher.

  “Is it just me, or are you stealing
the show here?” Fletcher asked, touching the pause button.

  “I’m stealing the show,” she said in a quiet voice. “I didn’t realize it at the time. That’s why they didn’t want me on camera with Martin. It might be why Martin didn’t want me with him. I’m a scene stealer.”

  “That’s you,” he said with a chuckle. “The camera loves you, and you’re a thief. You steal things. TV shows. Hearts . . .”

  “Knock it off,” she said, secretly delighted. “I showed you that for a reason. I want you to see what I was doing when I first got started.”

  “You miss doing that show in L.A.”

  “Yes.” She could not lie to him. “I try not to look at the trades too much,” she said, “but it’s hard to resist. That was my life not so long ago.”

  They spent a lazy Sunday morning eating cereal from oversize bowls and browsing through the New York Times. She wanted to lie on his Chesterfield sofa and watch old movies and forget the whole world. Probably not the best idea. He had work in the morning, and she had . . . what?

  “I know that face,” Fletcher said, placing a soft kiss on her temple. “What are you worrying about?”

  Annie bit her lip, trying to force herself to think things through. She wanted to explore what was restarting between them, but the stakes were high. She knew what would happen if she stepped through this door.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to go there. She’d left Fletcher—not once, but twice. Why? Because her father had left? Because she never wanted to experience the devastation and loneliness she’d felt after her father took off?

  “Come to dinner at the farm,” she said, surrendering to impulse. “I’ll make a fantastic Sunday supper.”

  “Say no more. I’m there. What can I bring?”

  “Just your good self.” She jumped up and began pulling on her clothes, and she laughed as his eyes devoured her. “Maybe a flak jacket. It’s my family, after all.”

  Annie’s parents had just returned from the city when she burst through the back door, toting bags from the market. “I’m making Sunday supper,” she told them.

  “Yay,” said her mother. “How can I help?” Mom looked preternaturally young. She was wearing well-fitting dark wash jeans and a crisp white shirt, with cork-bottom sandals, a colorful scarf that resembled a Kandinsky watercolor, and dramatic hoop earrings. She also wore a dewy flush, and Annie tried not to let her mind go there, but she couldn’t help observing that her mom had the look of a woman who had just gotten laid. Then she worried that she had that same look.