Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  He nodded at a drawer, and Sam started rolling the dough out. She got partway through when it occurred to her to check how much time the quiche needed in the oven. Forty minutes. Maria would probably be up by then, and the idea was to have a fully prepared breakfast on the table before then. Maybe she should abandon the frittata idea. “Pauly, she prefers frittatas, but she does like waffles, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” His legs swung back and forth and he grinned at her. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Cooking is like a science experiment. And I’m very good at those.”

  “Right,” Pauly said, and Sam wasn’t sure, but she thought he rolled his eyes.

  She plugged in the waffle iron. While it was heating up, she loaded the blender with fruit and vanilla ice cream.

  “There’s chocolate syrup in the door of the fridge,” Pauly said.

  Sam narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait, is this for Maria or for you?”

  “Maybe it’s for Eva,” he said, and the mischief in his eyes was priceless.

  “Okay, okay.” Before she closed the fridge door, she noticed the bowl of cut-up melon, strawberries, and bananas Maria had prepared for their movie night, which they had forgotten in their enthusiasm for ice cream and pizza. She put the fruit salad on the countertop as a healthy addition to breakfast before squeezing chocolate syrup into the blender for a good thirty seconds. The waffle iron dinged, so she measured a quarter cup of batter and poured it in. While it was cooking, she went back to the blender. She secured the lid and hit the frappe button.

  The lid might have been secure, but the base of blender sure as hell wasn’t, because smoothie oozed out of the gap between the canister and the blades, covering the buttons Sam needed to see in order to locate the stop button. Blindly pressing things only made the blender go faster, and, hands covered in sticky ice cream, strawberry, and chocolate, she fumbled with the cord until she unplugged the whole thing.

  “Seriously?” A strand of hair fell into her face, and when she went to sweep it aside, she wiped food across her forehead.

  “Sam? It’s dripping onto the floor,” Pauly called out helpfully.

  “Of course it is,” she mumbled, scrambling for paper towels. There were only a few squares left.

  “There’s more in the basement.” Pauly was already heading downstairs.

  The waffle iron must have dinged during the blender commotion, because as soon as Sam bent down to wipe up the smoothie disaster, her nose was accosted with the pungent smell of burning food.

  She hurried to the waffle iron and lifted the lid, but the batter still looked runny. Clearly the smell wasn’t coming from there. Maybe she’d imagined it. She closed the lid and picked up the rolling pin. Might as well finish with the dough.

  “Sam?”

  At the sight of Maria standing in the doorway to the kitchen in pajamas, with mussed hair and shock etched all over her face, Sam dropped the rolling pin and then tripped on it, landing hard on her butt. Her eyes watered a bit as she threw her arms wide and smiled. “Um, happy birthday.”

  Maria hurried to the stove, where she turned off the burner under the pan with the spinach and shallots for the quiche, which were burnt past the point of being edible. From her place on the floor, Sam groaned, and Maria’s hand flew to her mouth as she struggled not to laugh. It was a losing battle, though, and pretty soon they were both howling. Sam pointed at Maria’s Miss Piggy pajama pants, but couldn’t get a coherent word out, she was laughing so hard. Maria wiped the smoothie off Sam’s forehead, only to put it back onto her nose and cheeks. When Maria extended her hand to help Sam rise, Sam yanked her to the floor, and as Maria fell, her flailing arms knocked down the bowl with fruit salad. Maria landed on top of her in a heap and squares of melon and slices of strawberry followed her, dousing them both. The now-empty bowl clattered to the floor.

  Sam sputtered through her laughter. “Shit, that was the only edible thing we had!” Maria retrieved a cube of watermelon from Sam’s lap, matter-of-factly tugged Sam’s sweater away from her neck, and dropped it down her shirt.

  “Cold! Ugh, so squishy.” Sam flapped and thrashed in vain attempts to keep the fruit away from her skin. Under the pressure of the sweater, her own clumsy hands, and Maria’s tickling fingers, the watermelon exploded, covering Sam’s chest with sticky pink juice that slowly seeped through her shirt. Maria looked contrite for a moment, before Sam reached above her, located a weapon, and promptly deposited the bowl of banana waffle batter upside-down on Maria’s head. The bowl slid to the floor, leaving behind streaks of batter across Maria’s brown curls, her incredulous face, and her Running is cheaper than therapy sweatshirt. Maria lowered her head and thrust her caked hair into Sam’s face.

  Engulfed by curls and uncooked goo, Sam contemplated her options. Pauly interrupted her strategizing as he entered, and took one look at the mess above and below the counters, and asked, “Are we going out for breakfast, then?”

  Maria and Sam pulled back far enough to look at each other and then burst into hysterical laugher.

  “So what inspired your kitchen disaster this morning?” Maria asked when the four of them were chowing down on breakfast at Stowe’s only diner.

  Through a mouthful of hash browns, Sam said, “I wanted to do something nice for the birthday girl. Like test your smoke alarm.”

  “You’re shockingly inept in the kitchen,” Maria informed her. “Let’s hope you’re better at fixing people than breakfast.” Pauly nodded his agreement before returning to his strawberry milkshake, his reward for helping clean up the mound of dishes and inedible food.

  Eva said nothing, but her eyes twinkled as she nibbled on rye toast.

  “I also figured every birthday girl wants someone she can tease mercilessly all day long,” Sam said with a grin. “Speaking of which, what do you want to do for the rest of your special day?”

  The glint in Maria’s eyes made her wary. “You’re going running with me.”

  “And the hits just keep on coming. Wouldn’t you just be happier running on your own? I’ll probably slow you down.”

  “I don’t want to push my ankle too far, too fast, so I’ll run whatever pace you set.”

  “Oh, how magnanimous.” Sam tried another angle: “How about I keep Pauly company for you while you run?”

  Maria turned to her brother. “Hey bro, you don’t need a babysitter while I run, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe Eva and I can draw together.” When all three of them turned their attention to Sam, she knew she was trapped. “I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I said I don’t own running shoes?”

  “You know, it’s the craziest thing. They sell those in stores these days. And one can often procure all other necessary athletic accoutrement from the same establishment! This modern world we live in is just full of surprises.”

  “Okay, okay. You win, birthday girl. But you should know that I keep score of these kinds of things, and a Latham always pays her debts.”

  Maria quirked an eyebrow. “Like a Lannister?”

  Sam nodded sheepishly.

  Maria grinned. “Game of Thrones nerd, huh? Guess we know what we’ll be talking about while we pound the pavement.” Three hours later, Sam, wearing running tights, cross-trainers, and a constant grimace, listened while Maria spouted off a theory about Jon Snow’s parentage and ranted about how long it was taking George R. R. Martin to write the next book.

  How people run in the summer without overheating, I’ll never know, Sam thought, crouched over, her hand on her chest, gasping for air. Despite the snow on the ground and the chill on her skin, she didn’t think it was possible for her to feel any hotter. She was mistaken. Her breath slowed when she stood up and noticed Maria stretching. She had been convinced for all three miles of their run that she was dying. Maria, however, had barely broken a sweat, and was currently bent
double, touching the ground, her legs spread. She moaned softly as tense muscles visibly relaxed. The view was too much for Sam’s muddled brain, and she turned away, thinking briefly about the stamina this woman had and wondering if it transferred into other arenas.

  There were a dozen reasons she needed a cold shower.

  That evening, after all of Stowe Away’s patrons had paid their bills and left, the poker ladies, the salon artists, and Stowe Away’s waiters and cooks gathered in the restaurant, singing and toasting Maria. When Kathy busted out the portable karaoke machine and Brendon wailed out “I Believe in a Thing Called Love,” the place was in stitches. Kathy crooned to “Under the Sea,” and Brandi belted out some Top 40s song that no one seemed to know. Sam grudgingly admitted to herself that Brandi had a good voice, even if she was gazing at Maria like she was the only other person in the room. When Jenny and Jamie took the mic and started a charming version of “Islands in the Stream,” Sam managed to corner Maria for a moment alone. She shyly held out an envelope and whispered, “Happy birthday.”

  Maria’s eyes sparkled. “Can I open it now, please?” she asked, her politeness betrayed by the eagerness in her eyes. Sam nodded.

  Eva had drawn the card, which featured an image of Hephe and Aphrodite eyeing a slice of frittata on a plate. The inscription inside thanked Maria for all that she’d given the Latham family. A folded piece of paper slipped from the card onto the floor, and both ladies bent to retrieve it at the same time, bumping heads. “We’re having quite a day, huh?” Sam laughed.

  “That klutziness of yours appears to be contagious. But what have we here?” Maria unfolded the document, and as she read its contents, her face exploded into a brilliant smile.

  “Do you like it?” Sam asked a little proudly.

  Maria pulled her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear, “Oh, Sam, it’s perfect.”

  “Will you tell me all about it afterward?” she asked into soft curls that smelled like the most delicious dessert she had ever tasted.

  Maria pulled back, her eyes glistening. “Absofuckinglutely.” She drew Sam closer again and her warm lips graced Sam’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry to break up this little tête-à-tête, but it’s time for cake.” Brandi’s hands were on her hips and the irritation in her voice was clear. Maria rolled her eyes, but nevertheless turned to follow her back to the party.

  After everyone sang a surprisingly on-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” Brendon drifted over to Sam. “She’s positively giddy over your present. What did you give her?”

  “Next week she’ll be a guest chef at Amanda Macy’s restaurant in Boston.”

  “No! THE Amanda Macy? Wow, I’ve never even dined there, and Maria gets to hang out in the kitchen? Jesus. Did you know the New York Times just dubbed it the eighth best restaurant in the country?” Brendon nodded his head at Sam, clearly impressed. “Well done, Ms. Latham. Well done indeed.”

  Later, after Father Mark and some of the older salon artists had left, Brandi suggested forming a kissing line to shower the birthday girl with affection. Just as Kathy grabbed Sam’s shoulders and thrust her into a spot at the end of the line, Sam’s cell phone rang. The screen glowed with the name Natalie Romano and Sam ducked outside the restaurant to take the call.

  Standing in the cold, her thumb poised over the answer button, she watched through Stowe Away’s window as Brendon bent Maria back and gave her a sloppy wet kiss on the lips; she came up winded and laughing. Brandi followed suit, and it was distinctly possible that she slipped the birthday girl a little tongue. When she recovered, Maria had an unreadable expression on her face. Sam pivoted, turning her back on the party, and took Natalie’s call.

  As her favorite voice in the world washed over her, she glanced over her shoulder. Maria’s penetrating eyes were gazing at her through the window and Sam wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw disappointment and frustration in them.

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” Sam said, turning away. “How are you?”

  “Thrilled,” Natalie said, her voice vibrating warmly down Sam’s spine. “I was so sorry I couldn’t come to Stowe between Japan and fall term that I just bought a ticket for Thanksgiving. It’s nonrefundable, so tell me I can come.”

  Sam laughed, her insides turning to melted chocolate. “God, yes. Please come.” She was quiet for a moment before admitting softly, “I miss you.”

  “Well good, I’m glad to hear you’re living in the world a little more,” Natalie said, her voice sounding distant through the phone.

  “I’d hardly call Stowe the world, but, yes, I’m adjusting.” Sam fiddled with the fringe on the blanket she was under. The couch was getting lumpy from all the naps Eva took on it, and would probably need to be replaced soon. Which meant a call to Jack that Sam wasn’t looking forward to. She moved the phone to her other ear.

  “Oh, Sam, when are you going to ditch this attitude? Stowe is every bit as much ‘the world’ as any other place.”

  Natalie’s impending visit had prompted a string of phone calls, and Sam reflected that they hadn’t spoken this much in years. “You can’t believe that. And if you do, it’s only because you haven’t been here in so long. You’ll change your tune next week.”

  “Can’t wait! One sec.” She listened as Natalie’s muffled voice said, “Cappuccino and a raspberry scone to go, please.” She was probably in a hipster Bay Area coffee shop, juggling her phone, wallet, and credit card in front of a line of under-caffeinated patrons tapping their feet while they waited for their turn to order. The image made Sam’s heart ache for the more cosmopolitan life she had lost.

  Most of their phone conversations centered on stories from Japan and Natalie’s decision to postpone applying for law school. She hadn’t wanted to share the events of her recent life, which she thought must be uninteresting to someone with the freedom to go anywhere she chose and the uncanny ability to create seemingly random but nonetheless exciting opportunities for herself.

  “Sorry about that,” Natalie said.

  “No problem. So are you ready for classes to start again?”

  “Ugh, I guess. I’m kind of over public policy. There are so many policy issues that need to be addressed, so many populations that are struggling, but nothing ever gets done. Layer after layer of bureaucracy and politicking makes everyone pessimistic, and then the problems get worse, which makes people even more cynical, and it’s a horrible cycle. Besides, policy might be a little too ‘real’ for me, you know?”

  “Too real? And you were thinking about law school?”

  “That’s why I decided against it. My dad has a friend who lives in the Spanish countryside, and I’m thinking of going to work on his farm next year. It would be a different pace of life, and in addition to learning about the culture and animal husbandry, I would have time to concentrate on my music again.”

  “Spain?” Unbelievable.

  “Eh, why not?” Natalie’s dismissive reply was entirely unsatisfying.

  Why not indeed. Maybe because you don’t want to be that far away from me, Sam thought, which was ridiculous, considering they hadn’t seen each other since their awkward run-in at the Kronos Quartet concert almost a year ago. The dead air filled with tension as she struggled to generate any sort of comeback that wouldn’t leave her feeling pathetic and make Natalie angry.

  Natalie sighed; she was probably reading Sam’s thoughts.

  “Okay, that’s it, Samantha Latham. I refuse to say another word until you talk. About things that actually matter.”

  “Um, let’s see. Well, when you’re here, I was thinking we could go on a tour of the Magic Hat Brewery, and the Ben and Jerry’s creamery. There are also great hikes around here that I think you’d love.”

  “Uh huh. Sounds great. What else?” Natalie said, and Sam could almost picture her hands on her hips.

  She sighed. “Stowe is
fine. I’m fine. I mean, most days I am, which is a big improvement, really. Eva’s rediscovered her art, and it’s very therapeutic for her. She can walk on her own now, and feed herself. There’s still a lot she needs help with, and I doubt she’ll ever be able to live alone again. But really, she’s way better than my worst fears would have predicted.”

  “Oh, Sam. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so glad, and sad, for both of you.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s how I feel too. It’s an emotional roller coaster, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you made friends there? Or reconnected with people you used to know?”

  “Sort of. There’s actually this artist salon that I think you’d love. It’s very small town, but, you know, that’s okay. There’s still some great work there.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s amazing! What kind of art?”

  “All kinds, really. Painting, architecture, poetry, music.”

  “That’s so cool. Who knew that kind of thing existed in Stowe?”

  “I guess it didn’t before…well, my mom was sort of instrumental in starting it.”

  “Of course she was. God, Eva’s so sweet. Does she still go? When you said ‘painting,’ did you mean hers?”

  “Some. There’s also a priest, and Pauly. Mom taught him how to draw and he’s, well, he’s getting pretty good.”

  “Pauly. What’s he like?”

  She hesitated. How do you explain Pauly? “He’s the sweetest kid I’ve ever met. He lives with his sister Maria—she’s the one who organizes the salon. Their parents died a few years ago in a car crash, and she takes care of him. She and I graduated together, actually, although I never really paid much attention to her.”