THE NEXT MORNING AFTER THE KIDS RAN TO SCHOOL, late again, I cleaned the kitchen and started a stew while Jane and Nick met in the living room. Foreign words like “Google analytics,” “behavioral targeting,” and “search engine optimization” drifted to me. I turned back to my stew, wishing that good cooking, and not Nick and Jane’s “optimization,” was all that Feast needed to survive.
I needed out. I needed air and a little exercise. And I had an idea—one that excited me as much as search engines probably energized Nick and Jane. It had come in the fleeting moments as I awoke, during that in-between time when ideas, even brilliance, fill your brain before reality pushes them away. I had fallen asleep devising escape plans, but awoke to recipes and almond flour. I knew somehow that potatoes wouldn’t sit well in Jane’s mouth, but the beef stew she craved would. I only needed almond flour to thicken it.
So I dismissed my escape plans, cooked the kids scrambled eggs, sent them to school, and braised short ribs before setting them in the slow cooker—because for the first time in months, maybe years, a person, a food, a need, an answer, and an inspiration had melded together and become whole. This is what I was after and it felt close. I simmered with giddiness.
I stuck my head into the living room. “I need some almond flour. Is there a market nearby? I’d love to walk rather than drive.”
Nick was packing his messenger bag as Jane replied, “There’s one just past the park you went to yesterday, across the street.”
“Perfect.” I ducked back out to find a coat.
“I’m headed that way,” Nick said. “I’ll show you.”
Jane then turned to Nick. “Thanks for keeping me posted on all this. You don’t have to, you know.”
“If you tell me to stop I will, but they’re your clients and they feel pretty loyal to you.”
“That’s so nice.”
“It’s true.”
Jane opened the door for Nick, and I silently followed, feeling as if both had forgotten my presence.
We stepped off the porch before Nick spoke again. “How’s Jane doing, really?”
“Okay, I think. She’s tired. Cranky. Jane. Hates to feel less than perfect.”
“Oh.”
“That was rude.” I glanced over and presented Nick an off-kilter smile. “You must think that’s all I am, too, after yesterday. I was so . . .”
“New York.”
“Hey, it’s a great city.”
“I didn’t say that. I simply implied it has a different vibe. Yesterday I meant that your outfit skewed more Seattle, but then your attitude was all New York.” He chuckled and looked me up and down. “Now you’re Madison Avenue veering to Village chic.”
“I . . .” My brain completely blanked for a retort until I caught his grin. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“Slightly.”
“Well, you certainly haven’t caught me at my best. There’s a lot going on right now.”
“I can only imagine.”
It took me a second to realize he was referring to Jane. How horrid that I hadn’t been. “Yesterday, when you dropped off the apples, our dad was just leaving, and I’d decided to stay on to help out. Jane wasn’t thrilled with my decision.” I paused and reassessed the morning. “That’s not exactly true. She just didn’t understand it.”
“You two aren’t close?”
“She’s eight years older and probably still sees me as ten-year-old Lizzy. That’s the last time we ever spent any real time together. When she left for college, she left for good.”
“It’s good you’re here then. Maybe this is your chance.”
“To . . . ?”
“To get to know each other.”
The thought pulled at me. It was my chance—my last chance. For Feast, at least. For Jane? I wasn’t sure.
We passed a Starbucks and I stalled. “I think I’m going to grab a coffee. Thanks for walking with me, but I’ll find it from here.” I stepped in the door without waiting for his reply, and stalled again.
Nick chuckled behind me. “We Seattleites are hard-core about our coffee.”
“I’ll say.” I looked around at approximately three thousand square feet of coffee-infused glory divided into four sections, with leather armchairs, couches, a fireplace, tables, cool stools, a kids’ play area, workbenches, a bar, wine, beer . . . an antipasto platter.
An antipasto platter? In Starbucks?
“Pick up your jaw and move that way.” Nick lightly pushed me forward.
I ordered my latte and as I waited for it, I looked around. It was packed. People holding meetings, chats, and children; folks curled up reading books; others chasing kids or reading to them; patrons working on computers. I counted sixty people, and another sixty could fit.
“Do you want to sit a minute?”
“I can just go.”
“I’m going to grab a table.”
I vacillated just enough.
“Come on.” He led me through the tables to a place near the window. “So how are you doing with all this?”
I bit my lip, unsure of what to say.
“Look, Jane and Peter are good friends, and I love Danny and Kate—she’s my top babysitter—but this can’t be easy on any of you. You won’t betray her if you need to talk. I won’t blab and I won’t judge.”
We sat and I pondered his offer. “Interesting word. Betray. That’s the problem. We don’t have any loyalty.”
Nick’s eyes widened.
“There I go again.” I looked down to my lap. I’d begun to shred the napkin. “It’s just that, like I said, Jane and I have a lot of . . . difficulty . . . between us.”
He leaned back and nodded as if he had nothing better to do than listen to me—so I continued.
“I stayed yesterday only partly to help Jane. I also needed a kitchen. I have to work on my cooking.”
“Women still do that?”
“Still do what?”
“ ‘Work on their cooking.’ ” He made quote marks with his fingers. “My mother said she spent the summer before she got married working on her cooking with her grandmother. It’s sweet.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You didn’t mean that, did you?” Nick scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “That was kinda medieval of me. Continue. You need to learn to cook . . .”
“Oh, I can cook. I mean I used to be good. Seriously good.” I shook my head. “Anyway, I stayed to help and to cook, but I can’t do either.” I wadded the napkin bits in my fist and moved on to the brown wrapper on my coffee cup. “I saw some sisters at the park yesterday, and I loved the way they cared for each other and played together. They looked close.”
“I can’t help you there. I’m an only child like Matt.”
“I wish,” I retorted and clamped my hand over my mouth. Nick stared at me. “See? I didn’t mean that, but I’m mad at her. I’m always mad at her, and that’s horrible. She should get a hall pass, especially now, but I can’t seem to give her one.”
Nick laughed, letting me off the hook. “Did she like the applesauce?”
I cringed—as his question put me right back on it. “Not yet, but she will.”
“Did you use enough sugar? I’m telling you, they’re super tart.”
“I think so, but I used brown. Do you do that? And I added nutmeg and a touch of salt. People sometimes forget the salt when they use sugar, but the two pair together. I also added a touch of pepper and let them steep in the skins. I think that way is more reminiscent of England’s baked-apple traditions—you know, like the ones described in Austen, even Dickens. He loved his apples. Jane likes that stuff right now, and I thought, before serving it today, I might also add—What?”
Nick grinned so wide the corners of his eyes almost crinkled shut. “You are a cook. I simply add sugar and mash them.”
“That works too.” I looked down at the cup’s wrapper. I’d killed it. “I get a little excited about food. I work as a chef in New York, a little restaurant called Feast, fresh farm to table, innovative—at least it used to be. It’s small, and I’ve got a tight menu that I keep close to locally available produce and organic suppliers. I get to play a lot, except for dessert. My pâtissier is a prima donna.” I bit my lip and stopped babbling.
“Now I feel stupid. I must’ve looked like a complete fool trying to tell you how to cook the apples yesterday.”
“No. You were being kind. I guess I didn’t like getting caught without my armor.”
“No one does,” he said, so softly.
I glanced up. “I should go.” I stood too quickly and lost my bearings.
Nick darted out of his seat and grabbed my upper arm. “Whoa there. Steady.”
“All good. Sorry. I made breakfast for the kids this morning and forgot to eat myself.”
“Grab something and join me. I think I’ll work here awhile.”
I wavered a moment. Fleeing felt wise, but staying felt right. “I’d like that.”
I went to the counter, ordered oatmeal, and returned. Nick had pulled out his computer, but it lay shut before him. He watched as I stirred the oatmeal and added the toppings.
“It’s pathetic when Starbucks can make better oatmeal than a trained chef. I’ve been trying this for Jane’s kids and keep screwing it up.”
“How much longer do you have to get it right?”
“A few days here, but another week away from the restaurant.” I took a bite. “How did you and Jane start working together?”
“Peter and I worked at the same agency until it shut its doors a couple years ago. He went on to Microsoft and I started my own firm—social media, PR, and marketing, like Jane, but mostly for small companies. When Jane was diagnosed, Peter suggested she cut back on work. I sense she’s sad about it.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She’s never mentioned it, but it must be hard. My hope is that she’ll want her clients back someday, so I’m trying to keep her in the loop.”
“Don’t you want the business?”
“Not like this.” He swung his head with each word.
“Of course. I didn’t know exactly what Jane did—definitely not my forte.” I scooped the last bite of oatmeal, chewing the nuts and raisins that had sunk to the bottom. “Ironically, that’s what my restaurant lacks—a media presence, along with a few other things like inspired cooking of late.”
“If it’s not your forte, hire someone. We’re a dime a dozen out there.”
“We did. He just started.” I pretended to be absorbed in cleaning my wrappers and mess. There was no way I was going to say more, especially not that Chef Dimples was singularly gifted as both consultant and cook.
But the pressure of Trent Murray and his giftedness crushed me, and I looked up. “Why? Why does it matter so much? If you’ve got a good product, do things right day in and day out, why isn’t that enough?” My final note revealed my panic.
Nick leaned back and thought for a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. “Not long ago it was. But there’s more chatter now, and oddly, we want relationships from more than just people.” He leaned forward and spread his hands across to me. You could measure the space between us in inches, not feet.
“People want to know their movie stars, their artists, their breweries, their auto repair shops . . . their chefs.” He paused and smiled. “Right now I’m working with a woman, one of Jane’s clients, who teaches cooking classes. Those experiences are personal, and people expect to find her approachable, knowledgeable, trustworthy, even kind, before they’ll shell out a hundred bucks for one of her classes.”
“A hundred bucks?”
“And for that hundred bucks her customers demand not only a class but a personal connection to her. That’s where I come in. I find ways for people to feel attached to her and the experience.”
“Attached?” I snorted and covered my mouth to stop the sound. I suspected few people, even Tabitha or Suzanne, felt truly attached to me. “Sorry. That struck me as funny. Sadly funny.”
Nick’s expression flickered.
“No. Not for her, for me . . . I put everything into my food, not necessarily into my customers, and it worked. But right now my cooking is off somehow, and the loyalty isn’t there.”
“Marketing is real and makes a difference, but you’re right that the product is paramount. People expect more from their dollars today.”
“I noticed.”