Chapter 30

I TOSSED ALL NIGHT AND FINALLY GOT UP EARLY AND poached eggs in a thick puttanesca to serve over polenta.

“Why no oatmeal?” Danny asked.

“I’ve been up a while . . . Hey, I thought you didn’t like oatmeal.”

“I got used to it.”

“I’ll put it back on the menu tomorrow and get it just right.”

My mind drifted to Cold Comfort Farm again and how the cooking of oatmeal reflected the heat and tension of the story—ours would be cold and uncooked if I tried it today. The whole house felt flat. I offered a smile alongside the eggs and ushered the kids out the door. On time—another sign things weren’t right.

Soon after the kids left, Nick called. “Any word from Jane?”

“She called early and is doing well. I’m to pick her up around two, which will get us back before the kids get home.”

“Then you’re free for lunch?”

“I’m always free for lunch.”

“Good.”

“It’s beautiful out and I’m making chicken salad right now. Do you want to have a picnic at the park?”

Nick paused.

“Don’t you like that idea?”

“I love that idea and I love chicken salad . . . I’ll walk over around noon and help carry the food.”

At a loss to convey all I wanted to say, I simply said, “Thank you.”

I hung up and thought more about all the ways Nick had stepped in to help my family. My family. Turning back to the chicken salad, I instinctively knew how to relay my thanks. Mr. Hemingway. Mr. Greek Tragedy. I smiled and relished the little brightness that simmered inside as I put away the tarragon and the mustard.

I had just finished packing the basket when the doorbell rang.

“I’m all set.”

“We can’t leave yet.” Nick stepped through the doorway and headed to the kitchen. “I have a gift for you and a couple plants for Jane’s garden.”

I shut the front door and trailed after him. He’d placed a small box with plant cuttings and a white bag filled with pink-and-green tissue paper on the island.

“Did you wrap this?”

“I did.”

I pulled out the tissue and stared into the bag. “How’d you know?”

“You said Jane didn’t have one.”

“Jane doesn’t have a lot of things.”

“Your tone said this one mattered.”

I took a deep breath and blinked to hide my emotions as I pulled out the heavy marble mortar and laid it on the counter, running my hand all over it. It was cool, smooth, and perfect—and used. I reached back in and found the pestle wrapped at the bottom of the bag—an oversize wood one, my favorite kind, worn soft and smooth.

“This is yours.”

“It is. The woman at the store said it takes weeks to properly break one in, and she only had marble pestles anyway. I don’t like those. So I figured perhaps mine was best.”

“Won’t you miss it?”

“It’s in good hands.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Wait one sec.” I held up a finger. “Don’t say a word.” Hope and excitement bubbled inside. I reached for a box from Jane’s cabinet and sifted through some spices that I’d collected at Whole Foods, Melrose Market, and Pike Place Market over the past couple weeks. It was difficult to open the pouches with one hand.

“Can I help you?”

“Shh . . . I can get it.” I pinched cumin, coriander, and sweet paprika. I laid my left arm across the mortar to hold it in place and ground the mixture gently. I smelled it and added black pepper and salt. So close. I tore a few leaves of thyme and cilantro and rolled them in gently.

“What are you—?”

“Stop talking,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and lifted the mortar, smelling. I added a touch more coriander and rolled the tip of a mint leaf in my fingers to release only the oils. I then touched the spices and stirred again. “Done.” I held the bowl to him.

“That smells good. Earthy, spicy. What gives it that clean scent?”

“The cilantro you brought for Jane with the slightest hint of mint oil.”

He smelled it again. “What’s it for?”

“It’s you. That’s what you smell like, to me at least.” I shrugged, embarrassed. Only Tabitha knew I did this when I was trying to figure someone out. When I had attempted one for Trent, it had morphed into an angry diatribe that burned my eyes.

I gently pulled the mortar from Nick’s hands and carried it to the compost bin. Nick reached for me.

“What are you doing?”

“Pitching it. I’m not going to use it.” I rested it in the sink to brush the spices from it.

“Stop.” He grabbed for my hand. “Don’t. Please . . . Put it in a baggie. I want to keep it.”

“You can’t use it.” I shook my head. “It’ll clash when heated, especially with the fresh leaves I added.”

“I won’t. Promise. But I want to keep it.”

I handed him the mortar and found a baggie. He quickly brushed the mixture in and tucked the bag into his back jeans pocket.

“Have you ever blended what you think represents you?”

“I wouldn’t know how.”

“What’s your favorite spice?”

“Hmm . . . It changes all the time.” I dug around in my box. “I found a blend the other day I really liked. Feast has no cultural root, but even so, I never cook Indian, so I don’t come across this every day.” I pulled out a pouch and opened it for him.

“I like that.” He sniffed again.

“I think it reflects my mood lately. It’s a regional blend called Garam Masala, so you can find endless permutations, but they’re all earthy, subdued, almost sad—a mixture of peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon, black-and-white cumin seeds, and black, brown, and green cardamom pods. This is the brightest iteration I’ve found. It pushes the green cardamom more and has a fresh kick at the end. Maybe that’s what I want to happen in me.”

“I like the fresh kick.” Nick smiled and dropped a quick kiss on my cheek. “Shall we go enjoy our picnic?”

I pointed to the basket resting on the table.

“You have a basket and everything.” He laughed.

“Jane did.”

We walked out the front door and headed to the park. It was in the midsixties and perfectly sunny. Huge white clouds puffed above, and Lake Washington lay still and serene.

“I thought it rained here all the time, even more than in Hood River.”

“This is unusual. Look, the Big Man is out.” Nick pointed across the lake.

“The Big Man?”

“Mount Rainier. That’s what I call him. When he’s out, he dominates the landscape.” Nick led me to a bench and set the basket between us. “What do you have in here?”

“ ‘Today I’m a mean beast and I cut it very fine.’ ” I reached in and grabbed two bottles of San Pellegrino and the tubs of chicken salad, handing one of each to Nick. “It’s a line from The Wind in the Willows about a particularly splendid picnic.”

I reached back into the basket and dug around. “There’s also a box of crackers, some really nice cheeses, apple slices . . . and cookies. Save room for the cookies.”

“You did all this?”

“Of course.”

“One-handed?”

“I didn’t say it didn’t take all morning.”

Nick stared at me a moment, then shifted his eyes out to the lake. After a moment, he turned back to me. “This is really nice.”

“Let’s hope it tastes as good.”

Nick popped open the lid of his Pyrex container and waited for me to do the same. I handed him a fork and motioned to him to take the first bite.

“What’s in this? It’s my favorite chicken salad ever.” He shoved in another bite.

“I thought you’d like it. It’s got cherry tomatoes, chickpeas, red onion, radish, cucumber . . . salt, olives, olive oil . . . feta cheese . . . and lemon juice.” I dug around in mine. “And red bell peppers. I couldn’t remember those. And some herbs.”

“It tastes Greek. I love Greek food.”

“I figured as much.”

Nick slanted his eyes at me. “I know I never mentioned that.”

“Your books. You love Greek tragedies, and the walls of your house—they’re all clean, white. You art is modern, southern European, even Greek, in its colors. It all goes together.” I took a bite and continued. “Cecilia helped me think that through. I was cooking for Jane, then Tyler, and I mentioned their books. She basically said that all our interests form our totality. We can’t be divided up. And even though I’d been leaning that direction, it became clear. I began to know how to cook for them when I focused on the whole person—what made them smile, what they clung to when scared or insecure, even what paintings are on their walls or books on their shelves.” I shoved another bite into my mouth, embarrassed that I’d started to babble.

Nick smiled at me. “I love it when you do that.”

“What?”

“Get all excited. Your face turns pink and your eyes light up. I’ve only seen it when you talk about food. I may need more time to find other topics that cause that reaction.”

I ducked my head and shoved in another bite—and almost choked.

“Seems I found one.”

Reality stepped in front of me. “I wish you did have more time, but Peter comes home tonight.”

“What’s Peter got to do with it?”

“I need to go. Peter hopped the first flight after I texted him about Jane last night—and they need to be together as a family.” I lifted my left hand up, now wrapped only in a thin gauze. “I can get these stiches out in New York.”

“I thought we had more time.”

His “we” surprised me. “I have a few more days off, but it’s time now.”

Nick grabbed my forearm. “Stay. Take those few days. Cook. Be with Jane and Kate and Danny and Peter . . . and me. Stay.”

“But you said yourself that—”

“Forget what I said. Forget it all. Please.” He caught my eyes and held them. “Just stay. As long as you can.”

Without breaking eye contact I heard myself answer. “Okay.”