Family Tree (22 page)

“Those are date undies,” Vivian pointed out, eyeing Annie's lace-trimmed bikini. “Way too pretty for every day.”

“They are not date undies, and I won't apologize for liking pretty ones. They are going to stay totally concealed.”

“Why wouldn't you want to date him? Those pictures you just showed us are going to haunt my dreams for a long time.”

“I don't even know him. I just think he's going to be a great topic for my documentary.” She took a pair of dark wash jeans and a colorful A-line skirt from her crammed closet. “Thoughts?”

“The jeans. They're super tight, and they look hot on you.”

“Fine, I'm wearing the skirt, then.”

“It looks like something you'd wear to the farmers' market.”

“You have a good eye. I actually bought it at the Fulton Street Market a couple of weeks ago. It's made from recycled saris.”

“It really isn't a date after all,” Vivian conceded, her expression tragic.

“Told you so.” She paired the skirt with a tank top and a cropped sweater, and resisted the urge to put on makeup. Maybe just some lip gloss.

But despite her protests, she felt as though she was going on a date. Dinner with a guy who wanted to cook for her. That seemed . . . datelike. Except she had an ulterior motive, and a heavy backpack crammed with photography gear. She wanted him to be the subject of her documentary, nothing more. Getting personal could ruin everything, and this was too good to ruin. The very first time she filmed him, she had felt it—the hum of a tuning fork deep in her core, resonating through her. That was her voice, speaking to her clearly. Sure, he was eye candy. But there was something more to this man. He had a passion for his craft, and he had a kind of driven, sexy energy that translated beautifully on camera.

She walked to Martin's place in Greenwich Village. It was a walk-up to a loft with brick walls, exposed beams, and high ceilings.

“My humble abode,” he said, offering a mock-formal bow and a sweep of his arm as he opened the door for her. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his feet bare and his hair slightly damp.

It wasn't humble. It was incredible. How could a street vendor afford this? Family money?

“Thanks for having me,” she said. “And for doing this. You're being a really good sport about it.”

“I'm a born performer.” He took her backpack from her, raising his eyebrows at the weight of it. “Want to start filming right away?”

Good Lord. The guy was a dream come true. “Sure. I just need a couple
of minutes to set up.” While she worked she checked out his place. It was all one big, airy room, with a low sofa and one of those expensive new flat-screen TVs anchored to one wall, a desk area, and a big platform bed, neatly made up. The main feature was the kitchen. It had a commercial gas range with an industrial-quality stainless-steel vent hood, an array of knives and utensils that made her itch to work alongside him. Maybe that was his X-factor, that he invited collaboration. She'd studied it in her classes, the way a viewer got involved in a story by identifying with the subject and wanting to be part of it. Audience investment, it was called.

She set the tripod next to the bar-height counter and started rolling. He served her a handcrafted rye old-fashioned with a dense Luxardo cherry. She sipped the delicious, bittersweet drink, feeling absurdly sophisticated. The camera captured the action as he put together dinner.

“I took a chance that you don't have any food allergies or aversions.”

“Good guess. I have an aversion to food that doesn't taste good, but something tells me that isn't likely to happen in your kitchen.”

“I've had my share of failures.” He cooked with supreme confidence, frying feathery hen-of-the-woods mushrooms in olive oil and serving them over hummus seasoned with coriander. Then he offered her a delicate tomato tart with caramelized onions and shavings of fennel, pouring a dry rosé. Dessert was a pear-and-apple compote drizzled in butterscotch sauce made with coconut milk.

She felt blissed out by the wonderful food. “I might never leave,” she said. “Can I move in tonight?”

He laughed. “Good food will do that to a person.”

“And yet you're single. Why aren't women hanging around here like stray cats?”

“Right now I'm giving everything to my cooking. I mean, I'd love to find someone, but this is taking all my focus.”

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh of contentment. “That meal was fantastic.”

“Thanks.”

“Every single dish was vegan, wasn't it?” she said, smiling at him.

“Yep.” His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Some people don't notice that at all.”

“Best meal I've had in ages.”

“I like to show my range,” he said. He wouldn't let her help him wash up. Instead, she filmed him while he worked and told her about himself. He was born and raised in Texas. The Harlows were a longtime restaurant family who had three hugely popular barbecue places in Houston. After culinary school, he came to New York to make it on his own, doing something completely different with his food. He didn't have the kind of backing he needed for a restaurant, so he'd launched the food cart.

He poured them each two fingers of grappa as a digestif. She adjusted the camera on the tripod as he carried the drinks to the seating area. “How did you come up with the perfect formula for your cart?”

“By trying—and failing. A lot,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “I started out with Cuban sandwiches. Then I tried grilled cheese, Spanish tapas, even egg custards I learned to make in Macau.”

“You studied in China?”

“Spent a year in Asia. Loved every minute of it. But it was the year in France that gave me the winning formula—the confit method. I finally came up with a dish that sets me apart and keeps people coming to the stall.”

“Judging by the crowd I saw, it's a big hit.”

“It wasn't always. Business was slow at first, and then I had a lucky break. There was a write-up in
Time Out New York
by Guy Bellwether. He's a foodie with a huge following, and he gave me raves. By the next week, my till had quadrupled.” Martin sipped his drink. He showed her a collection of tear sheets from various publications. She perused some of the headlines.
A New Standard in Street Food. The Must-Have Sandwich. Martin Harlow's Secret Sauce.

She laughed. “Secret Sauce? Really?”

“Hey, I don't write that stuff.”

“The reviewer makes a good point. The sauce is key.”

“I think so, too.”

“Your truffle honey is lovely. The flavor is completely subtle, but without it, the dish is just another yummy sandwich.”

“Exactly. You get it. I love that you get it. How does a film student know so much about cooking?”

“My first love,” Annie said. “My grandmother is the greatest cook I know, and she believes every recipe has a key ingredient. The one that defines it. In fact, I was thinking I would call my project
The Key Ingredient.
”

“I like it,” he said. “I like the way your mind works.”

Annie's mind was not working. It was playing.
Back to work, Annie
.

“What else can I tell you about?” he asked, turning to face her on the sofa.

“Whatever you like,” she said. “I want to know what drives you, what excites and inspires you.”

He took the small glass of grappa from her and set it on the coffee table. He leaned in toward her and held her face between his hands. “You,” he said quietly, gazing into her face. “You excite me. You inspire me.”

“Martin.” Her heart sank. She didn't want to flirt with him. She wanted to film him.

He shifted back, palms out, all innocence. “You can't blame a guy for trying.”

“Actually, I can. Seriously, if this is going to work, we need to act as colleagues. Professionals. When a filmmaker gets too involved with the subject, the film is doomed.”

“Did they teach you that in school?”

“Yes, and I learned from experience. Freshman year, I did a short piece on a bike messenger who got injured on the job, and I felt really
sorry for him. My film turned out maudlin and terrible. So I need to stay detached.”

He picked up his glass and saluted her. “Right. Good luck with that.”

“Martin.”

He offered his aw-shucks grin. “Okay, back to work. I know what you're asking. I'm inspired when someone gets me, the way you do. When someone understands that I'm not just making sandwiches in the park. I'm excited when someone makes me feel right about what I'm doing.”

“Oh.” She was flustered by his sincerity. “In that case, I'm glad to help.”

She could tell Martin was looking at her lips. She could tell he wanted to kiss her. It was flattering, and she kind of wanted him to. It was rare for her to feel this kind of attraction.

Yet she had to pull back, reminding herself that kissing would only complicate matters. Martin Harlow was supposed to be her senior project, not her boyfriend.

And yet for the first time in forever, she started to think there could be life after Fletcher Wyndham.

Now

I
'm ready to go home.” Annie addressed the care team assembled at the conference table. Her parents were present as well, sitting side by side as they eyed her anxiously. She wished they would relax and quit looking at her as if she had a bomb duct-taped to her chest.

“You've all helped me enormously,” she said, and a lump rose in her throat. “Far more than I'll ever know, since I slept through most of it.”

Smiles and nods all around.

“Now it's time to be on my own.” She sounded like an inmate trying to convince the parole board to let her out. Her fate was up to a committee of people who purported to know what was best for her.

The doctor, social worker, various therapists and nurses regarded her with kindness. Yet she could tell they were skeptical. She could read their expressions now without referring to the feelings chart with the round faces on it. Wasn't that a sign of progress?

“I like your confidence,” Dr. King said. He was awesome. No one had expected her to emerge from the coma. Most patients in her situation existed in a frightening twilight state, never fully returning to themselves. But Dr. King had not given up on her. Annie had defied the odds, and she gave credit to this team.

“I want to get better. I
am
better.” She looked around the table.
“‘Better' isn't the same as going back to exactly the person I was. I can't swear I was all that great in the first place.”

“You were you. And now it's time to let go of the person you were. Try to recognize the new person emerging from all this, and welcome her. It's a process. A grieving process. Not a literal death, but a loss.”

The comment hit Annie in a way she was completely unprepared for. The former Annie was gone. Who was she now? Who did she want to be?

Life anew. What a concept. She felt excitement and then fear. And then many more fears. This was her new normal, they said. The trouble was, “normal” simply felt strange. Unfamiliar. Beginnings were like that, weren't they?

“It's the start of a journey,” said Dr. King. “It's filled with opportunities you might not have envisioned before.”

“I don't know what I envisioned. There's still so much I don't remember.”

“You don't have to worry about remembering every little thing. The past you is gone. You're born again, but with a superpower—you have the benefit of prior knowledge. You don't have to reinvent the wheel every time you want to make a move.”

She let out a long, slow breath, then faced her parents. “So. What do you think of the new me?”

“We've always thought you were amazing. The new you is even more amazing,” said her mother.

Mrs. Rowe, the social worker, spoke up, reporting that Annie had a safe and supportive environment to return to—her childhood home in Switchback, where her parents and brother would look after her.

“Parent,” Annie corrected her, aiming a pointed look at her father. “My mom is single.”

“I'm here for you, too, Annie,” said her father, his eyes softening as he seemed to absorb the wound.

“Your father will be a part of this as well.” Mrs. Rowe put on a pair of reading glasses and checked one of her papers. “Ethan Lickenfelt, isn't that correct?”

Annie's father nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Your role is described here as emotional and financial support, companionship, and strength-training support.”

“That's correct,” he said. A light sheen of sweat formed on his forehead.

“So in other words, all the stuff he didn't do when I was a kid,” Annie said.

Her father winced. “I thought you had memory problems.”

“The family will continue with regular counseling appointments,” Mrs. Rowe told the group, aiming a pointed look at Annie.

“My favorite,” she said.

“Humor and sarcasm are excellent coping mechanisms,” the staff psychologist said to Annie. “Don't let them mask your struggle.”

“I want to help,” her father said quietly. “I'm sorry I wasn't around when you needed me, but I'm here now. I'm staying with my folks in Milton. They're getting on in years, so I'll be taking over their business.”

Annie paused, absorbing this. The idea of his living and working close by was simply . . . confusing. She looked at her mother. “Did you know about this plan?”

Her mom clutched her purse in her lap in a death grip. “He told me this morning.”

“And you're okay with it?”

“I—yes. We want you to have as much support as we can give you.”

Her father sent Mom a grateful look. “We're all committed to giving Annie everything she needs.”

“Wow,” said Annie. “It's like some cheesy movie where the estranged parents come back together for the sake of their dying child, and discover they love each other once again.”

“That's not funny,” said her mother. But surprisingly, color bloomed in her cheeks.

At the end of the meeting, they all agreed that Annie was ready to be discharged, provided her family delivered on their promise to continue her therapy at home. She felt a jumble of emotions—gratitude, trepidation, and a low-grade grief she didn't understand. She thanked everyone, doled out hugs, accepted their good wishes, posed for pictures.

“Your life is going to be amazing,” Dr. King said. “The next move is up to you.”

“I have no idea what move I want to make.”

“You don't have to recognize what is in front of you, not yet. In time, everything will come into focus. How long this takes is different for everyone. Be patient with yourself. Reach out to the ones who love you. I'm excited to see you build the life you want.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I'll work on it,” she said softly. Now that she remembered her career in California, she knew she had to go back to it, but it seemed impossible at this point. She needed to get stronger. She needed her family.

After everyone left, Annie and her parents went back to her room. She stood in the middle of the floor and turned around slowly. The walls had been stripped of the artwork and cards, the daily notices and schedule. The bed was stripped down to its waterproof mattress. Her life was stripped down to this moment.

Her stomach gave a little flip of panic as she thought about how long she had been here in this cocoon, walled off from the world like Aurora, dead asleep in her enchanted tower. The difference being, Aurora had woken up to Prince Charming. Annie had woken up to divorce papers.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed her parents down the hall to the parking lot.

“All righty, then,” Mom chirped, her brightness failing to mask a shadow of concern. “Let's get going.”

“You want to ride shotgun?” asked Dad, holding open the front passenger door. “You always wanted to ride shotgun when you were a kid.”

I'm not a kid, she thought. But she said, “Sure, if that's okay with you, Mom.”

“Of course.”

Dad turned on the radio, probably to chase away the silence. The drive to Switchback bombarded her with memories. Having both parents in the car triggered a slew of long-forgotten images. End-of-summer trips to and from the city to buy school clothes. Class outings to the Robert Frost farm and the Calvin Coolidge homestead. Holiday trips to Burlington or Montpelier at Christmas for performances of
The Nutcracker Suite
and Handel's
Messiah
. Joyous drives to the hospital to see Kyle and Beth's babies. The past flashed by Annie like the scenery through the car window. Home. She was going home. It wasn't just a place.

And the town wasn't just a town. The covered bridge spanning the river bore a fresh coat of barn-red paint, its passageway opening in welcome. This town, with its tree-lined streets and old brick and wooden buildings, had been the backdrop of her childhood. She was flooded by nostalgia at the sight of the library and schools, the shops and riverside park with its arched footbridge, the bandstand in the park where she'd sat with her friends on a blanket and listened to summer concerts, the sports fields and stadium where she'd spent every Friday night in autumn, cheering on the Wildcats.

Her nerves eased as they made their way up the mountain. She instantly connected with the painted house where she had grown up. It was surrounded by gardens and orchards and the sugarbush as far as the eye could see. The beauty of it made her chest ache. Why had she left this place?

She'd followed a dream—to New York. And then to L.A., each part of her journey taking her farther away—to another place. Another life. Another home.

Which place was home? The town house in Laurel Canyon? It was bright and sleek and modern, with a gourmet kitchen and a deck extending from the master bedroom with a view of the city in the distance. When they were just getting settled in L.A., she and Martin practically had to sell a kidney in order to get the place.

They'd been happy there, hadn't they? She recalled having friends over for happy hour, hanging one of her mother's paintings, shower sex, picking out furniture. She'd made a life with a man who'd given up on her and shipped her back to her mother. Should she contact him? See if he'd changed his mind now that she'd woken up?

Something inside her shrank from that idea.
Not yet
.

But where was home? The place in L.A. or here in Switchback?

She walked into the farmhouse kitchen on her own two feet, hearing the familiar creak and snap of the screen door behind her. With one great inhaled breath, she knew what home was.

Just the sight of the large, scrubbed table brought back echoes of the past, moments of joy and tragedy and everything in between: We're getting a divorce. Your brother's getting married. Your grandfather died. You won a blue ribbon at the state fair. You've been accepted to NYU.

This was where her deepest memories resided.

She remembered loving Gran and losing her. She remembered losing Fletcher, winning him back, and then losing him for good. But of course, that hadn't lasted. Gran had gone, and Annie and Fletcher had fallen apart, and she had moved on.

To Martin. She had trusted Martin. She had given him her dream. But while she was sleeping, she had lost him, too.