Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (23 page)

“Because to get butter you have to start with milk. And milk comes from a cow.”

“I see your dad has taught you a lot.” Alanna glanced at Gunnar, who was collecting the ingredients from the pantry.

“He taught me how to make spaghetti and meatballs on our last weekend, even though meat makes him gag.”

Alanna laughed. “Well, that's love for you.”

Violet smiled at her dad. Gunnar smiled at his daughter. Crisis averted, all thanks to Alanna. Who knew she was that good with kids?

As Alanna set out her recipe for Choctastic Cake, and Violet started scooping flour with Gunnar, I slipped into my office. I heard Keira arrive with her mega-enthusiastic hello, then a crash, and a “Keira!” from Gunnar's booming voice. Then a lot of laughter.

I closed the door and sat down at my desk and flipped open my notebook for the Outpost. Ten things on my list were checked off. Everything but
Menu
. Over the past few days, I'd sketched out just the basics, the Clementine's favorites that would be no-brainers at the farm. Harvest pizza, of course,
made with wheat flour and my father's amazing marinara sauce and layered with the freshest vegetables. Eggplant Parm, veggie and bean quesadillas, pasta primavera. My barbecue-seitan napoleons. The pies my dad taught me to make. I could fill an entire notebook with dishes.

I read over all my notes from the bajillion calls I'd made and the articles I'd read on the farm-to-table movement. There was one more phone call to make.

My sister. The practical lawyer.

She'd either say, “Good idea, but come on, Clem. You've got enough on your plate and it's hard enough to keep one restaurant going.”

Or she'd say, “Go for it.”

I punched in Elizabeth's number. She didn't say a word as I laid it out for her, how our dad would be executive chef, how I'd hire a small team to work for him, including a part-time manager—a job my mother might want. I gave Elizabeth the details of the loan, the renovation costs, the deets from the chamber of commerce. My menu.

“And Dad, in chef whites,” I added. “Can't you see it?”

The hesitation killed me.

Until she said, “I absolutely can. I'll tell you, Clem, it's a lot to take on. But if anyone can make this work, you and Dad can.”

Hellz yeah.
Hellz yeah!

“So how'd the Choctastic Cake come out?” I asked when I finally emerged from my office.

From the smile on Violet Fitch's face, no need to ask. “I can't believe the cake is this good!” Violet said, taking another bite and making a moony face. “Mmmm. The frosting is amazing. Everyone's gonna want to buy slices of it. Will I really be able to make it myself?”

“Definitely,” Gunnar said, sliding a thankful smile at Alanna. She smiled back at him, and I couldn't help but notice that they didn't look away in two seconds.

Interesting.

M
y moment of evil, joyous anticipation that Dominique would call back and screech,
And you can forget about my planning your wedding,
was short-lived, since she'd called back in five minutes and had instead screeched that she needed measurements of my head for the veil and a list of all those whom I wanted to speak during the ceremony so that she could apprise them of timing, tone, and theme. That was something I'd conveniently forget to get around to.

On the way to the engagement party at my parents' farm on Sunday afternoon, I didn't want to start an argument by talking about the Outpost, so I filled in Zach on his mother's call Friday night.

“She's going to lose Keira if she doesn't stop meddling,” Zach said, turning onto the freeway. He shook his head.

Dominique was headed that way, which was sad. Why was she so controlling? Keira wasn't even her own daughter. “Your mom treats Keira like she's her flesh and blood. I guess that's good and bad. Bad because Keira's probably not attached to your mom the way Avery is.”

“Actually, she is. Keira's mother died when she was a teenager, and my mother spent an entire year winning her over. Keira was grief-stricken and railed at Dominique, and Dominique not only took it, she didn't back away once. She fought like hell to get Keira to trust her and think of her like a second mom. Sometimes, when Dominique is driving me nuts, I try to remember that.”

“She must really love Keira. Which is why she needs to let go. Even just a little.”

“Letting go is a foreign concept to my mother.”

Our moms were night and day. I tried to imagine my mother, the most earthy person alive, clinking champagne flutes with Dominique at the engagement party. “Think everyone will get along?”

“My father and Lydia will love your parents and the farm. But Dominique won't be there. She avoids anywhere my father is.”

“What about our wedding?”

“The wedding will be so big that she won't mind being in the same airspace as Cornelius. At least when your parents finally meet her, they'll have a good story to tell the grandkids.”

Grandkids. The thought made me smile and shiver. I tried to imagine a mini Zach and me, with his dark hair and my hazel eyes. Me, changing diapers and burping a crying little creature? I couldn't see it now, but one day, yeah.

The entertainment at the engagement party? Listening to my sister and Zach's father's fiancée (one of his own divorce lawyers) talk shop with barely contained disdain for each other. The fiancée was sharp, I'd give her that, but Elizabeth seemed to find her ethically questionable, given that Lydia was a divorce attorney marrying one of her own former clients. Finally, my mother commandeered Elizabeth away to help bring out the crudités and my father's amazing five-bean dip.

Zach and his dad were chatting up my dad by the stone fireplace, talking money, land, politics, and cancer. Zach had been right; Cornelius Jeffries, bajillionaire,
was
impressed that this postage-stamp-size farm had kept three kids clothed and fed and still paid the mortgage, year after year. The Jeffrieses seemed truly charmed—and not in a Dominique-style condescending way—by the farm, from my parents crunchy hippie decor to the fields and the dogs running wild. Until I saw the four of them yakking it up about dogs (the Jeffrieses had four themselves), I hadn't realized their getting along—or not—was that important to me. One less thing to think about, distract me. Just as I heard a car going way too fast down the driveway—had
to be Joe “Steak” Johansson behind that wheel—I heard my father invite the Jeffrieses over for lunch in a couple of weeks, and the Jeffrieses wholeheartedly accept. I wasn't much of an “aww-er,” but that got one out of me.

This party was basically for the parents to meet, but Sara had said there was no way she was missing my first engagement party and had commandeered Joe to make the three-hour drive. He got semi–bonus points for that, at least. And maybe hanging with the families on a Sunday afternoon would make him go a bit easier on Keira at next week's taping of
Eat Me
. Then again, this was Joe we were talking about.

“Clementine, you come sit by me,” Zach's aunt Jocelyn said, patting the seat next to her on the couch. Good thing I'd worn the earrings she'd sent me because I hadn't even known Jocelyn was planning to come. I'd given her a big hug and thanked her profusely again and let her know I was making good use of the list. Her husband of sixty-four years, Frederick, had wanted to see the fields and hear about the crops, so my brother, Kale, had volunteered to give him the lowdown. I could see them walking slowly, Frederick pointing and stopping, and Kale clearly enjoying being tour guide. The dogs loped ahead of them.

There was a knock at the door and Sara and Joe came in.

“Let's get this party star-
ted
!” Joe bellowed, nodding as though rap music were blaring. Oh, God, save us all.

“Sara, lovely girl,” Jocelyn said. “Come give me a kiss. You look so lovely.”

“So where's the Cooper-Jeffries with the weird hair?” Joe asked, glancing around. “The one I'm gonna humiliate in front of all America?”

“Her hair isn't weird—it's
ombré
,” I said. The top half of Keira's beach-wavy hair was a gorgeous chestnut brown and the bottom half a graduated shade lighter.

He cackled. “Ombré. I snicker.
Om
.
Om,
” he chanted as if he were in yoga class, drawing out the syllable with his hands palm up on his thighs. “I'm telling you, people ask all the time if
Eat Me
is staged, and I tell them, you can't make this stuff up.
Ommmm
hair. Vegans. Pure comedy gold.”

I glanced at Sara, who was cringing
and
trying to hide her smile.

“What is this about?” Jocelyn asked. “Who is this Cooper-Jeffries?”

“What's her name,” Joe said. “The one who works for Vegan Chick.”

“Keira,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Keira's tougher than she looks,” Zach said. “You might be in for a surprise, Joe.”

Joe's snort was back. “Yeah, right. I've eaten lasagna noodles tougher than that little thing. Can't wait. She's going down.” He pushed one hand to the floor.

“Let's bring my mother to the taping,” Zach whispered. “She'll see what Keira's made of.”

I tried to imagine Dominique in the audience, listening to the screaming hordes egging Joe on and calling her stepdaughter
names. “Your mom will probably give it back to Joe worse than Sara ever could.”

“Do you think Keira has a chance?” Jocelyn asked me. “I've only seen the program once and it's not for the fainthearted.”

“Got that right,” Joe said, double-dipping a pita chip through bean dip. Gross.

“Well, Keira's already proven she's
not
fainthearted,” I said. “It's awesome that she wants to earn her own tuition to culinary school. I'm proud of her. She's come a long way in my kitchen. I think she'll make a great chef one day.”

Joe snorted. Loudly. “She can't even get her hair to be one color. You think she can layer a lasagna? And make it taste like anything other than dog doo without meat and ricotta cheese?” He rolled his eyes. “This'll be my easiest win yet. Twenty-five big ones to the charity of my choice. Although this Kei-rah-rah chick sounds like a charity case herself.” He looked at Jocelyn, nodded his chin toward me, and wrinkled up his face in a
Will you get a load of her?

I shot him a death stare. “You're talking about Zach's stepsister, so watch it.”

My tone got a little sharp, and Sara cut a glance at me. A glance that said,
Don't talk to my fiancé like that
.

This was going to be interesting.

“Anyway, let's change the subject,” Sara said. “Where's your cousin Harry? I've been dying to meet him after all your stories.”

I glanced around to see if I'd missed him come in, but no Harry. Ten minutes later, another car pulled up, and Harry and
a woman walked in. She was almost as tall as he was, rail thin, beautiful in that exotic model way with her wide-set eyes, fine-boned features, and huge mouth, and wearing a tiny, shiny dress and serious bling. New girlfriend? And antitype; Harry had always gone for the typical California girl jogging on the beach. Instead of coming in with a smile, she was checking out her shoes (incredibly cool gladiatorish sandals that went up to her shin) for encrusted farm dirt.