The Secret Ingredient of Wishes (11 page)

“That one's taken,” Everley said, catching her staring.

“Lucky girl,” Rachel said. “He's gorgeous.”

“Yes, I am. And oh, yes he is. You should see him without his clothes.”

“That might be a little awkward, seeing as how he's
your
boyfriend and you're
my
boss,” Rachel said.

Everley grinned at her. “Spoilsport.”

“Hello, ladies,” the man said when he came in. “I thought you might like some lunch.” He tangled his hands in Everley's hair and molded his mouth to hers. Everley slid her hands inside his suit jacket and pulled him closer until there was not even air between them as their greeting continued.

Rachel tried to blend into the background.

“Cut it out,” Ashe yelled from the other side. “Some of us are trying to eat.”

“And some of us are giving our girl a proper hello,” he called back. But he released Everley, and, smiling at Rachel, he introduced himself. He was even better looking up close. His head was shaved close and he had a thin goatee of black stubble. Rectangular reading glasses framed thick, long eyelashes and golden eyes. “How're you liking Nowhere so far?” Jamie asked her.

“It's nice. A little slower paced than Memphis, but I'm enjoying that actually.”

“You should try coming here after law school in D.C. That's a hell of an adjustment.” He set the paper bag on the counter and emptied it. “One apple walnut salad, one strawberry pecan, and two grilled cheeses. You two can fight over who gets what.”

“You're not staying?” Everley asked. She stuck out her bottom lip and pouted.

“Can't. I've got to take a deposition at one. See you for dinner?”

Everley grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him back to her for another kiss. “You're on.” She smacked his ass when he turned around.

“Be good, ladies,” he called as the door closed behind him.

Holding the salads behind her back, Everley said, “Pick a hand.”

Rachel played along, pointing and saying, “Left.”

“Ooh, good choice. Strawberry pecan.” She handed the clamshell container to Rachel along with a small container of pink dressing with poppy seeds floating in it.

Rachel shook it and watched the oil bubble back to the top. She pried off the top and poured half on her salad in three concentric circles, making sure she coated each section evenly.

“You might as well just dump the rest on there. It's that good.” Everley upended her container onto the middle of her salad. She used her fork to toss it all around. “You coming over to eat with us, Ashe?” she yelled.

Rachel stiffened at the idea of being close to him again. She tried not to think about how good he'd looked soaking wet and smiling at her like he knew exactly what it was doing to her.

Ashe's voice was bright, playful when he called back, “I don't think my burger is allowed over there in vegan-hippie land.”

“Damn right it's not,” Everley said, laughing.

“So how long have you and Jamie been together?” Rachel asked.

“Four or five years, I guess. We broke up for about six months once, but we don't really count that. I mean, my grandparents took a twenty-some-odd-year break, married other people, and then got back together.”

“Wow.”

“They celebrated their fiftieth anniversary a few years back. If they don't count a quarter of a century apart, I don't think six months is even a blip on the radar.”

“Well, I guess that's one way to reach the milestone anniversaries.”

Everley waved her fork through the air, dribbling dressing onto the floor, as she said, “They're a little weird. But who am I to buck family tradition?” She grinned at Rachel. “So, is there somebody waiting on you back home?”

“I'm not good with relationships,” Rachel confessed. She folded her napkin in half and tucked it under the salad container. “I'm not sure if it's that I don't like them or they don't like me. Either way, I don't seem to stay in them very long.” She imagined Mary Beth chiding her that her relationships might have worked out if she'd trusted any of the guys enough to be honest with them about her past.

“I was like that before Jamie. I tried on boys like most girls tried on shoes. Lola always lectured me about how great it was when you found the right one and kept pushing me to settle down. But I figure if it's meant to be, it'll work itself out with or without me.”

Rachel glanced at the wall that separated Ashe from them. She wondered what had happened to make Lola change her outlook on love, what had happened to make Ashe so willing to end their marriage.

That's not something she wanted to be in the middle of. With the way the wishes had been acting, she might be tricked into hurting Ashe with one of Lola's wishes if she got too involved. She needed to leave it alone. Leave him alone.

 

11

The wishes in the box had been multiplying for days, but somehow they never spilled out over the rim. She found them under her plate at breakfast, in the pockets of her bathrobe, and beneath the sheet of glass on her family photo, filling the empty space. A few even popped into existence in the air above the box to save her the trouble of picking them up and adding them to the mass of white that was accumulating.

When another piece of paper appeared as she headed downstairs, she flicked it off the door handle and continued down without a backward glance.

“What are you baking today?” Rachel asked when she got to the kitchen.

Catch raised her eyebrows at her. “Why? You have something specific you need me to make?”

Rachel thought of the piles of wishes, and the empty space in the family photo that looked like someone had been rubbed out. “No.”

“Suit yourself. As for your question, I'm making some tarts and a whole mess of pies for the farmers' market tomorrow. C'mon. I could use an extra pair of hands,” Catch said. She handed Rachel a thick braided basket and shoved through the screen door.

The basket was heavier than it looked. Carrying it in one hand, it scraped against Rachel's calves when she followed Catch into the yard.

“What kind are they?” she asked, pointing to the trees.

The branches reached three times as wide, but the trunks weren't much thicker around than the fruit they produced. The leaves varied in size and shade of green, throwing that section of the yard into contrasts of bright and dark, shadow and light.

“A mixture. I've got dwarf golden queen peaches there and some Moonglow dwarf pear next to 'em. There's a cherry over there at the end and a few semidwarf Fuji, Honeycrisp, and Lodi apples in the back.”

Rachel could only tell the difference between them by the types of fruit. The varieties of each were lost on her.

“What's the shriveled one?”

“A pain in my ass. Damn plum tree just won't die.”

“You don't like plums?”

“Not those. But I can't seem to kill it.” Catch stopped in front of the dwarf pear. She stroked its trunk like a cat. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers and they gave off a sweet, fragrant scent.

Rachel leaned close to the leaves. They tickled her cheeks. Closing her eyes, she inhaled and could already smell the tart they'd yet to start making. “I didn't know trees did that. I thought it was only herbs that were aromatic.”

“My trees are special. They don't always act like normal trees. And their fruit don't taste like normal fruit. That's why they make the best pies.”

Rachel stepped back and noticed black patches crawling along the underside of a couple leaves. Lifting the tip of one, she turned it over. In the light it was pale green and velvety. She turned the next one looking for the spots that had been there a moment before.

“What is it?” Catch asked.

“Oh, I just thought I saw something. Dark marks or spots or something. Must've been a trick of the light.”

Catch studied the tree, eyes narrowed in interest. Then she threw a hateful look in the direction of the decaying plum tree. “Stop it,” she said. Her voice was firm, like scolding a disobedient child.

“Was it an animal or something?”

“Just forget about it. But if it comes back, you let me know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rachel said. She blinked against the bright green of the trees in front of them. Whatever had happened—imagined or not—Catch seemed to know exactly what it was. Though she apparently wasn't keen on sharing it with Rachel. She set the basket on the ground between them. “It was probably just me seeing things.”

“Well, let's get these picked. You want to look for ones that are about as wide around as your fist.” She held her knobby, clenched hand out to demonstrate. Her knuckles were swollen and red, probably from all the dough kneading and work she did around the gardens. “Well, maybe not your scrawny fist,” she added when Rachel held hers out too.

“I think I get the point,” Rachel said.

“Good. Now before you start picking 'em, make sure they're ripe. But don't squeeze too hard or you'll bruise 'em.”

Rachel reached for one. The skin was grainy, but slick. Her fingers sank into the pear's flesh with minimal pressure and brown juice oozed out. It trickled down her fingers, stinging and turning her skin a blistering red as it went. Jerking her hand away she said, “I don't think your tree likes me.” She shook her hand, and the juice dripped off.

“Good Lord,” Catch said. She threw out her arm to block Rachel from the tree. “Just stay back a minute.” She took a small spray bottle from her apron pocket and began misting the tree with a milky white liquid that clung to the leaves. Within seconds it evaporated in the heat.

“What's going on?”

“I told you the trees sometimes have a mind of their own. And one of them is trying to spread its poison to the rest. This'll stop it for now and we can move on about our day. Give me your hands. We need to get that cleaned off.”

Catch sprayed the liquid onto Rachel's hands. Some of the mist landed on her shirt, leaving dark specks on the cotton. Despite the oppressive heat, the liquid was chilly. It tingled as it ate through the juice on her hands. It smelled like licorice and lemon. She held her hands out, fingers splayed, as the mixture turned runny and dripped off.

“Don't worry. I'll rinse you off with the hose before we go in,” Catch said.

“I'm more worried that my skin is going to melt off.”

“I ain't gonna put something corrosive on you or my trees. Now just keep holding 'em like that until I'm done.” She squeezed and plucked, squeezed and plucked until the basket was laden. She hefted it with both hands so it rested against her thighs, as if she could move it along with the sheer force of her body.

“Come hose me down and I'll carry it,” Rachel said.

“And how are you gonna do that? This basket probably weighs as much as you.”

You're one to talk.
“Then I'll take one side and you take the other. I can't just stand around while you break your back carrying that.”

Rachel followed her around the side of the house where the hose was curled up, sleeping in the sun. She scrubbed her hands in the warm water. They felt like the underside of a rabbit pelt and were the pink of fresh skin after a scab falls off. She rubbed them back and forth trying to decide if she still had feeling in them.

“Oh, you'll be fine,” Catch said.

Dropping them to her sides, Rachel went back to fetch the basket. They carried it together. Their steps were jerky, lopsided, the basket bobbing between them.

“I think I'm going to have a bruise,” Rachel said after hoisting the fruit onto the counter.

“I've got something for that too, if it comes to that.”

“Did you make it?”

“God, no. Your boss and I have an arrangement. I give her fruit. She makes me ointment, lotion, salve, what have you.”

“Did she make whatever it was you sprayed on me?”

“That one's a personal concoction. I had to come up with something to keep the plum tree at bay. This isn't perfect, but it's the best I've been able to come up with so far.” Catch pulled the spray bottle from her apron pocket and stashed it under the sink next to a bottle of dark liquid.

Rachel picked a pear from the top of the pile. It was firm and lumpy. When Catch handed her a peeler, she started to slice small strips of skin from it. Without something to put them in, they littered the counter like wood shavings.

“Who the hell taught you to peel something like that?” Catch scolded.

She took the pear from Rachel and set it on the counter. Selecting another one from the basket, she took a second peeler and, holding it sideways, wound around the pear so that the skin came off in one long trail. She set the naked fruit in a colander on the counter.

“Are you going to kick me out of the kitchen if I butcher it?”

“Maybe,” Catch said, cackling. Her laugh echoed around the room. She thumped Rachel on the back. “Go on, then. We don't have all day.”

Rachel's first attempt resulted in six strips of skin. Her second, seven. She scraped a knuckle on her right hand raw and had to stick it in her mouth to staunch the bleeding before Catch could see.

She peeled one for every three of Catch's. When she started on the last one, she'd managed to get down to two or three longish strips.

Catch shrugged, unimpressed. She uncovered a tart pan with six scallop-edged wells already pressed with dough.

Rachel took the paring knife from the block and started slicing the pears lengthwise in thin strips. As the pieces started to pile up, she asked, “How many tarts are we making?”

“So, it's ‘we' now, is it?”

“Well, you are letting me live in your house free of charge. I figured the least I can do is help you bake so you don't look like you could keel over at any minute.”