Georgia's Kitchen (7 page)

The navy blue Saab was parked at the curb, and Georgia spotted it as soon as she exited onto the platform.
DOVER PLAINS
the sign said. Her dad climbed out of the front seat and waved.

“Georgia!” he shouted.

“Hi, Dad!”

Hal was tall and bearlike, burly but not fat. His hair was the color of strong black tea, with shiny silver-gray threads woven throughout. He wore beige pants, a windowpane-checked sport coat of muddy browns and greens, and thick-soled leather shoes. Tortoiseshell glasses framed his eyes. He would have looked at home with a pipe dangling from his mouth, a leatherbound volume of classic literature under his arm, and a knotty walking stick in his hand. It always surprised people to learn he was a physics professor since he had none of that mad-scientist aura that everyone believed all scientists should.

They hugged, and Hal patted his daughter’s back a few times before climbing into the car. Georgia sat in the passenger seat, smoothing her swingy black dress underneath her and wishing she’d worn tights. It was colder than in the city.

“So how are you, George?”

“Great, Dad.”

He turned to look at her. “You look great. Well rested. I guess this marriage business agrees with you.”

“I’m not married yet.”

“I know, but just in general. You look content.”

Georgia didn’t say anything.

Hal turned on the radio. “I can’t seem to find NPR.”

“It’s probably
Car Talk
anyway. So, did Mom tell you about the review?”

“Review?”

“The restaurant? We should be getting a three-fork review. That’s really good.” She’d been through it before with her mother and couldn’t expect her father to know more than his wife about the
Daily
’s rating system or, for that matter, his daughter’s career.

“That’s great, Georgia. We’ll have to come in for dinner sometime.”

“Anytime. Are you coming to the city with Mom tomorrow?”

“No, I have classes tomorrow afternoon. I’m just here for the night. Mom will take the train in tomorrow.” He turned to her. “Hey, I just realized, where’s that fiancé of yours?”

“Oh, he’s working on a really important case. He’s sorry he couldn’t get away, but it’s sort of down-to-the-wire.” She looked down at her hands.

“Really.” Hal kept his eyes on the road but stole a sideways glance at his daughter.

The road grew steep and winding, and Hal hunched over the wheel, his hands firm at ten and two. Georgia was relieved not to have to talk and concentrated on the scenery instead. Trees lining the road were starting to leaf, the grass shone green; the sleeping landscape was coming alive. In another week or so the majestic brick and shingled houses hiding out behind stone walls and tree perimeters would be camouflaged by leaves. They’d remain hidden through the summer and fall until the cycle began anew.

“Here we are.” Hal pulled up to a wrought-iron gate flanked by stout brick columns. A call box stood on the left, and he punched a button, shouted his name, and the gates swung open. They drove through an allée of maples, past a pond where a small gazebo rested on a bank. A large stretch of wild grasses morphed into a manicured carpet of emerald green lawn, which sprawled uphill to a white Greek Revival with black shutters and stately columns. Behind the house, layers of smoky hilltops streaked the sky.

“Wow,” said Georgia. “This place is even nicer than I remembered. Talk about Tara.”
Gone With the Wind
was another Grammy/Georgia favorite.

“We’ll have to go for a walk on the grounds later.” Hal parked the car in the circular, brick-paved driveway, next to a fleet of Range Rovers.

WINTERBERRY FARM
a small sign announced. Outside the front door were six iron hitching posts from the days when people traveled by horse, which, luxury SUVs aside, didn’t feel all that long ago at Winterberry Farm. It wouldn’t have surprised Georgia to see a party on horseback hacking up the drive.

“Come on around this way,” Hal said, leading Georgia to a staircase at the side of the house. When they reached the top, he stopped. “Georgia.”

“Yes?” She turned and faced him.

“Thanks for making the effort to come out and see us. It means a lot to me, and it means a lot to Mom, especially with the anniversary of Grammy’s death just around the corner. I know you have a lot going on with the wedding and with the, uh, review, and I’m glad you came.” Hal took off his glasses and cleared his throat.

“Me too, Dad.” She squeezed his arm, touched by his sensitivity. Hal was a physicist of the old school; he’d devoted himself to a life filled with scientific data, backed up by still more data. This left little room for emotion, and what little he had seemed to be reserved for Dorothy. Her parents were like two teenagers in love, even after almost thirty-five years of marriage.

“Georgia!” Her mother, a pin-thin woman wearing jade-green raw-silk pants, tapered at the ankle, and a matching Nehru-style jacket, walked to the door. Her pewter hair was flat and straight—so unlike Georgia’s and Grammy’s—stopping at her shoulder blades. A multicolored scarf twisted into a thick headband held it back, revealing a dramatic widow’s peak and an unlined forehead. Earrings of stacked wooden disks floated under her ears, and a matching necklace hung outside her jacket.

“Hi, Mom,” said Georgia.

“Come in,” Dorothy said, her arms opened wide in preparation
for the trademark Gray family hug. Georgia complied with her own back pats, then followed her mother into the house.

“We’re in the drawing room,” Dorothy said over her shoulder. “And where’s Glenn?”

Georgia pretended not to hear her, feigning active interest in the party. Two dozen or so people filled the room, milling about with mimosas and other afternoon-appropriate drinks in their hands.

A server stopped before Georgia. “Champagne or mimosa? Screwdriver or Bloody Mary?” He recited this without a smile.

“Bloody Mary,” Georgia said. “Thanks.”

The waiter returned with her drink, and Dorothy with Uncle Paul and his new fiancée, Holly, their hosts. They exchanged hellos and hugs, and Holly asked to see Georgia’s engagement ring, making her wish she’d got a manicure or at least filed her nails.

“So, Georgia, where’s your fiancé hiding?” asked Paul.

“Yes, Georgia, where
is
Glenn?” Dorothy asked.

The pianist playing Gershwin tunes on the baby grand in the corner chose that moment to need new sheet music, and the room was suddenly quiet.

“Um, he has an important case,” Georgia stuttered. “You know, he’s working. At the office. He couldn’t pull away. He’s really sorry.”

“There’ll be other parties,” Paul said. “You’ll meet him before the wedding, Holly.”

“Definitely,” said Georgia, wondering if he meant theirs or hers.

“Your father tells us you met at Newport?” Holly said.

“We worked together at the Yacht Club. We fell out of touch for years and ran into each other randomly in the city.” Georgia smiled sweetly, wondering what they’d think if they heard the
uncensored version. She’d spotted Glenn at a dive-y East Village bar where he was ordering a round of shots for his pals and the girls they’d acquired for the evening. Ever the charmer even after multiple Cuervos, he ordered two sex-on-the-beach shooters, sent one Georgia’s way, and insisted he’d been searching for her since that fabled summer. She knew he was lying, but that didn’t stop her from going home with him.

“Kismet,” said Holly. “You must be made for each other,” she added before gliding off to greet some guests.

“It’s really too bad he couldn’t come,” Dorothy said. “We were looking forward to seeing him.”

Georgia shrugged.

“And unfortunately I’ll be so busy with the summit I doubt I’ll even be able to see him in New York.”

“That is too bad.” Georgia bit off a piece of the celery stalk garnishing her drink. “But he’ll understand.”

“How’s that Bloody Mary?” Dorothy asked.

“Good,” Georgia said, looking around the oak-paneled, octagonal room. Rows of oil paintings grouped according to subject—some landscapes, mostly horses—lined the walls. The dark-wood furniture was upholstered in silk damasks and tonal stripes. None of it looked particularly sturdy or comfortable. Georgia watched as one of the guests, a heavy woman with a cane, heaved herself into a tiny slipper chair that looked as if it were designed for a child. The chair groaned slightly but stood fast on its own four feet.

Dorothy summoned the waiter. “I’d like a Bloody Mary too, please.”

“Are you sure, Mom?” Dorothy barely drank, and never anything stronger than chardonnay.

“Why not? It isn’t every day I get to see my engaged daughter, minus her fiancé, of course.”

“Of course,” said Georgia.

The waiter brought the drink and Dorothy held it up. “To Glenn.”

Hal walked over. “Are we toasting the affianced couple?”

“Nope,” Georgia said. “Just Glenn.”

“We can easily remedy that.” Hal raised his glass. “To our daughter, Georgia, and her imminent two-spoon review. Congratulations, Georgia.”

Her mother knocked back a quarter of her drink. “This drink certainly packs a punch,” she said hoarsely.

“And while we’re toasting, I’d like to raise a glass to your late grandmother,” Hal nodded at Georgia, “and my mother-in-law. A wonderful woman, fabulous grandmother, terrific baker, astute business owner, and a great friend.” His eyes grew shiny. “Things just haven’t been the same without you, Mary. We miss you.”

“To Grammy.” Georgia sipped from her glass. “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year.”

“I still wonder if the doctors couldn’t have done more,” Dorothy said. “At least she died doing something she loved.”

Georgia stared at her mother. “No, she didn’t.” Grammy had suffered a massive stroke while practicing tai chi at her local Y. The ambulance whisked her away and meds were administered, but it was too late. Hours later she was dead. “She didn’t love tai chi. She only did it because she saw it on
Oprah
.”

Watching a little television and sharing a homemade snack—usually a muffin, sometimes maple-walnut, sometimes banana-chocolate-chip—had been a Grammy/Georgia after-school tradition. With Grammy living around the corner and up the street from the Grays, and Dorothy and Hal working nonstop, Grammy was like a substitute mother and father rolled into one. It was Grammy who taught Georgia how to play T-ball,
who was “class grandma” of her second-
and
sixth-grade classes, who taught her the secret to a perfect soufflé.

Before Dorothy could respond, a white-haired man and his much younger date approached her parents, and her father and the man exchanged a hearty handshake. The four of them were soon engaged in a spirited conversation about low-VOC house paints.

Georgia smiled benignly at the back of her mother’s head, wondering how much longer she’d have to stay at her uncle’s party. In true high-WASP style, the hors d’oeuvres were limited to sandwiches—chicken, turkey, and roast beef—cut into triangles, and a lame cheese-and-cracker plate where a Vermont cheddar was the standout. She contemplated ordering a dirty martini just so she could nosh on the olives.

“Let’s take a walk in the garden,” Hal said when the couple finally moved on.

“Good idea,” Georgia agreed.

“Let me refresh my drink,” said Dorothy, putting down her near empty glass and picking up a white wine from a tray. “And get my purse.”

They walked through French doors onto a wide terrace surrounded by rhododendrons, hydrangeas, and other flowering shrubs, nowhere near blooming, but slowly awakening from their long winter slumber. Teak furniture, weathered to a silvery gray, was dressed for the season in snappy white-and-green stripes.

“These shoes aren’t the best for walking,” Dorothy said, eyeing the plump cushions on the sofa. “How about we sit for a spell?”

Her parents sank into the sofa, facing the rolling hills in the distance. Hal put his arm around Dorothy, and she rested her hand on his knee. Georgia pulled up an armchair next to them,
and they sat in silence until a waiter balancing a tray of drinks walked through the doors. Each took a glass of wine, even Dorothy, whose glass was practically full. “In case he doesn’t come back,” she said to no one in particular. Another waiter appeared with a platter of chicken skewers, and Georgia and Hal each took one, gobbling them up immediately. Dorothy passed.

“So,” Hal said, wiping his mouth with a cocktail napkin, “Paul just told me a funny story. Apparently this is where Timothy Leary did his acid tests.”

“Here?” Georgia asked. “As in this house?”

“No, not this house. But in Millbrook in some house nearby.”

“Reminds me of how we met, Hal,” said Dorothy. She was feeling no pain on a record one and a half glasses of wine, plus the Bloody Mary. “The acid part.”

Georgia chuckled. “I wonder how many other offspring of lawyers and physics professors can say they were conceived at a Dead show while their parents were tripping their faces off?”

“At least you got a beautiful name out of it, honey.” Her father pressed his palm into his slacks, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. He’d never been all that comfortable with the conception chapter of the Gray family bio.

Dorothy and Hal had met in a parking lot on a steamy summer night in Atlanta while waiting to see the Grateful Dead and drinking lukewarm beer that had been—unbeknownst to them—dosed with acid. They passed a dreamy night together dancing, laughing, and staring in wide-eyed wonder at breathing walls and shifting floors, and ended up sleeping in the two-person tent Hal had erected in the parking lot earlier in the day. Nine months later Baby Girl Gray was born.

“Give us some credit,” Dorothy said. “It was the seventies after all—everyone was getting blotto on blotter.”

“I’m sure they were,” Georgia said, laughing, “but still.”

Her parents had a subscription to the Boston Symphony, were regulars at Tanglewood, and traveled to New York three times a year for opera. Despite having heard the story so many times she could recite it by heart—down to her mother’s buffalo-sandal-bedecked feet—Georgia couldn’t picture even a young Dorothy and Hal at a Dead show.
Tripping
at a Dead show was inconceivable.