Leaves (4 page)

I'll get outside. I'll walk into town; maybe spend some time at the bookstore.

Before eating, she decided to check her e-mail to see if Olivia had written back yet. There was nothing there but spam. She sat down at the desk to write another message.

Maria sent the message and then wrote Corrina a quick note about the party. She threw an English muffin in the toaster and poured herself a cup of coffee.

It was time to start thinking about a job again. After botching things at the jewelry store and being bored to tears at the boutique, she was pretty sure retail was out. Maybe real estate? The market had been awful for a while, but it was starting to get better. Doug would hate it if she worked weekends, though. Maybe she could volunteer at Olivia's old elementary school. They always liked having her help out in the past and certainly she and Doug didn't need any extra money. Something to think about. She wondered if Dee Murray was still there. Olivia loved her.

The English muffin popped up in the toaster and Maria put it onto a plate. She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Raspberry jam or apple butter?

So many decisions to make.

Deborah had followed the traditional French preparation for Coq au Vin scrupulously, Marinating the chicken for two days in wine and aromatics, then browning it in butter and bacon fat, building the sauce by adding the marinade and vegetables to the pan, stirring in just enough flour, adding the mushrooms and onions, and then bringing it all together at the barest simmer for the past hour. Now it was time to play.

She looked around the kitchen, her two sous chefs absenting the room, knowing they would at best be in the way for the next fifteen minutes. Tarragon and mustard? No, much too French. She could dice some tomatoes and add a bit of cream. No, you'd barely be able to tell the difference. Cardamom would clash. Cinnamon could work – she'd keep it in mind. Dill? Not really. Horseradish? Please.

Cilantro? A definite possibility. It would brighten the dish without undermining all of her previous work. And now that she was going down this road, she thought a touch of cumin would add depth and thematic consistency. Yes, that could be very nice.

She crushed some cumin seeds in a mortar and pestle, and then, returning to the pan, she sprinkled it in and allowed it to blend with the dish while she chopped the cilantro. Ten minutes later, she added the herb and stirred just enough to incorporate it before taking the pan off the flame. She removed a thigh with a pair of tongs, cut a piece for herself and tasted. She'd pulled it off. The body of the original dish was still firmly in place, but the palate was surprised by the presence of the Mexican spices. She called her staff in for the daily “family meal” and they prepared the plates while she brought Paul a taste.

“Coq au Vin a la Mexicaine,” she said dramatically as she handed the inn's manager a small dish. “Tonight's main course.”

Paul glanced up from whatever he was doing at the computer to accept the plate. He sniffed at the dish before putting a forkful in his mouth.

“Mmm, thanks, it's good,” he said before putting the plate down and returning to his work. Deborah knew that eventually Paul would eat the rest of it – and barely notice what he ate while he worked away.

It was a stupid habit, one that it was probably pointless to try to break at this stage. Whenever she finished inventing the night's meal, she took a sample of it out front. Of course, “out front” had always meant her father, or Doug, or until recently, her mother. All of them cared about food as much as she did and she knew they not only appreciated her work, but also enjoyed the game of guessing Deborah's secret ingredients or deconstructing the sauces she took special pride in innovating. Knowing they would be intrigued and delighted by this little moment was at least as much of an inspiration for her as satisfying the evening's guests. Paul had been working at the inn for the past two years, but until her mother died, he was always in a back room somewhere in the late afternoon.

Deborah headed back to the kitchen to eat with the three members of her staff.

“Great idea, Deb,” Gina said, toasting her with a glass of sparkling water. “I wouldn't think to go this way.” Gina was a recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America and was taking a job at a restaurant in Vermont at the beginning of next month.

“You would have gone bigger, right?” The two of them laughed. Gina tended to want to make every dish more elaborate and it was the source of much spirited debate over the year she apprenticed at the inn.

Tim, her other sous chef, dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Is the dining room full tonight?”

“Twenty-six,” Deborah said. Only one table for four would be unoccupied this evening, which was unusual considering it was a Thursday and the inn itself was only half full. Word had gotten out. The kitchen staff at the Sugar Maple Inn was going to be changing along with ownership. Since Deborah had yet to decide where she would work next, people were unsure where and when they would go to sample her regionally renowned cooking in the future. There was a demand for a second seating on weekends and Deborah agreed to comply. Except on the thirtieth. She would allow only one seating for the last meal she created at the inn.

The chicken was good. Her mother would have loved it. Bethany Gold was especially fond of the flavors of Mexico and China. She would have brought her little tasting plate back for more of this, perhaps guilting one of the staff members into sharing some of his or her dinner. Deborah would have laughed and reminded her mother that she had other jobs to do and that she could eat after the diners were served. Her mother would have then pretended to be chastened and slink away – after which Deborah would almost certainly bring her some more a few minutes later.

In spite of the highly favorable reviews, awards, and considerable regional attention she'd received over the years, Deborah always considered her parents to be her most appreciative audience. It had been that way from the point she discovered, at age fourteen, that cooking excited her like nothing else. At first, she knew they were simply being supportive of her finally having a passion for something. Soon after that, though, she could see they genuinely enjoyed what she made. It was all very basic stuff back then – boeuf Bourguignon, pasta Bolognese, sweet-and-sour shrimp – but she prepared the dishes carefully, sourcing dozens of cookbooks for the best techniques. As it became clear to her that her parents weren't just encouraging her because she was their child but because they thought she had a genuine talent, she found herself driven to learn everything she could, to understand the basics well enough to begin to develop her own style. The fact that she could talk to her parents about this, that they could challenge her with questions about her approach, was deeply satisfying.

When she graduated from the Culinary Institute, they paid her the ultimate compliment, asking her to take over the kitchen at the inn. Of course she took the job seriously. She would take any job seriously. But because her parents were behind her, because they gave this absolute indication of their faith in her, she dove into the job with utter devotion. She wanted not only to be good at what she did, but unique as well and they supported that completely – even on the occasions when the results were less than successful.

Now they were gone, though, as would soon be her days at the inn. Deborah finished her meal and got up from the table.

“Let's get moving,” she said to her staff before heading outside. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

She walked onto the wraparound porch and leaned against the railing, looking out across the parking lot to their neighbor's expansive lawn. How many times over the past thirty-two years had she stood on this spot? How many times had she leaned precisely here? Her parents had opened the Inn when Deborah was four, and with the exception of her years at the Culinary Institute, she had been here in some fashion just about every day since. She always, even as a child, liked walking through the kitchen to stand out here.

A red Saab pulled into the parking lot and a couple emerged, walking arm in arm back toward their room. As they did, Sandra Peterson, who had been in Room 12 since Monday, strolled past on her way toward the street.

“Smells good in there,” she said.

“Thanks.”

Deborah knew she should get back inside. It was going to be a busy night. They'd all be busy from here on in. Until the first of November, when she would suddenly find herself somewhere else. Or even nowhere else if she couldn't make a decision. This kitchen, this porch, this railing, would belong to someone new then. Maybe eventually another person would love standing here as much as she did, would feel wrapped in its embrace, would develop comforting sense memories from the sound of tires on the gravel driveway, or the squealing little girl on the swing set across the way, or the slightly discordant church bells down the block.

Deborah had read that masters at meditation could slow their heart to the point where it was barely beating. She wondered if she could do the same with the passage of this last month. There were times when the thought of starting everything anew suspended her, absolutely stopped her in her tracks.

She wasn't allowed to stop in her tracks right now, though. She had diners to entertain.

Deborah startled as she got into the car. Staring at her from the passenger seat was a tiny field mouse, its nose twitching in the air. Deborah let out a little yip – she had always been squeamish around these things – and then wondered how a field mouse got there in the first place. She looked at the windows and confirmed that all of them were sealed shut.

Her mind flashed to a thunderstorm when she was maybe eight. The barrage of thunder had been relentless, making it impossible to sleep. The constant rumble had frightened Corrina and she'd run into Deborah's room for solace.

“How come it won't stop?” her sister said shakily.

Deborah listened to the sky crack again. “It's okay. It's a bad one, but it'll go away.”

A huge clap rattled the windows. Corrina moved quickly to the edge of Deborah's bed. “Do you think I can stay here a while?”

Deborah pulled back her blankets. “Come on in. It'll end soon.”

Corrina slipped in beside her. There was a long roll, followed by a split in the air that seemed to happen inside the room. Thunder never bothered Deborah, but it wasn't going to be easy to get to sleep with all this noise.

Corrina nestled a little closer. “I don't like this stuff.”

“It's okay. It won't hurt you.”

The storm raged for maybe another fifteen minutes. A couple more times, the walls shook. Then a long period of stillness ensued.

“Think it's done?” Corrina said.

“Sounds like it. Want to go back to your room?”

“I guess so.”

“Come on, I'll take you.”

Deborah pulled back the covers and reached a hand out to help her sister get up. As they exited the room, a beam of moonlight shone on a field mouse positioned in the doorway. Both girls screamed at once and grasped each other for protection. This must have startled the mouse, because it ran past them into the recesses of Deborah's room.

The two girls scurried out, dashing toward Corrina's bed and diving under her covers. With the blanket over their heads, they chuckled nervously.

“Did you see where it went?” Corrina said.

“It's in my room somewhere.”

Corrina shivered. Deborah knew her younger sister was as wary of rodents as she was. “Wanna stay here tonight?”

“Yeah, maybe that's a good idea. That thing could be in my bed by now.”

“Ooh, that's disgusting. Yeah, you stay here.”

With the blanket still covering their heads, they'd nestled together on Corrina's pillow. Deborah had thought that the excitement would keep her awake, but she fell asleep in seconds, waking up the next morning with her little sister's head on her shoulder.

Now she walked around to the passenger side of the car to try to coax the mouse out. If she was lucky, she wouldn't have to touch the thing.

But when she opened the door, the mouse wasn't there. She was reluctant to search for it, but she was even more reluctant to have the thing appear again in her field of vision while she was driving. She looked under the seats and in every crevice of the car, even checking the glove compartment, though she knew that was stupid.

The mouse was nowhere to be found.

On his way into town, Tyler stopped and picked up a fallen crimson leaf. It was still pliable and smooth, almost rubbery. In a few weeks, it would be heaped under thousands of others in a pile on the street, an ignominious fate for something so lovely – unless, of course some kids jumped in the pile the way he always had when he was younger. Then at least the leaf would serve its final role as the source of a child's fun. Not wanting to leave such a thing to chance, he decided to take the leaf with him on his walk.

He was headed toward his first meeting with the guy at Celebrations, the local party store. On the way, he stopped at BrewHaha, intending to get a cup of Sumatra, but deciding to get some warm apple cider instead. While he waited for his drink, he rotated the leaf between his thumb and forefinger, momentarily fixated by the red whirl. It took less to occupy his thoughts lately, which he supposed was a good thing.

He got to Celebrations a couple of minutes later, approaching the young woman behind the counter.

“Hi. Is Gene here? I have an appointment with him.”

“Yeah, he's in his office. I think he's waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said, handing her the leaf. She seemed confused, but she took it from him and even offered a polite smile.

Gene Buffett had come to Oldham a little more than a decade earlier to buy the thriving Celebrations from the widow of the previous owner. Rumor had it that he had been involved in some part of the music business before then, but he'd steadfastly refused to talk about his past. Tyler guessed it was because the truth was considerably less glamorous than the fiction. Still, his salt-and-pepper ponytail and his rheumy eyes suggested that “party” was a term that took on multiple meanings in Gene's life.

“Hey, Golden Boy,” Gene said when Tyler knocked on the office door. “How's it going?”

“I'm doing all right. How are you?”

“Nobody's ever proven that it's worth complaining.” He stood and shook Tyler's hand. “So the big fiesta is nearly upon us.”

“The last one.”

“Once more with feeling,” Gene said loudly. “Your mother was great, I loved her. Coolest grandma in town. Sucks that she had to die.”

“Yeah, that's just what the minister said when he eulogized her.”

Gene smiled. “You know what I mean. She really was great.” He looked down at his desk and picked up a couple of pieces of paper. “I pulled out the contracts for the last few years. We looking at the same kind of thing?”

“We can shake things up a little.”

Gene nodded. “Wanna leave your mark on the event. I can respect that. So what are you thinking? Something darker? How Goth can we go here?”

“There are gonna be a lot of little kids there.”

“How about a Goth room – adults only.”

“Hmm, that might be a tough sell to the rest of my family.”

“We're not talking chuckling pumpkins, are we?” Gene said wryly. He seemed genuinely disappointed that Tyler had rejected the notion of the Goth room. That was silly. He'd been to the inn's Halloween parties. He knew the vibe. Did he really think they were going to change it completely at the end?

“I was thinking about more motion.”

“Radio-controlled bats!” Gene said, brightening and leaning forward in his chair. “I'll throw my nephew in free of charge to handle the swooping.” He pantomimed the arc of a bat's flight.

Tyler smiled, following Gene's movements. “I like it. What else do you have?”

“Motion? I've got a hand that leaps out of the punch bowl, a ghostly mirror, creeping slime – hey, I can get you a skeleton that dances the Macarena if you want.”

“Yeah, that's good. No Macarena, but the rest of it. I just want a little more action this year. Fun stuff, not gruesome stuff. But definitely more movement.”

“Not a bang, but not a whimper,” Gene said philosophically. “You got it. A bunch of the usual stuff to dress up the rooms?”

“Pretty much what my parents always did in that category.”

“Same with paper goods?”

“Can the napkins not say, ‘Happy Howl-a-ween' this year?”

“Your father loved that one.”

“I think he'd understand.”

Gene made a number of notations on a pad. While they talked, someone, presumably the person up front, put on the soundtrack from
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. “Time Warp” assaulted the room at surprising volume.

“Seasonal music?” Tyler said.

“It's in the rotation. We throw on some death metal in the afternoon when the teenagers come in for their costumes. And stuff like ‘Monster Mash,' though it makes me want to vomit, around lunchtime when the old people show up. I'm just starting to work on my Christmas playlist. Someone told me that Blink-182 did a punk version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock' at a concert last year. Any idea where I can get a bootleg?”

“Same place everyone else gets them, I'd guess.”

Gene made a few more notations and then looked up at Tyler. “I think we're all set for now. I'll give you a call in about a week and we'll sit down again to go over prices and finalize the list. I'll look around a little and see if I can come up with some more fun stuff – stuff that moves – between now and then.”

Tyler left the store feeling good about the meeting. Swooping bats would certainly be entertaining and he didn't think anyone else in the family would get bent out of shape over them. Corrina didn't explicitly tell him to follow Mom and Dad's template absolutely. If she had just wanted to go through the motions, she could have done it herself.

He walked back to his apartment and then decided to drive over to Corrina's to let her know what was going on. He didn't want Gene going out of his way to find stuff if she was only going to freak out about it. And if she liked where he was taking things, maybe she'd even lighten up with him a little. Walking on eggshells with her was getting a little old.

As he pulled up to the driveway, Corrina's sixteen-year-old stepson Ryan walked out the door. Tyler got out of his car and waved to him. “Hey, what's going on?”

Ryan simply lifted his hand slightly and said, “Hey.”

“No school today?”

“Some staff development thing for the teachers.” Ryan seemed to be going out of his way to avoid making eye contact. In fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to make sure Tyler knew he was going out of his way to avoid making eye contact.

“Where are you headed?”

Ryan looked at him then, but with an expression that screamed,
what the hell business is it of yours?
“I'm just going.”

Tyler tilted his chin upward to let the kid know he didn't appreciate the dismissive attitude. He wished he could understand what was going on here. Was Corrina's house built over some kind of toxic substance that slowly turned everyone who lived there into jerks? Ryan never used to be like this. Gardner's son from his first marriage, he came to live in Oldham after his mother died three years ago. Tyler always liked the kid and once he lived here full time, they really connected. Ryan was pretty messed up about his mom and everyone else in the family treated him with kid gloves. Tyler thought it would be best to treat him like he had the rest of his life to live instead. He talked to him at length about his mother, but he also talked to him at length about everything else – school, music, friends, movies. He let him hang out with him while he worked on pictures (though the kid had no talent for photography whatsoever) and they often went for walks during family gatherings just to “get real.”

Then during the summer at one of the increasingly rare Wednesday night dinners at the inn, things just snapped. Ryan was expounding on the exploits of a group of vandalizing pranksters in the school, with Maria's daughter Olivia egging him on. Something in Ryan's tone – the way he celebrated the thugs as though they were brazen anti-heroes – irritated Tyler enough to interrupt.

“Gee, do you think these guys want to be role models or are they just in it for the endorsement deals?” he said flippantly as Ryan laughed over another of the gang's exploits.

Ryan stopped laughing and turned to face Tyler, his eyes narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I just wonder if these guys realize there are people out there who idolize them.”

Ryan sneered. “I don't idolize them, if that's what you're saying.”

Tyler took a quick glance around the table and noticed that all other conversation had stopped. “Sure sounds like it to me.”

Ryan scoffed and then sat back in his seat. For a moment, it seemed the exchange was over. Tyler figured Ryan got the message and would dial it back, at least in front of this crowd. Conversation resumed, as others pretended they hadn't noticed the heated words.

Then Ryan stood up and confronted Tyler. “What the hell difference does it make if I do idolize them?”

Tyler was a little surprised by how contentious the kid was being. He held up a hand and said, “Ryan, chill.”

“Don't tell me to chill.
You
can't tell me to chill.”

“You're being a teensy bit over the top right now, don't you think, Rye?”

“Hey, I don't tell you what to think and you have no right to tell me what to think.”

Olivia reached out a hand to calm Ryan and he pushed it away. For some reason, that action set Tyler off.

“Are you freaking kidding me? Because you're a big boy now? Because you have an absolute understanding of how the world works? Because you're old enough to draw your own conclusions?”

“Damn right I am.”

“Then you're doing a pretty lousy job of it. You think it's funny that these kids are destroying school property, blowing up mailboxes, and breaking windows? Is that some kind of rebellious gesture to you? Some way of sticking it to The Man?”

“When did you become such a grown-up?”

“When did you become such an infant?”

Ryan responded as though Tyler had slapped him. He sat back down in his chair, and glared at him. Tyler glared right back, unwilling to simply let this go away. A moment later, Ryan, looking a little flustered, pulled back from the table and stalked out of the inn.

Corrina stood up and said to Tyler, “I guess we should all be glad you don't have kids of your own,” before following after her stepson. Meanwhile, Gardner – the kid's actual father – just shook his head and the others looked away. Corrina came back a short time later, saying she was taking Ryan home. By that point, Tyler was all out of bluster and didn't even bother to look at his sister. He and Ryan hadn't had a civil conversation since, and Corrina was barely polite to him. He still had no idea how he became the villain of this piece.