The Cookbook Collector (9 page)

“Just tree-sick.”

He held her by the shoulders, as if to steady her, but she still felt the garden rushing toward her, and the sickening rush of air.

He touched her collarbone with his fingertips. “I remember you from Brandeis.”

“Really? You remember me! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought I’d wait,” he said.

“How do you remember me?”

“I remember you as … lovely,” he said.

She slipped off the swing to face him, laughing in disbelief—not just that he’d find her lovely, but that he would use such a delicate word.

“I asked people about you.”

She shook her head at him and he couldn’t help smiling. She was so innocent. Delicious. “Why didn’t you ask
me
about me?”

“I was shy,” he said, and that was true enough, although his shyness had been situational. He’d been unhappily involved.

“Shy?”
She remembered him as arrogant, eloquent, and also tough. She’d heard him at a press conference, denouncing violence against the logging industry. He never hesitated at the microphone.

He couldn’t resist asking, “Did you start volunteering because you remembered me?”

“Not only shy, but vain!”

The swing hung between them, but he grasped the ropes above her head.

“I was interested in halting systematic deforestation of the planet and petitioning for the ballot proposal to ban clear-cutting in Northern California,” she said, “… and I did remember you.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Well, vaguely.”

“Only vaguely?”

“Very, very vaguely. Just that you were busy, and you never even looked at me. When I got to Save the Trees you stayed true to type.”

“Now I’m a type.”

“Well …”

They were standing so close their noses almost touched. She looked up at him and wondered how his eyes were so blue and his skin so dark, and how he could be shy and also confident, and most of all, what he was thinking, but she didn’t dare ask. And he saw her wondering, and he gazed at her delicate upturned face and felt a sudden tenderness for her, a little pang of responsibility.
I’ll never never hurt you
, he promised silently, even as he imagined taking her into the office and locking the door. He spoke with a cautious sincerity he didn’t feel. “I know you’re dating Noah and I won’t interfere with that.”

“Dating
is a relative term.”

“Relative to what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Really?” His lips brushed hers.

“I didn’t take offense that you ignored me,” she explained, “because what interests me is what you do.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I meant your work.” Her mouth grazed his. “I wasn’t talking about … right now.”

At first they kissed so lightly, there was no decision. They kissed the way they might trail their fingers in the water. I’m not really standing here with him, Jess thought, and she kissed him more deeply, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She touched the corner of his mouth with the tip of her tongue; she sucked his lower lip and tasted wine, and he was surprised, and also charmed, because he saw that she’d surprised herself. She was so curious. She trembled with curiosity.

They flew apart as two wailing fire engines careened down the street. Flashing lights illuminated the yard.

“That must have been the smoke alarm.” Leon stood for a moment, watching as the firemen approached in full regalia—boots, jackets, hats. “Wait here,” he told Jess. “Stay by the tree, and I’ll send someone to take you home.”

“Shouldn’t I …?”

“No, I don’t want you to come in. Stay here.”

Already partiers were streaming out, gathering in the front yard and on the sidewalk. There were hundreds, more than Jess would have thought possible, even in that rambling house. Two police cars pulled up. The hordes spilled onto the sidewalk. Jess stayed in shadow, sheltered by the oak.

Two officers entered and instantly a hush fell over the assembled. Jess could actually hear a pall fall over the blazing Bacchanalian house. It took her a second to realize that what she heard was the plug pulled on the sound system. The cops had stopped the music.

One officer stood on the landing, talking to Leon. “We’ve got noise ordinances, and we’ve got more than one complaint.” She couldn’t hear Leon’s reply, but she saw that he was perfectly calm and quiet. “Generally speaking, if we have a smoke alarm on top of a noise situation …,” the officer continued loudly and laboriously. “When alcohol is served …” She couldn’t catch all the words, but did hear
inebriation
mentioned and
underage
.

Leon interrupted here, objecting.

“Let’s put it this way: There are students on and off campus; there have been incidents on and off campus. You think you’ve got a friendly gathering…. In the morning you may find yourself with a situation. By situation, I mean someone dead. This has happened in the past. I don’t like to spell it out for you, but that’s my job—to spell it out for you.”

Through the lit windows of the house, Jess glimpsed the firemen tramping through the rooms. What would they find there? She didn’t see Noah in the crowd.

“Okay, let’s go,” someone ordered Jess. Her breath caught. Irrationally, she thought, They’ve come looking for me too. Then she recognized Daisy, small, fierce, humorless. “I’m taking you home. You have everything you need?”

Jess fumbled in her jacket pocket for her wallet and her keys. She felt like a child as she followed Daisy out the back gate. Did Leon think she was a child?

Chafing at the errand, Daisy didn’t speak as they walked to the car, nor did she move the stacks of leaflets from the passenger seat. Jess heaved the bundles into the backseat. “Does this happen a lot?” she ventured.

Daisy glanced at her for a moment, and for a moment she looked amused. “Yes,” she said, “this happens all the time.”

8

J
ess did not tell Emily that she spent the next day playing with Leon instead of packing, wandering in Muir Woods instead of catching up on laundry. Nor could she say exactly why she almost missed the early-morning flight to Boston. That she had stayed up all night talking to Leon at the Tree House, that they had sat on the window seat, looking out at the garden and talking trees and politics, redwoods at risk and those protected, and some in secret groves, unknown to all but a few climbers and scientists. Trees like living castles in the mist. Leon told Jess, “When you see them you …”

“You what?” Jess asked him.

“You feel blessed.”

They talked about actions against Pacific Lumber Company. Tree sitting, roadblocking, human chains, using webcams and blogs and Listservs for publicity. “Old technology destroyed the environment,” said Leon. “Wouldn’t it be cool if new technology restored it?”

And Jess leaned against him, imagining a wireless world, a place without telephone poles, those poor denuded trees turned into sticks, a world where you could see the loggers make their kills online, and click to donate and do something about it. A world of webs and nets instead of boxes, logs, and … no, she couldn’t quite give up on books.

“I don’t think I could stop using paper,” she told Leon.

He rubbed her shoulders and his hands slipped underneath her shirt. “People gave up on clay tablets,” he pointed out. “They gave up typesetting, and eventually, they’ll give up paper too.”

“I like to turn the pages,” she said.

He laughed softly. “It’s all I can do not to turn you.”

“All you can do? Really?” She turned to face him, and all at once she saw his delight and his surprise and the sun rising through the window. “Oh, God, I have to get to the airport!”

Leon rushed her home to the apartment for her suitcase, and they sped to the airport in his imported hybrid car, so that she dashed to the gate with just minutes to spare.

“I was worried about you!” Emily exclaimed as they boarded their plane. “I couldn’t reach you! I thought something had happened to you! You’re getting a cell phone.”

“Okay, okay.” Jess sank into her window seat. “You could have boarded without me.”

Her sister had been struggling with just this possibility, torn between concern for Jess and her longing to see Jonathan. “What kept you so long? Do you really hate seeing Dad that much?” Emily stowed shopping bags of gifts in the overhead compartment and pushed her briefcase neatly under the seat in front of her. “Is that what this is about?”

“No! No, of course not.”

“I think it is.”

“I promise you,” said Jess, “Dad could not have been farther from my mind.” She took Hume from her backpack to read in self-defense. The plane began taxiing to the runway, and Jess read the same sentences again and again.
There are mysteries which mere natural and unassisted reason is very unfit to handle…. Happy if she be thence sensible of her temerity … and … return, with suitable modesty, to her true and proper province, the examination of common life
…. What did this mean? Hume seemed to spell the end of philosophy and the beginning of … what? Jess sneezed.

Emily offered her a granola bar.

“No, thanks,” said Jess.

“Did you eat any breakfast?”

Jess returned to Hume, without answering. She didn’t want to talk. She was afraid Emily would notice something different about her. When it came to confidences, Jess would rather hear Emily’s secrets than tell her own. This seemed fair, and this seemed right. Jess was the more forgiving of the two.

“You catch colds a lot, don’t you?”

Jess started. She’d heard her sister say, “You fall in love a lot, don’t you?”

Not so often, not so much for someone my age, Jess protested silently to the page in front of her. How would Hume put it?
Though experience should be our guide
—yes, he always started that way—
and we see mistakes are common at the age of twenty-three, it must be acknowledged that not every youthful feeling begins unworthily and ends in error. If this were the case, mankind would have perished long ago
.

Jess slept and woke, and tried to sleep again, tucking her knees to her chest, straining to rest her head, turning in her seat like a cork in a bottle. The day was over by the time they landed with a thump at Logan, and as the sisters stumbled out, loaded with gifts for Lily and Maya, they saw that they had traded a sunny California afternoon for a misty, messy Boston night. Their father had been circling in his Volvo station wagon, “for twenty minutes,” he said, even as he embraced them.

“So good to see you,” he murmured to Jess, but after kissing Emily, he stood back and shook his head in amazement at his spectacularly successful daughter—a stance Jess recognized as “My, how you’ve grown.”

Emily sat in front, and Jess struggled to unstrap and move two child-safety seats, so she could squeeze in back. The car was overheated, and the windows were locked. She rested her forehead on the glass and stared out at the crumbling brick buildings advertising steakhouses and bars in chipped paint. Growing up, she hadn’t noticed how old and dirty everything looked, but she saw it now. The decrepitude back east!

“Why is there so much traffic?” Jess asked. “Is it the Big Dig?”

“The traffic is entirely random,” Richard replied. Tall, gray-haired, clean-shaven, he had a quiet face, a recessive chin, eyes the color of a cloudy sky. He had attended MIT for college and for graduate school, and stayed to teach. On his right hand he wore an MIT insignia ring engraved with a beaver symbolizing industry. “Dad!” Jess burst out once when she was in high school and Richard had told her the drama club was a total waste of time, “of course you think that. You wear a brass rat.”

But Richard wore his ring with pride. He considered MIT one of the great places on earth, and he was immensely proud that Emily had attended. As for Jess—what fights they’d had. Richard insisting Jess apply, even though she had no chance, and no interest. Bad enough that he’d forced her to take AP Calculus. That had been humiliating, but her MIT interview had been a joke.

“So,” said the kindly Institute alumnus who had volunteered to meet with Jess. “When you were a kid, did you ever blow up chemistry experiments in the basement?”

“No,” Jess answered truthfully.

“Chart clouds in the skies?”

“No.”

“Take apart the family computer?”

“Never once,” said Jess.

Her father used to storm at her, “You have a perfectly good aptitude for math, but you won’t apply yourself.”

“I’m not good at it!” she’d insisted.

“You’re not interested,” he’d shot back.

“That too!”

This was after Emily left home, and before Heidi. Sweet-natured and playful when Jess was younger, Richard became a fretful, controlling single parent. Outgoing and confident as a little girl, Jess took to her room to read Yeats and count the days until her high-school graduation. Looking back, she realized that Richard had been counting too. They had both been waiting. For what? For life, for love, for liberty. They’d lived for the future and dreaded it as well, and when they’d battled, they’d fought desperately because they only had each other. They’d known they were the last members of their family.

“What’s new?” Emily asked her father.

“Nothing as exciting as your news,” Richard said. “I had a grant rejected. Mrs. Weldon died. Her place is on the market.”

“The house behind you?” asked Emily.

“It’s a double lot. A developer is looking at it.”

“Is that bad?” Jess piped up from the backseat.

“It’s bad if they build five houses and start a subdivision. There’s supposedly a nonprofit looking at the place as well, to start a religious child-care center.”

“You could send the girls,” Jess said.

Richard didn’t answer. He hated anything religious, particularly involving children. A single bumper sticker adorned his car:
WHAT SCHOOLS NEED IS A MOMENT OF SCIENCE
.

“Just kidding,” Jess said

It took almost an hour to reach downtown Canaan, which consisted of a real-estate agency, an ice-cream shop, a dry cleaner’s, and a traffic light. South of Main Street, Canaan’s winding roads and cul-de-sacs were named for Emerson, Alcott, Thoreau. North of Main, Richard’s Colonial stood on Highland. The land here did rise slightly, and for this reason Richard rarely had to use the sump pump in the basement. He had done his homework, and he knew to avoid low-lying Hawthorne, Peabody, and especially Alcott. The town’s Transcendentalists traversed a floodplain.

Heidi welcomed the travelers with her finger to her lips, and Jess and Emily tiptoed inside, trying not to slam the screen door and wake the girls.

“Come into the kitchen,” Heidi whispered. Meticulous, earnest, Heidi had cut her hair to shoulder length and donned large eyeglasses. There was a solidity about her now that she’d become a mother. She wore black jeans and talked about language acquisition. She collected the children’s finger paintings in large artist portfolios.

It went without saying (they never said it) that Heidi was accomplished. Her work in databases was “very interesting” according to Richard, and he would know. Heidi had been his graduate student. There was external evidence as well. Heidi taught at Brown. Her position there had prompted the move to Canaan, halfway between Cambridge and Providence.

“How was your flight?” Heidi asked.

“Fine,” said Emily.

“Awful,” said Jess.

“She’s sick,” Emily explained.

Jess thought she caught the aggravation in Heidi’s eyes—
Oh, great, now we’ll all catch this bug
—before the concerned questions, “Would you like a cup of tea? Do you need cold medicine?”

Richard carried in a load of bags. “You left the car door open,” he told Jess.

“I did not. I closed my door.” Already, Jess had reverted to her sixteen-year-old self. Amazing.

“Only you were sitting in the backseat,” Richard corrected her. “Therefore you left the door open.”

“Richard,” said Heidi. “What’s the difference? It’s a door. It doesn’t matter.”

Late that night Emily lay awake in the guest room. She hadn’t seen Jonathan in almost three weeks, and while everyone agreed that she should visit Canaan first, the last night apart was almost unbearable. She could not stop thinking about being with him again. She imagined his hands on her shoulders. “Look how tight you got.” He would rub until she relaxed, until her whole body relaxed into his arms. They would kiss playfully at first….

“Emily, are you asleep?” Jess whispered from the other bed.

“Almost.”

“Why is it so cold in here?”

“It’s not cold at all. It’s so warm. It’s stuffy.”

“I’m shivering,” said Jess.

Emily kicked off her covers and got out of bed. “You must have a fever.” She felt Jess’s forehead. “You’re burning! Where do you think Dad keeps the thermometer?”

“It’s just a cold,” Jess said.

“Wait a second.” Emily padded out to the bathroom and returned with medicine and water. “Take these.” Jess struggled up in bed to swallow the pills. “Okay, now rest.” Emily tucked the blankets around her and sat on the edge of the bed.

Their mother had told Emily quite seriously to watch her sister. She had told Emily in the hospital. Jess wasn’t allowed in the room at that point, and Emily was only just old enough. “Look after her,” Gillian said. “Do
not
let her jump in the street. You have to watch her. She doesn’t pay attention. And remember she can’t swim yet, even though she thinks she can. Remind your father about lessons.”

“I’m fine,” Jess said drowsily. “Go back to bed.”

“I will,” said Emily, but she stayed. Long after Jess drifted off, Emily sat up thinking on her sister’s bed. What would her mother say now, if she had lived to see this year? This wonderful year.
I have embarked
, she told her mother softly.
I have embarked on my career. I have someone
, she told her mother.
I’m in love with Jonathan
. And she wished for some sign that Gillian was listening. She longed for some sense, even the faintest echo, of her mother in the house. But there were no photographs of Gillian on the walls and none of her possessions in the closets. Richard had sold Gillian’s piano. He’d offered to ship it out to California, but neither Jess nor Emily played. Emily had quit her lessons at “Streets of Laredo” and Jess only got as far as “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.” They had Gillian’s jewelry, but she hadn’t collected much. She had never liked necklaces or earrings. In fact, she’d never pierced her ears. She’d preferred a rosebush or two for her birthday, or a standing mixer.

“This is very sticky dough,” she would tell Emily as she rolled it out. “It’s very difficult to work with this dough, because it’s so short. You see?” She dusted the rolling pin and board with more flour and rolled briskly, as if to tame the stiff pastry, which she then cut into circles with an overturned teacup, or filled with honeyed poppy seeds, or spread into a glass pan to bake a cake of luscious prunes, their sweetness undercut with lemon. Nothing too sweet. That was the secret. Gillian said as much to Emily in her “Sixteenth Birthday” letter.
Don’t doctor recipes. More is less, and sugar will only get you so far
.