Leaves Page 14

  Corrina grinned when she thought about that formal. It had been such a big deal to buy a gown, get her hair done, and put on heels. Her parents made a huge deal about it, and Maxwell, who rarely said anything to her at that point without teasing her, told her she looked fantastic without a hint of irony in his voice.

  Corrina’s friends thought Maxwell looked great as well. Most of them were also with older brothers, but no one mooned over other people’s “dates” the way they were mooning over Maxwell. Corrina remembered catching a glimpse of him in his tuxedo as he was getting them drinks and noticing for the first time that her brother was a good-looking guy. She decided not to mention it to him.

  Maxwell flirted outrageously with her friends that night. Corrina knew he was only playing with them, since the age difference was meaningful back then, but he left several girls giggly and smitten. She never knew for certain if he was doing this for her benefit or just because he turned out to be naturally charming, but it definitely raised Corrina’s status among her friends to have a brother who cleaned up so nicely.

  Things were different between Corrina and Maxwell after that formal. It was almost as though the event marked the point when Maxwell stopped treating her like a kid. A few months later, they even had a fairly candid conversation about sex; it took a couple of years before her sisters would do the same.

  Corrina hadn’t thought about her first formal in years, though she knew it would forever be one of her cherished family memories. She wondered if Maxwell ever thought about it. She considered calling him to tell her about the corsage on her screen, but their last few conversations had been so tense, and she wasn’t sure he’d welcome the call. On a lark, she decided to click on the ad to see what people were wearing with corsages these days.

  Before she could, though, the ad disappeared from her screen.

  **^^^**

  Other than the chefs at restaurants, exactly two men had ever cooked for Deborah. One was her father, who would occasionally warm the family’s souls with one of his hearty stews. The other was Maxwell, who would perhaps once a week prepare his “world famous” grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches while they were all still living at home. None of the men Deborah had dated had ever made a meal for her. Several told her they found her culinary skills intimidating, but Deborah really would have found it charming if even one of them had attempted to fry her an egg.

  This was one of several things that made it so delightful to be sitting in Sage’s kitchen while he prepared lunch for her. There were other pleasures for sure, including having an unobstructed view of his sexy forearms released from his rolled-up sleeves, but the part about watching him compose a dish was close to the top.

  Before she arrived, Sage had started olive-oil-poaching baby artichokes that he’d shaved with a mandoline. Now he was stirring simmering chicken stock into barley for a variation on risotto. Deborah was impressed with Sage’s mise en place. Everything he needed for the dish was chopped and waiting for him. This served Sage well when, eighteen minutes after he started, he needed to stir in finely chopped red bell pepper, Kalamata olives, and tarragon, giving everything forty-five seconds or so to come up to temperature. He then plated the risotto, layered the artichokes on top, and drizzled a balsamic reduction over the dish.

  He brought the plates to the table and refilled the glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Deborah had been sipping.

  Deborah admired the meal in front of her. Maxwell had never presented his legendary grilled cheese with a balsamic drizzle.

  “You know, if you hadn’t made this for me today, I probably would have had peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon,” she said, still ogling the food.

  Sage sat across from her. “You’re shattering my illusions.”

  “Oh, it would have been very good peanut butter.”

  “Then we’re okay.”

  Deborah forked a tender sliver of artichoke and then tasted it with the risotto. This dish would have been sumptuous even if a man with sexy arms hadn’t prepared it specifically for her. It was nutty and earthy with an appealing blend of textures.

  She closed her eyes and let the taste embrace her. “This is sensational.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

  Deborah grinned. “True, but I’m not embellishing this time.”

  Sage seemed disproportionately pleased to hear this. “So I didn’t diminish myself in your eyes by taking this considerable risk?”

  Maybe later Deborah would tell Sage how much the “considerable risk” meant to her. For now, she just said, “My eyes have no interest in diminishing you.”

  “Then that makes me happy.”

  Twenty minutes later, Sage got up from the table, took their plates, and set about making coffee. As much as Deborah enjoyed having him wait on her, there had been enough of that for the day. She walked up behind him as he stood at the coffee grinder and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “That was delicious on several different levels,” she said softly into his ear.

  He turned around, bringing their faces inches from one another. He kissed her eyebrow and then her nose. “You realize, of course, that this was all an elaborate plot, don’t you?”

  “You don’t need an elaborate plot.”

  He pulled her closer. “I don’t?”

  She nuzzled his neck and then nibbled his ear. “And we definitely don’t need coffee.”

  “It’s extremely good coffee.”

  She began to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s have it later.”

  **^^^**

  Maria had her guitar out fingerpicking softly while she waited for her second lesson with Colin. Unlike last week, she was the only person in the waiting area, so she had no concerns about limbering up her fingers.

  She started out playing random chord changes, but soon transitioned into the Indigo Girls’ “Least Complicated,” slowing it down as she had when she used to play it regularly.

  “What makes me think I could start clean slated? The hardest to learn was the least complicated.”

  Maria looked up from her guitar at the sound of Martha’s voice singing the chorus.

  “I love that song,” Martha said when Maria stopped playing two chords later. “That was a great idea slowing it down.”

  “Thanks.”

  Martha sat in the chair next to her. “Colin’s a better teacher than I realized. Your playing is much better today than it was the other day.”

  Maria wrinkled her brow. “I play better when I think no one is listening.”

  “Yeah, you should get over that. Do you know about the new artists night that I’ve been running at Mumford’s?”

  Maria shook her head quickly.

  “We do it every Thursday night. It’s something between a showcase and an open mic show. We get a nice crowd. You should join us.”

  “Yeah, it sounds great. I’ll drag Doug out one of the next few Thursdays.”

  Martha leaned toward Maria. “I meant you should join us on stage.”

  The suggestion caught Maria off guard. “On stage? I haven’t performed for anyone I don’t know in about twenty years.”

  “Then you’re way past due. This week’s show is already booked up other than the walk-ins, and you don’t want to do that. How about the Thursday after next?”

  Maria wasn’t sure what to think of this. She loved that playing and singing had become a meaningful part of her life again, but she hadn’t considered taking it to any “stage” beyond her living room. She’d never been overly fond of playing in front of audiences, and she doubted the past couple of decades would have changed that.

  “Maybe I should just sit in the crowd once or twice.”

  Martha threw a hand at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you sit in the crowd, you’re either going to wish you were on stage, or you’re going to go running in the other di
rection. Just step up and do it.”

  Maria wasn’t sure why Martha was encouraging her to do this after only hearing a couple of songs. “You’re having trouble booking acts, aren’t you?” she said with a smile.

  Martha laughed. “Hardly. Every wannabe in eastern Connecticut wants to do these shows. I’ll probably have to bump someone. I want you there, though.”

  “Because I slowed down ‘Least Complicated?’”

  “Among other reasons. Come on, Maria, knee-jerk nervousness aside, you know you want to do this.”

  “I should probably book another couple of sessions with Colin if I’m gonna perform next week.”

  “We can make that happen.”

  Maria pointed to her accusingly. “Ah, so this is just a ploy to get me to pay for extra lessons.”

  “You saw right through me. Are you in?”

  Maria looked upward. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  **^^^**

  Corrina had barely seen Ryan the past few days. He‘d agreed to go to brunch with Gardner and her yesterday, but he rushed off quickly afterward. Beyond that, he’d been preoccupied with “friends,” though Corrina wondered if it were really just one particular friend he’d been giving his time.

  She’d gotten home late after a crazy afternoon at the visitors bureau. Mondays were normally quiet, even in the early fall, but three different tourist groups had long sessions with her on the phone, including two in close succession. That, combined with the walk-in traffic and the fact she hadn’t anticipated any of this made the workday particularly wearisome. She got home and immediately started chopping vegetables for a quick curry, surprised to find her stepson picking up a knife to help a few minutes later.

  She looked over at him as he sliced mushrooms. “Are you staying in tonight?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he said without looking up. “I never go out on a Monday.”

  “You don’t usually go out on Tuesdays through Thursdays, either, but you went out after dinner every one of those days last week.”

  Ryan shrugged and grabbed another mushroom from the container.

  Corrina looked down at the onion she was chopping. “I saw you on the street the other day.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “She’s cute.”

  Corrina heard Ryan stop cutting, so she looked up.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Corrina grinned. “I have a feeling you do.”

  He went back to slicing, but he was doing it with more fervor now. “Really, I don’t.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t want to talk about it, Rye. You’re a good-looking sixteen-year-old guy. Why wouldn’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “Can we not discuss this, please?”

  Corrina went back to work on the onion. “Fine with me. I just know that if I’d just started dating someone – and let me repeat, she’s very cute – I’d want to talk about it all the time.”

  Ryan put down his knife. “Are you just gonna keep grilling me about this?”

  Corrina turned to face him. “I’m not grilling you. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “You told Dad what you saw and he convinced you to pump me for details, right?”

  “I haven’t said anything to your father, actually.”

  Ryan picked up the knife and then threw it back down on the cutting board. “Yeah, I believe that. You love playing spy for him. Cut your own damn mushrooms.”

  He left the kitchen without looking at her. Corrina stood frozen for at least a minute, trying to figure out what had just happened.

  Then she shook her head and continued to get dinner ready.

  Twelve

  Tuesday, October 19

  Twelve days before the party

  Deborah had been feeling very good the entire drive. Lunch and then “dessert” with Sage had been supremely satisfying on so many levels. Deborah’s instincts told her that Sage would be a caring and passionate lover. What she didn’t expect, though, was how embraced she felt afterward and how that sense of embrace would stay with her even when they were apart. She carried it with her into the kitchen that evening, which inspired a nudge from her sous chef Gina. It also inspired her to change the Moroccan-themed sauce she’d been planning for the evening’s arctic char to a dill velouté. The latter sauce reminded her of being wrapped in a warm blanket.

  The cozy feeling stayed with her in the car for the long trip into the Berkshires. It had surprised Deborah when Danny Kortchmar of the Sunny Skies Inn contacted her about a position as executive chef. Sunny Skies had a national reputation as a vacation spot for the rich and famous. Rooms started at five hundred dollars a night, and some culinary heavyweights had worn a toque there, including Gabe Nelson, whose Sunny Skies Mornings breakfast cookbook had won a James Beard Award.

  The name of the inn suggested something homey and cozy, but the structure itself shouted affluence. An enormous Colonial building, it housed twenty guest rooms, each of which Deborah knew to contain thousand-thread-count bedding, original oils on the walls and sculptures on the handcrafted dressers, and granite bathrooms with Jacuzzis and body sprayers.

  Danny was waiting for her in the inn’s lobby when she arrived. He was in his early fifties with a full beard and casual dress that contrasted with the luxe surroundings. Deborah had heard that Danny liked to deemphasize his own wealth; he’d made a fortune selling an Internet company in the nineties before moving up to the Berkshires to start his “little B&B.”

  “Was the drive okay?” he said as he grasped her hand with both of his.

  “Wonderful, actually. I could hardly believe that it was more than two hours.”

  “I’m glad. It’s a nice drive, isn’t it? Our trees aren’t as beautiful this time of year as yours are down in Oldham, but they’re still pretty.”

  Deborah agreed, though she truly hadn’t noticed. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d barely seen the road.

  Danny gave her a quick tour of the public rooms at the inn and then took her to the kitchen. Though this kitchen probably only served twice as many customers as the Sugar Maple, it was easily four times a large, and as expected, it was state of the art in every way: infrared grill, immersion circulator, even an anti-griddle. Deborah wasn’t sure she’d ever feel the need to use the latter – she was still somewhat ambivalent about the whole molecular gastronomy thing – but regardless she found it impressive that Danny was willing to provide all the toys his executive chef desired.

  The kitchen staff was preparing for lunch service, which was predictably low-key. There wouldn’t be a huge market for forty-dollar entrees on a Tuesday afternoon in the fall, though she guessed the place would be considerably more animated in July.

  Afterward, Deborah and Danny sat over espresso and biscotti discussing the position. Though Deborah already knew it, Danny explained that a number of chefs had used the dining room at Sunny Skies as a launch point for very high profile gigs. Jasper White had tabbed the current executive chef for his latest Boston restaurant.

  “I know we look very good on resumés,” Danny said. “I’m only asking for two years.”

  Deborah tried to imagine herself in this setting. She could do much worse than to spend the next couple of years – maybe longer – catering to the rich and famous and experimenting with every culinary invention that came on the market. The kitchen at Sunny Skies had a long reputation for innovation, so she doubted she would ever feel constrained. There was little question that this job would be good for her career and good for her sense of adventure.

  Danny walked her back to her car a little more than an hour later. “I don’t mess around, Deborah,” he said as he took her hand. “I hope you’ll come to appreciate that about me. You’re my first choice. The job is yours if you want it.”

  “I’m flattered, Danny, and this place is everythi
ng it was advertised to be. Can I take a couple of days?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They parted after that, Danny waving to Deborah as she exited the long driveway. By the time she made a left onto the street, she knew she was going to turn down this opportunity.

  **^^^**

  Tyler had spent all of Sunday night and all day Monday trying to think of the right way to approach the situation with Ryan. Did he go hard-line on the kid, calling him out for sneaking into his house uninvited? Did he try to talk to Ryan about the emotional implications of becoming sexually active? Did he just blow the whole thing off, assuming Ryan was never going to bring it up himself and that he’d probably think twice before using Tyler’s house as a love nest again?

  The last option had been gaining traction when he went to bed last night, but Tyler found that when he got up this morning, he couldn’t abide by it. He decided he would talk to his nephew when the kid got home from school.

  He hadn’t expected to find Corrina at the house. He’d been practicing a conversation in his head, but he hadn’t prepared for her presence.

  “What’s up?” she said when she came to the door.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  Tyler was still having trouble adjusting to his sister’s biting attitude toward him. His experience with most family conflict was that, even if left unaddressed, it waned after a period. In this case, though, Corrina seemed to be holding an unyieldingly persistent grudge.