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  It was obviously time for Maxwell to step in. He kept hoping debates such as these would occasionally lead to productive conversation, but they almost never did, and this one was going nowhere. He raised a hand to draw everyone’s attention. “Listen, I know this is an important issue and I also know – as do the rest of you – that if there was an easy solution we would have come with it years ago. We’re running late here. If the board will authorize it, I’ll hire the Bittan Group to prepare a white paper offering alternatives.”

  The motion was raised and approved. Maxwell would call Roy Bittan this afternoon and the paper would be delivered within three months – which wouldn’t prevent the same debate from happening next month, but might at least shorten it a little. Maxwell stood up and went for another cup of coffee while the others filed out of the conference room.

  Mike Mills came up, taking half a cranberry muffin. “No matter how many times I hear that song, it still gets my toes tapping,” he said.

  Maxwell smiled. He’d met Mike when the man was a copyeditor for the paper and Maxwell interned there for a semester while a junior in high school. Even when Maxwell lived in Manhattan and worked on Wall Street, they’d stayed in touch.

  “There were nine times today – I counted them – when I knew what someone was going to say before they said it,” Maxwell said wearily.

  “And still the meeting ran over by fifteen minutes.”

  “I need to make some changes to the way we do things here.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. Listen, I have a great tidbit for you.” Mike looked toward the door, which caused Maxwell to look in the same direction. If Mike was checking to make sure the coast was clear, he had something intriguing to say. “It looks like our paper is about to sweep the mayor into a little scandal.”

  Maxwell looked into Mike’s eyes skeptically. Mike was clearly having fun with this. He’d been critical of the mayor since the politician had been nothing more than a local attorney. “Scandal?”

  “The Water Line zoning might have taken a few shortcuts through Mayor Bruce’s office.”

  Maxwell laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Mike held up a hand. “Now these are just allegations, mind you.” His eyes twinkled when he said it. “But the Post feels confident enough in its sources to go to press with it tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you have a statement from Bruce?”

  “He has until midnight tonight to return our calls. I’m guessing he won’t.”

  Maxwell shook his head. “This is incredible.”

  “You’re not really surprised, are you?”

  “That Bruce might be involved in something shady? No. I’m just surprised he was careless enough to get caught. I mean, no offense, Mike, but you don’t exactly have Woodward and Bernstein on your staff.”

  “I won’t convey that comment to our reporters. They’d be devastated.”

  “Do you think anything is going to come of this?”

  “You mean criminal charges? Unlikely. Bruce knows the law too well. He’ll figure out a way around it. The allegations will still be there, though. Not the best thing for a reelection campaign.”

  “Jeez, you’re right. He’s up for reelection next year. I didn’t even think about that.”

  Mike patted Maxwell on the shoulder. “Gotta think about these things.” He walked toward the door, grabbing another half of a muffin on the way. “I need to get to the paper. You’ll keep this under your hat until tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Maxwell speared a piece of cantaloupe before leaving the room. Stuff like this didn’t happen in town very often. Mike would get front page news out of it for weeks.

  **^^^**

  When she finally opened her eyes and looked at the clock on Doug’s nightstand, Maria saw it was five minutes after ten. Fifteen minutes later than yesterday. If I keep this up, I’ll be skipping lunch in a couple of weeks. She stretched, rolled over, and slowly raised herself out of bed. She thought she remembered Doug kissing her goodbye before the sun came up. That might have been yesterday, though.

  What do we think, she wondered as she sat on the edge of the bed, shower, brush teeth, breakfast? Breakfast, shower, brush teeth? Skip it all until a half hour before Doug comes home? Maria made what could easily turn out to be the biggest decision of her day and headed toward the bathroom for the shower, brushing her teeth while the water heated up.

  In the five weeks since Olivia had gone off to Brown University, Maria found herself utterly unmotivated for the first time she could remember. The initial few days, she was just sad at the thought that her daughter was grown and gone from the house. Then there was the day right after that when the realization she had nothing on the agenda seemed kind of liberating. Then a day of “taking time for herself” evolved into another day of the same, followed by yet another.

  That this came on the heels of the most intense nine months of her life almost certainly added to her sense of displacement. All winter and spring she’d spent at least part of every day with her mother at the hospital and then at the hospice, talking to her even when Mom could no longer reply. Then the summer was spent letting Olivia go ever so slowly – drives into Manhattan or up into the mountains, excessive amounts of shopping, clam shacks and homemade pasta, movie marathons of Disney princesses, hunks-through-the-ages, and everything Susan Sarandon ever did – leading up to that last frantic week preparing for the trip to Providence. She and Doug cried most of the way back to Oldham and drank two bottles of wine that night over bad Italian takeout. In the morning, though, Doug had a stimulating, distracting job in Hartford to return to and she had decisions to make about whether to eat before showering. She had only recently turned forty, was years away from being able to expect grandchildren – “Mom, I’m not sure I’ll ever want kids” was something Olivia had said far too often – and didn’t have anything approaching a plan for what to do with the next phase of her life.

  She toweled off, got dressed and booted up the computer while she waited for the coffee to brew. She looked out the window and noticed it was a gorgeous day.

  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.

  Hi, Baby,

  I hope things are going great for you up there. You never did tell me how your oral presentation went. Does your roommate still insist on studying to hard-core hip-hop? Anything more happening with THAT GUY??????

  We’re fine over here. Your dad is working his buns off, but that won’t come as any surprise to you. Even though he’s gotten two promotions in the first two years, he still thinks he needs to prove he’s not some “country boy.” Like anyone would ever think that about your father. He loves it, though. He’s motivated in a way that I haven’t seen since college.

  I, myself, have a major day planned. I’m gonna go for a walk and I’m going to make dinner. Not sure how I’ll cram it all in. I was thinking I might roast a couple of Cornish Hens with wild rice stuffing. Your father always likes that. Gee, maybe I should open a restaurant – just what this town needs (ha, ha!). Aunt Deborah and I could go into business together. I’m sure she’d love that.

  I’m gonna go. I know you’re really busy getting accustomed to all the new things at school, but write me back sometime. I realize we just talked on Sunday, but I miss you like crazy.

  Love ya tons,

  Mom

  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. May
be 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 an
other 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.

  Three

  Friday, October 8

  Twenty-three days before the party

  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?”