Leaves (11 page)

Tyler enjoyed stopping by Maria's house for coffee – everything except the
coffee
part. For the most part, his sister had very good taste, but she made her coffee comically weak. For a long time, Tyler assumed this was a nod to frugality, but even when the money started flowing for Maria and Doug, the brew remained absurdly light. It finally registered on Tyler that Maria simply didn't like coffee. Why serve it at all, then? Did she think he'd be insulted if she gave him a cup of tea or even a glass of water instead? It was one of those things he might have actually questioned her about at some other point. Instead, he just used his imagination.

“Is business picking up at all?” Maria said as she brought their mugs and sat across from him.

“Nah, nothing. One of the galleries in Essex took a couple more pieces on consignment, but who knows if they'll sell them.”

Maria pursed her lips. “I don't get it.”

“Imagine how I feel.”

“Are you gonna be okay financially?”

Tyler shrugged. “For a little while. It's not like I have an elaborate lifestyle. I'm really glad I invested in all of that equipment a couple of years ago when things were flying. I don't know what I'd do if I needed a big upgrade now.”

Maria took a sip of her coffee, probably wondering if it would be better with a tablespoon less of grounds. “Things will start turning around for you soon.”

Tyler offered a tiny grin. “I think they may have already started, at least in my romantic life.”

Maria leaned toward him. “Oh really? New girlfriend?”

“It only feels new. Patrice and I got together the other night. We didn't stop ‘getting together' until the next morning.”

Maria practically did a spit-take. “What? How did that happen?”

“I stopped by the store, we decided to have dinner one night, and things just took their course.”

For easily the fiftieth time, Tyler smiled at the thought of Tuesday night. He'd spoken with Patrice on the phone twice since, and he'd stopped by the candy store earlier. Tomorrow, they were going away for the night.

“So are you guys thinking about getting back together?”

Tyler had momentarily forgotten he was in the middle of a conversation with his sister. “I think we're already back together.”

Maria arched her brows. “Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I like Patrice very much.”

“And yet your reaction to our getting back together is, ‘Huh.'”

“I'm just taking this in.”

“What's there to take in? We won't be the first couple to realize we're better off together than apart.”

Maria frowned into her coffee and then took another long sip, putting the mug down in slow motion afterward.

“It's just that the two of you seemed pretty done by the time you split.”

“We did? I didn't feel like we were done at all. In case you didn't notice, I was pretty bummed about the whole thing.”

“I know you were. You still seemed bummed about it a few days ago. People have different reasons for feeling that way, though. It sure didn't seem to me that yours was because things had ended too soon.”

“Gee, thanks for the buzzkill, Maria.”

“Look, I hope I'm wrong. Just watch your heart, okay?”

What was he supposed to say to this? Was this how everyone in the family was going to react? Was he going to feel even weirder being around them now that Patrice and he were together again?

“My heart's fine. In fact, it's freaking great.”

“Don't get pissed at me, Tyler. I'm just looking out for you.”

Tyler got up from his chair. “I've got this one covered, okay? You know, I was feeling really good about this until now.” He pushed his chair back under the table and turned toward the door. “Thanks for the dirty water.”

For the second time this week, Deborah had decided to make a significant change to the night's menu in the hour before she entered the kitchen. A salad of thinly sliced candy-striped beets would be a much better starter than the truffled chickpea soufflé she had originally been planning, especially since tonight's entree was duck breast. Fortunately, the staff wouldn't have started on the prep for the soufflé yet.

As she pulled out the beets and readied them for roasting, she decided that a walnut oil vinaigrette would dress them well. The only issue was that she wasn't certain she had enough on hand. None of her purveyors would be able to get her any tonight – though she could always call on Sage in an emergency.

Once the beets were in the oven, she went to the pantry to check. There, among her many fragrant oils, she found a bottle of pomegranate molasses and she wondered how the bottle wound up stocked in the wrong place. She didn't even recall having any of the stuff, as she couldn't remember the last time she'd used it. She used to do a pork tagine with it, but that had been years ago.

The thought of the molasses reminded her of the time Maxwell had brought her a bottle on his return from a trip to Manhattan. Bringing her presents wasn't a common thing for him and she found it touching until she realized it was Maxwell's attempt to soften what came next.

“Sit down for a couple of minutes,” he'd said. “We need to talk about something.”

Deborah grew apprehensive instantly. First there was the surprise of the gift and now the grave timbre of her brother's tone.

“What's going on?” she said as she moved to one of only two chairs in the kitchen.

“The news on Dad is worse than we originally thought.”

Deborah felt the air go heavy around her. “What do you mean? I thought it was just anemia.”

Maxwell closed his eyes and shook his head very slowly. “It's cancer, sis. Fourth stage.”

“How is that possible? Dad never misses a checkup.”

“The doctor didn't catch it. His numbers didn't indicate a problem until his latest blood work.”

Deborah felt increasingly disoriented. As she struggled to make sense of this, though, the thought came to mind that her parents had been home all afternoon. She'd spoken with them when she first arrived at the inn. Why hadn't they said anything? Did they think this would go better if the news came from Maxwell?

“It's inoperable?”

“Stage four usually is.”

“How much time are they giving him?”

Maxwell took a deep breath before answering. “Somewhere between six months and a year.”

Deborah put her head in her hands at that point, soon feeling her brother's arms around her.

Minutes later, she rose up, noticing the molasses on the table next to her.

“That was supposed to make me feel better?” she said, pointing to the bottle.

He offered her a soft smile. “I guess I was trying to sugarcoat things – literally.”

Deborah wiped at her eyes. “That might have been the worst timing for a pun ever.”

“Sorry.”

She leaned her head into Maxwell's chest and they stayed that way silently for several minutes. Eventually, the two of them went out to see Dad together.

Was the bottle of pomegranate molasses she found today in the pantry the same bottle? Deborah had been moving bottles around while she was lost in thought, finally finding an unopened bottle of walnut oil.

When she went to put the molasses in its correct place, though, she couldn't find it anywhere.

Sage actually showed up at the kitchen an hour later carrying a bag with his store's logo.

“If there's pomegranate molasses in there,” Deborah said, gesturing toward the bag, “I'm going to have to lay down for a while.”

Sage reached into the bag and pulled out a jar. “Black bean paste, which I guess is good news. Does pomegranate molasses always make you swoon?”

“It's been known to happen, but this was about something else entirely. Since I'd prefer that you not think I'm crazy, I'm not going to explain.”

“I can live with that. A certain amount of mystery is exciting.”

He put the jar back in the bag and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” Deborah said. “You don't need to bring me presents when you come to visit, you know.”

“This just came in and I thought of you instantly. It's artisanally produced by a woman in San Jose. About seven layers of depth. Not salty at all.”

Deborah removed the jar from the bag again and examined it. “Hmm. Sounds like a great ingredient to use to finish a sauce.”

“Exactly. A little of it would add roundness without imparting too much of its own flavor.”

Deborah gazed at Sage admiringly. Just minutes ago, she'd been feeling melancholy over the memory of her father. Melancholy definitely wasn't what she was feeling now.

“You're very sexy when you talk sauces, you know,” she said.

“You bet I know. I used to have this great pickup line about bordelaise.”

Deborah faked a shiver. “You'd better stop now or I might do something irresponsible.”

Sage moved toward her at that point and kissed her with remarkable tenderness. For a second, Deborah thought about the fact that her sous chefs were in the kitchen with her. Only for a second, though. It was probably close to a minute before Sage stepped back.

“Was that the kind of irresponsible thing you had in mind?” he said.

Deborah smiled drunkenly. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

Sage laughed and pulled her close to him. In the past, she would have felt uncomfortable with these displays of affection in front of colleagues. They'd probably have fun teasing her later – and she'd have fun along with them.

“Thanks for thinking of me when the black bean paste came in,” she said.

“I don't need black bean paste to make me think of you.”

“Thanks for that, too.”

“Are you going to be too tired after service tonight for me to see you?”

“I really don't think I'm going to be tired at all.”

Corrina tried to keep her voice steady. “I don't understand what there is to contemplate. They've given the restaurant rave reviews and even back then they talked about how we were a fixture of the community.”

The evenness in Maxwell's tone was considerably more aggravating than if he'd been screeching at her. “They get pitched a lot of stories.”

“But this is our moment. Our
last
moment. They can't decide to do this story next year.”

This debate had been running for five minutes now. Maxwell had called to report on his lack of progress at getting the
New York Times
to do a feature story about the last party at the inn for their weekend Metropolitan section. Corrina was beginning to regret having assigned this task to her brother.

“I've told them exactly that in about five different ways,” he said. “They keep telling me they have to think about it. I think we have to accept the possibility that this isn't going to happen.”

“I don't want to accept that possibility. Call in bigger guns. Use your resources. Isn't that what guys like you do? There's gotta be someone in town who has a friend high up at the
Times
.”

The line was silent for several seconds. “Sorry, you lost me after ‘guys like you.' What were you saying?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“
Political
people.”

There was another pause. Maxwell didn't usually let any silence creep into conversations. “What makes you think I'm political?”

Corrina tapped her forehead once with the receiver. “Maxwell, you run the Chamber of Commerce. That's the most political operation in Oldham other than the mayor's office, and the mayor's office isn't as much political as it is evil.”

“Don't condemn the office because of its current resident,” Maxwell said sharply. Where was that coming from?

Corrina paused this time to allow the air to cool. “Do you think we can get back to the topic at hand?”

“Hey, I'm a politician, Cor. Skirting the issue is what I'm all about.”

Corrina shut her eyes. “Maxwell, it would be great if the
Times
did a story, okay?”

“Message received, captain. I'll do everything in my power.”

Corrina got off the phone less than a minute later. Why did she feel as though she'd been mugged after every conversation with her family lately? She went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, though what she really wanted was a margarita. Then she headed toward Gardner's office. Ryan was out with friends – she wondered if one of the friends was the girl she'd seen him with yesterday – so they were alone in the house.

Gardner looked up from his work when she came in. “Hey,” he said. “You look flustered. Everything okay?”

Corrina dropped her head and walked over to her husband for a hug. “Party stuff.”

Gardner pulled back and offered his version of an understanding expression. “Maybe it's not such a bad thing that this is the last of these.”

“Don't say that. I'm not ready to think that way.” Corrina looked down at Gardner's desk. “Do you have a ton to do tonight?”

“The usual, which is about five times as much as I would like.”

Corrina moved closer to Gardner again. “It's Friday night, you know. And Ryan definitely won't be back for hours.”

Gardner chuckled. “I know where you're going with this, but –”

“– Maybe just a little snuggle afterward. You could be back at your desk in an hour…or so.”

Gardner put his head against her chest. “You know I can't do that, babe. I always get so mellow afterward. I'll never get my edge back.”

Corrina looked skyward. “I'm going to try to take that as a compliment.”

“Let me just get through a little more of this. An hour and a half, two hours at most. I'm all yours after that.”

Corrina was sure that two hours would become three or more. Gardner had no sense of time when he was working. She kissed her husband on the top of the head and left him to his papers.

In the cottony moments after lovemaking, Tyler had two revelations about the word “away.” One was that going away had very little to do with distance. The inn where he and Patrice now lay took less time to get to than it took to drive to the beach nearest to downtown Oldham on a busy summer weekend. Yet he still felt transported, as though they'd gone off to the northern reaches of Maine or down to the Virginia coastline. Simply being out of their normal environs constituted all the “away” he needed.

Of course, this was only true because of the other thing he realized about the concept: whom you were away with was fundamental. This overnight at a nearby B&B felt like a vacation because he was here with Patrice. In any other situation, it would have felt pointless.

They'd had dinner at a Thai place Tyler had read about in
Connecticut
magazine. The reviewer had gushed about the drunken noodles, and both Patrice and Tyler concurred. Of course, after six bottles of Singha between them, the noodles weren't the only things that were drunken. Fortunately, the restaurant was within walking distance of the inn. Equally fortunate was that the alcohol had no effect on Tyler's focus once they got back to their room. When they'd made love earlier in the week, Tyler had felt an overwhelming sense of reunion. Being with Patrice that night was all about acknowledging and recapturing what he'd missed. Tonight, though, reminded him of what it had been like during their best times together – an irreducible sense of
nowness
. Tyler was feeling everything, experiencing everything. There was no need to rush, no need to finish at all. Being in this was everything.

Ultimately, they did finish, though there was always the promise they'd begin again. Whether they did or not wasn't critical to Tyler. In many ways, with Patrice in his arms aimlessly playing with his chest hair, they were still making love. He'd always loved these moments with her.

“That was delicious,” Patrice said, the first words either had spoken in more than a half-hour. That was another thing that distinguished his connection with her. In the first stages of lovemaking, they spoke endearments, even a few humorous comments. As it went further, however, they stopped speaking, as though they'd moved beyond the need for words.

Tyler kissed her hair. “Almost as delicious as the Pad Krapow.”

Patrice lifted her head from the pillow. “Only ‘almost?'”

Tyler smiled. “The Pad Krapow was very, very good.”

“So that was the highlight of the evening, huh?”

Tyler turned toward her, their faces now centimeters apart. “This moment is the highlight of the evening.” He paused for a second. “No, sorry,
this
moment.” He paused again. “No, wait….”

Patrice kissed him surprisingly passionately then. It was the kind of kiss that stirred him in unexpected ways, only one of which was sexual.

“Okay,” he said, “that might have been the highlight.”

“Well, at least we've moved the Thai food down from the top.”

They kissed again, languorously this time, the kind where their lips seemed to run together like two streams joining at a river.

Tyler drew Patrice as close to him as he could physically manage. “I can't tell you how happy I am to be here with you.”

Patrice hummed softly. “This was a very good idea.”

Tyler kissed the top of her head. “All of this was a good idea. You have no idea how much I want you.”

Patrice chuckled. “I have
some
idea.”

“I don't mean in that way – although in that way as well. I just
want
you. Your presence, your nurturance, your joy. I thought I was just missing you when we weren't together, but that's only a piece of it. I'm physically healthier when I'm with you.”