A commercial came on, and he turned to face her. “Maybe I’m waiting for something to happen,”
he said.
She was dying to ask him to elaborate but didn’t want to seem too interested. “And here I thought being a cop was one adventure after another.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not noble and sexy. Now, making buttermilk pie and raspberry kolaches—that’s sexy.”
“Well, then, I hate to burst
your
bubble, but I don’t do the baking.”
“So? You’re still sexy.”
In spite of herself, Jenny grew flushed. It was stupid, at her age, getting flustered over something some guy said. Especially a guy like Rourke McKnight. She tried to pretend she wasn’t affected, even though she felt a sting of heat in her cheeks. Good lord, were they flirting? This was getting complicated but…irresistible. “Now, what part of protect and serve is that?” she asked, trying for a light tone.
“It’s got nothing to do with the job. And you’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure you are. I like it. I like that I can make you blush.”
And with such pathetic ease, she thought. They had a rhythm still. They always had. She’d spent years trying to forget but it all came back. “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re really easy to please, Chief McKnight.”
“I always have been,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”
Food for Thought
by Jenny Majesky
Pine Box Traditions
It’s a Polish wedding tradition to give a new bride a supply of starter for sourdough rye bread. I suspect it’s a combination of tradition and desperation on the part of the bride. It just doesn’t seem fair to add the pressure of making a good bread right out of the gate to everything else the poor girl is juggling.
My grandmother told me that the day before her wedding, when she was just a scared girl of eighteen, her mother gave her a carved pine box, just like the one that had sat on a shelf above the kitchen stove all her life. It’s kind of nice, really, thinking of that chain of women, spanning the decades and centuries.
Now, the reality of today’s world is that new brides don’t give a hoot about making bread.
However, if the breadmaking mood strikes you, here’s a recipe with a starter that only takes one night to set up. The process begins somewhat mysteriously. Flour, buttermilk and onion meld together in the beginnings of a hearty bread.
POLISH SOURDOUGH RYE BREAD
2 (.25-ounce) packages active dry yeast
1 teaspoon white sugar
2 cups water
1 thick slice onion
4 cups rye flour
1 cup buttermilk, room temperature
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon salt
8 cups bread flour
1 tablespoon caraway seeds (optional)
The night before making the bread, in a medium-size mixing bowl, dissolve one packet of yeast and the sugar in the water. Let stand until creamy, about 10 minutes. Stir in rye flour until mixture is smooth. Slip onion slice in. Cover and let stand overnight then remove onion.
The next day, dissolve remaining package of yeast in buttermilk. Add rye flour mixture, baking soda, salt, 4 cups of the bread flour and stir to combine. Add the remaining 4 cups of bread flour, 1/2
cup at a time, stirring well after each addition (you may not need to add all the flour). When dough has become a smooth and coherent mass, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and supple, about 8 minutes. Sprinkle caraway seeds on dough and knead them in until evenly distributed throughout.
Lightly oil a large mixing bowl. Place dough in the bowl and turn to coat with the oil. Cover with damp cloth and let rise in a warm place for about 1 hour or until volume has doubled.
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide into three pieces. Form each piece into a loaf and place in 3 lightly greased 9 x 5-inch bread pans. Cover and let rise until nearly doubled, about 1
hour.
Bake at 350°F for about 35 minutes or until the loaves sound hollow when tapped.
Six
Summer 1988
R
ourke McKnight tried not to act too excited about going to summer camp. He was afraid that if he showed even the smallest amount of pleasurable anticipation, his father would forbid him to go. During the limo ride down Avenue of the Americas to Grand Central Station, Rourke sat quietly, watching the traffic through tinted, bulletproof windows. It was raining, the hard, summer kind of rain that caused geysers of steam to rise from the asphalt.
His best friend, Joey Santini, was riding in the front seat with Joey’s dad. Mr. Santini had been the McKnight family driver since the beginning of time, as far as Rourke knew. It was just a total stroke of luck that Joey was Rourke’s age and that father and son—there was no Mrs. Santini, not anymore—
lived in the service quarters of the McKnights’ building. This was a good thing, since otherwise Rourke would have grown up with no one to play with except Mrs. Grummond’s Dandie Dinmont terriers.
Although the sliding glass privacy window was shut, Rourke could see Joey and Mr. Santini laughing and talking the whole way, in contrast to the quiet, tense occupants of the luxurious back of the limo.
Even though he was twelve years old, Rourke had never been to camp before. His father was against it, of course, and when his father said no, that was that. Period. End of story.
But everything changed when two things happened the same week—the Bellamy family made a big contribution to the senator’s campaign, and Drayton McKnight was given a rare appointment to a committee that was going on a lengthy junket to the Far East to discuss trade agreements that would benefit his district.
Now it made perfect sense to send Rourke away for the summer, to the Bellamys’ Camp Kioga in the Catskills wilderness. When Rourke’s mother was young, she had gone to Camp Kioga, and she thought Rourke should, too.
Rourke had to act all bummed out that he’d be away from his parents all summer. He had to pretend he was just as worried about his own well-being as his father was. He even had to pretend that he wasn’t excited about the fact that Joey would be going to camp, too, so the boys could look out for each other. Rourke knew for a fact that this camp cost an arm and a leg, which his family could easily afford. Not Joey’s, though. He was going to camp on scholarship, which meant Rourke’s father was secretly picking up the tab.
Not out of the goodness of his heart, though. Rourke’s father was completely paranoid. That was what Rourke figured, anyway. The guy was freaked. He was sending Joey to camp so Rourke wouldn’t be alone among strangers. In a way, worrying about attacks on his family probably made the senator feel important. And that was what Drayton McKnight was all about—feeling important.
That, and being perfect. No, thought Rourke.
Looking
perfect. Looking like you had the perfect family and the perfect life. “Make me proud” was the phrase Rourke heard most often from his father. It was a sort of code. By now, Rourke had figured that out. It meant he had to win at every sport he played. Get straight A’s in school. Learn to use his looks and confident smile to win people over so they would vote for his father each election year.
All that stuff, it was so easy. He was big and strong and had no problem conquering any sport he tackled. And getting good grades? All you really had to do was listen to what the teacher said and figure out what he wanted you to say back to him. Rourke was a politician’s son. He knew how to do that.
He couldn’t wait to get to Camp Kioga, where nobody cared what his grades were. He pinched the inside of his lip between his teeth to keep from smiling.
“Your hair is too long,” his father said suddenly. “Julia, why didn’t he get a haircut before we let him run wild all summer?”
Rourke didn’t move. This was a crucial moment. On a whim, his father might decide they needed to head right back uptown, to the ancient barbershop where electric clippers were used to buzz white sidewalls around the ears of hapless boys.
He kept staring out the window. Raindrops raced backward across the glass, the silver tracks like streams of mercury. He spotted two of them that were neck and neck, and picked one as the winner, tensing as it pulled ahead and then fell back. Finally, the raindrop merged with the others and he lost track.
“He did have a haircut,” Rourke’s mother said. She was using her soothing, reassuring voice. The one she used when she didn’t want Rourke’s dad to get upset. “It’s the same cut he always gets.”
“He looks like a girl,” the senator remarked. He leaned forward, closer to Rourke. “You want to spend the summer looking like a girl?”
“No, sir.” Rourke kept staring at the rain-smeared window. He held his breath, praying his dad wouldn’t order the driver to turn uptown.
“It’s fine, really,” Rourke’s mother said.
Way to tell him, Mom, Rourke thought cynically. Way to stand up to the bastard.
“Mildred Van Deusen told me all three of her boys will be on the same train,” his mother continued. “Rourke, you ought to see if you can find them. Maybe you can sit with them.”
Bingo, Rourke thought, watching his father’s interest shift. Rourke had to hand it to his mom. She might not be any good at standing up to his dad, but she sure as heck knew about diversionary tactics.
The Van Deusens were one of the richest, most important families in the district, and anytime Rourke’s dad saw a chance to connect with them, he jumped on it.
“I’ll be sure to look for them,” Rourke said.
“You do that, son,” his dad said, apparently forgetting about the haircut.
“Yes, sir.”
And then, thank God, they arrived at Grand Central. There was a mad shuffle as they got his backpack and duffel bag out of the trunk and made sure he had his ticket and travel documents. The honking of taxi horns and whistles and shouts of porters filled the air. The marble archway opened to a salon that swarmed with travelers and panhandlers, vendors and performers. Mr. Santini came around with an umbrella, sheltering the three McKnights from the rain. Joey didn’t bother trying to fit under the umbrella; he yanked up the hood of his windbreaker, leaped across a puddle and was the first to reach the awning of the station.
Rourke walked between his parents through the entryway. After parking the car, Mr. Santini slipped away to join Joey. The McKnights stopped below the big lighted display board, where they verified the track number and the fact that the train was on time. Some of the people they passed gave them admiring looks. This happened a lot when Rourke was out with his parents. Together, the three of them looked like the all-American family—blond and healthy, well-dressed, prosperous. Sometimes Rourke even sensed envy from people, as if they wanted what the McKnights had.
If only they knew.
Rourke sidled away from his parents. He and Joey exchanged a glance. Sheer delight danced in Joey’s eyes. Some of the girls in their soccer league said Joey looked like one of the New Kids on the Block. Rourke didn’t know about that, but Joey’s grin was infectious.
Camp,
Rourke exulted, and he knew Joey understood his silent glee.
We’re going away to camp.
Rourke wondered if Joey understood how big this was, and how much he owed Joey himself. If not for Joey, Rourke wouldn’t be going anywhere. When the subject of Camp Kioga first came up, the senator had immediately dismissed the idea. It had been Joey who had—in that casual way of his—
named off all the kids from school who were going to summer camp. He’d pretended he was talking to Rourke, but he was careful to mention all the most important families, the kind of people Rourke’s father admired and whose support he cultivated. Rourke had convinced his parents that it was a good idea to send Joey, too, and that had tipped the decision in his favor.
When they reached the track, Rourke said his goodbyes. He and the senator shook hands, his father’s grip crushing hard for a few seconds, as if to leave some sort of imprint. “Never forget who you are,” his father advised. “Make this family proud.”
Rourke looked him in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
Then his father’s attention wandered as he scanned the platform. Here he was, saying goodbye to his kid for ten whole weeks, and he was working the room, looking for constituents.
At least it gave Rourke’s mother a few extra seconds for her own goodbyes. She held him close.
He was a little bit taller than her now, so it was easy for her to whisper in his ear while hugging him.
“You are going to have an amazing time,” she said. “Camp Kioga is just…magical.”
“Julia.” The senator’s voice cut through the moment. “We have to go.”
She gave Rourke one final squeeze. “Don’t forget to write.”
“I won’t.”
He stood on the platform and watched them walk away, slender and fashionable in their raincoats.
His mother tucked her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. Rourke blurred his eyes, and his parents melted together so they weren’t two separate people anymore, but one single being.
SenatorandMrs.McKnight.
All around him, he could hear kids and parents saying goodbye. Some of the girls and mothers were shedding real tears, professing that they’d miss each other horribly and write every day. Mr.
Santini, a big bear of a man, yanked Joey in for a hug, kissing the top of the boy’s head with a loud
smack.
“I’m gonna miss you like ice-cream sundaes, sonny-boy,” said Mr. Santini, unabashedly crying.
Rourke wondered what it would be like to have the kind of family you’d actually miss when you left them.
Camp Kioga was as magical as Rourke’s mother had promised. He and Joey shared quarters with ten other guys in a long wooden bunkhouse called Ticonderoga Cabin. Every single day was packed with activities—sports and crafts, nature hikes, rock climbing, sailing and canoeing on Willow Lake, stories around the campfire at night. They had to sing and dance some nights, which Rourke could definitely do without, but since everyone had to participate, there was no getting around it.
One thing Rourke was good at was putting up with something he didn’t feel like doing. And he sure as hell had endured worse than leading some giggling, sweaty-handed girl around the dance floor, muttering
quick-quick, slooow, quick-quick, slooow
under his breath in time to the music.