A Cookbook Conspiracy (16 page)

For me, the crooked old oaks typified Sonoma County and its rustic, rugged terrain.
Our wine country was not the manicured green hills and refined tourist mecca that
Napa was famous for. No, we were still the Wild West compared to our more civilized
neighbors over the hill. And that worked for us.

Another mile farther and we turned onto Montana Ridge Road and headed toward Dharma.

Things had improved around here since the first time my family had traveled up Montana
Ridge to our new home. Back then, this had been a pitted one-lane gravel road lined
with flat-roofed farmhouses whose front yards featured rusted-out appliances and automobiles
on cinder blocks.

At the time, we kids were not impressed. Where in the world were our parents taking
us?

Nowadays, though, Montana Ridge Road was two—count ’em,
two!—lanes wide and freshly paved. We’d come a long way, baby. Stately oak trees lined
the winding road at intervals, and those boxy old farmhouses had either been spruced
up or torn down to make way for more vineyards. The fact that Dharma was now a popular
wine country destination spot had helped spur the beautification effort.

More twisted, knotted live oaks shaded our way as we drove down Shakespeare Lane—Dharma’s
main street, known far and wide as “the Lane.” We passed through the charming center
of town and began the climb up Vivaldi Way to my parents’ home, situated at the crest
of the hill.

As soon as we parked, I heard the screen door slam and watched Mom and Dad come rushing
down the front porch steps.

“You made it!” Mom cried as she dashed for the car. Today her blond hair was pulled
back in a ponytail. She was dressed sedately in a homemade tie-dyed sage green skirt
that swirled down to her calves, a pale yellow sweater, and a snug, deep green vest
that I knew she’d knitted herself. Rugged brown boots completed the outfit. And yes,
for my mother, that was considered sedate.

Dad wore his usual plaid flannel shirt with worn blue jeans and work boots. As soon
as I opened my car door, he had my small weekender suitcase in his clutches.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said fondly, dropping the suitcase to pull me into his arms for a
tight hug. “Missed you.”

“Missed you, too, Dad.” I breathed in the familiar hints of wood smoke, peppermint,
and Old Spice, and knew I was home.

Mom had gone around the car to greet Derek with a hug, but was back to grab me as
soon as Dad let me go.

“There’s my girl,” she whispered as she held on to me. Finally, she reached out and
stroked my hair a few times. “You look so pretty today. So happy.”

“I am happy, Mom,” I assured her quickly. “Promise.”

She pressed her fingers to the middle of my forehead and chanted softly, “
Om shanti
…
shanti
…
shanti.
”

It was the Sanskrit word for
peace
, and touching the middle of my forehead was like connecting to my center of consciousness,
my third eye. I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders relax. When repeated three times,
Shanti
was said to safeguard the receiver from the three stresses or disturbances brought
on by nature, by the modern world, and by one’s own negativity.

I opened my eyes and met her worried gaze. “I swear I’m okay.”

She sniffled once, then nodded. No tears, thank goodness. I had sympathetic tear ducts
and nobody got away with crying alone when I was around.

“It’s wonderful to be here, Rebecca,” Derek said as he clicked his key to lock the
car doors. “Thank you for inviting us.”

Derek was the only person besides Guru Bob who called my mother by her formal name.
She usually corrected people and told them, “Call me Becky,” but when Derek did it,
she would go all giggly. It might’ve had something to do with that accent of his.

“It’s our pleasure,” Mom said, patting his arm as we all strolled up the walkway to
the front porch. “We’re just thrilled you’re willing to spend time here with the old
folks.”

I snorted at that line. My parents looked and acted younger than anyone I knew. My
siblings and I had been teasing them about their youthful exuberance for years now.

“It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Mom said cheerfully. “I hope you’re hungry
because I’ve made way too much food for lunch.”

Derek tried to be casual, but I could swear I saw his ears perk up. “Did you happen
to make your Crazy Delicious Apple Crisp?”

Derek was a junkie for Mom’s apple crisp. She made it with apples picked fresh from
her small orchard growing on the side of the hill below the back terrace. The spicy,
lightly sweetened apples were topped with crunchy, crumbly, crispy layers of deliciousness,
and she served it with a hard caramel sauce that made grown men moan.

“Of course I did,” Mom said. “I made it just for you.”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider running away with me, would you?”

Mom beamed like a schoolgirl. “Silly man.”

“Don’t tease me, Rebecca,” Derek said, touching his hand to his heart. “When it comes
to your apple crisp, I’m deadly serious.”

Dad slapped Derek’s back jovially. “Don’t blame you, dude. But I’m afraid I can’t
let her go.”

Derek shook his head in mock defeat. “You’re a lucky man, Jim.”

“And a hungry one,” he said, chuckling.

Mom rewarded Derek with a sweet smile as she tucked her hand into Dad’s.

I loved that Derek was able to joke with my parents. For a big, bad, dangerous international
spy guy, he had a great dry sense of humor. It was one of the qualities that had first
attracted me to him. Well, that, and the fact that he was handsome and strong and
sexy and willing to catch me whenever I fainted.

“You’re pretty lucky yourself,” Dad said to Derek.

“Don’t I know it,” Derek said, his lips curving in a private smile for me.

Mom led the way down the wide hall toward the guest room. “I hope it’s okay that I’ve
invited the whole town for lunch.”

“The whole town,” Dad repeated emphatically.

Mom waved her hand lightly. “Well, at least fifteen people, anyway.”

“Sounds like a party,” I said.

At the end of the hall, Mom pushed the door open to the guest room, then left us to
settle in and unpack before everyone else arrived at noon. The room had formerly been
the childhood bedroom I’d shared with my younger sister, China, and often with my
friend Robin. Mom had redecorated it in warm brown and taupe shades to accommodate
more grown-up visitors. Namely, Derek. Thank goodness, because the shocking-pink Hello
Kitty bedspreads and matching lampshades would have been met with his howling laughter.

In my defense, the Hello Kitty motif had been China’s idea.
I’d wanted a Nirvana bedspread, but Mom claimed she couldn’t find one.

Twenty minutes later, Derek went off to track down my dad in hopes of doing a little
wine-barrel tasting while I headed into the kitchen to help Mom.

She was stirring something in a pot on the stove, but turned when I walked in. “The
weather’s so nice, I cleaned off both picnic tables on the terrace.”

“Okay, I’ll set the…Whoa.” I gazed around the kitchen. “You weren’t kidding, Mom.
You cooked way too much food.”

“It won’t go to waste,” she said easily.

“No way.” I arranged glasses on a tray to take outside. “They don’t call us the thundering
hordes for nothing, right?”

Growing up, it had been my father’s pet name for his six rowdy kids. Especially when
Mom would call us in for dinner.

“Is that chili?” I asked, getting close enough to take a whiff of the zesty mixture.
“Smells spicy.”

“Tastes good, too. I think it’s my best batch yet. And let’s see, we’ve also got hot
dogs and turkey dogs, hamburgers and veggie burgers, green salad, potato salad, Savannah’s
special coleslaw, tabouli. Robin baked a cake and I’ve got apple crisp and ice cream.
And berries.” She glanced around, frowning. “Oh, and I threw together a pan of lasagna
and a shepherd’s pie, just in case.”

“Just in case of what? The Apocalypse?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugged good-naturedly. “In case we run out of food. It could
happen.”

Right. “Guess I don’t need to make my guacamole,” I said, frowning at the small shopping
bag that held all the ingredients I’d brought with me.

“Of course you should,” Mom said. “We love your surprises.”

“Thanks, I think.” My family was used to my bad cooking and odd recipes, but this
one wasn’t my fault. A few years ago, I called Savannah to get a good recipe for guacamole,
but our connection
was scratchy and I misunderstood what she said. Instead of “grated garlic,” I heard
her say “grapes and garlic.” The resulting Guacamole Surprise became a family favorite.

I chuckled as I pulled knives and forks out of the drawer to set the tables.

“And, Brooklyn?” she added. “After lunch I’ll perform my protection spell for you.”

That wiped the smile off my face. “Mom, no. It’s not necessary. I’m fine. And I’m
not in danger.”

“But your psyche might be.” She held up her hand to stop me from protesting further.
“Please, just humor me.”

When she put it like that, how could I say no? Besides, I could see her lip quivering
and any minute now she’d start crying. Damn it. Just like that, tears of my own sprang
to life and I surrendered. “Okay, Mom. Sounds good. Thank you.”

“That’s a good girl,” she said, her tone indicating she knew all along I would capitulate.
“And as a reward, later I’ll show you the new goat gland facial I discovered. It’s
guaranteed to obliterate the ravages of time.”

“What ravages of time?” Slightly panicky, I touched my face. “I don’t have ravages.”

“Of course not,” she said pleasantly. “Oh, don’t forget the napkins. It’s going to
get messy out there.”

As I was setting the outdoor tables, China arrived with her husband, Beau, and their
adorable baby daughter, Hannah. I gave them all hugs and kisses, and China handed
me the baking dish she was carrying.

“I brought a taco casserole,” she said.

I laughed. “Thank God, more food.”

“I figured it was probably overkill,” China said, “but we can always take home leftovers.”

“Good point.” I took the casserole and placed it on the side table.

China owned Warped, a beautiful knitting and weaving shop on the Lane. Beau worked
in production for the winery and often gave tours and tastings because he was both
knowledgeable and a
charming speaker. He and China had fallen for each other the minute he showed up in
Dharma six years ago.

Beau passed baby Hannah over to China and headed for the industrial-sized cooler to
grab a beer.

“She wants to play,” China said, and put Hannah down in the play yard Mom had constructed
next to the terrace. We all watched the little girl hesitate before she took a step,
then start walking on the padded surface. Happy with her accomplishment, she tried
to run, but stumbled and fell on her butt. Instead of bursting into tears, she giggled
and pushed herself back up.

I could hear China’s sigh of relief.

“What a little trouper,” I said. “She’s moving faster every day.”

China nodded. “And life will never be the same again.”

Last year, Mom had transformed a portion of her vegetable garden into this dream play
yard for her grandbabies. It was completely fenced in, of course, and the ground was
covered in a hard rubber material so none of the kids would be hurt if they fell.
The fence consisted of bright babyproof plastic panels linked together, and each panel
featured something fun: a ball spinner, a steering wheel with a horn, colorful twirling
shapes, and other goodies for the babies to grab and squeeze.

Toys were strewn across the play yard, along with a bouncy chair and a baby swing.
When the kids got older, Mom planned to add a swing set and a wading pool. I was horribly
jealous of all the fun kid stuff, especially that bouncy chair, but I managed to hide
my bitterness.

The huge oak tree that shaded my parents’ terraced patio was just beginning to sprout
new green leaves. There was still a touch of chill in the air, but the sun made it
warm enough to sit outside if you wore a light sweater.

I helped Mom set the rest of the casserole dishes and salad bowls on the side table
while Dad revved up the grill.

The rest of the guests arrived in quick succession. Savannah
first; then my sister London, her husband, Trevor, and their twins, Chloe and Connor.
Robin and Austin showed up a few minutes later, and Mom declared it was time to eat.

Even though I was close to my three sisters and happy to see them and their families,
I sat with Robin. As usual, in two nanoseconds we were laughing and finishing each
other’s sentences, just as we’d been doing since we were eight years old. And as soon
as we thought we’d caught up on everything that had been going on in our lives since
we’d last seen each other, one of us would remember something vitally important that
we had to share. And we’d be laughing again.

She told me how Austin had finished building her sculpture studio and invited us to
come by during the weekend to see some of her new pieces. I was so happy for her,
but there was a tiny part of me that was sad. Her news put to rest any thought that
she would ever move back to the city.

We had both moved to San Francisco around the same time and had lived near each other
until a few months ago when her friend Alex was murdered in her Noe Valley flat. Robin
hadn’t felt safe there anymore and wondered if she should move back to Dharma. And
then my brother Austin finally stepped up and admitted he’d been in love with her
for years. The feeling was mutual, of course. Robin had been crushing on him since
third grade. Now they lived together in Austin’s home, a mountaintop cabin overlooking
all of Dharma and beyond. I missed her living close by me in the city, but I was honestly
thrilled that they were happy together.