A La Carte (15 page)

 

Mom's upstairs when I come home, on the phone with Pia or somebody, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I go straight into the kitchen, washing my hands and tying on my apron. I can't remember the last time I got in here and did anything. Saint Julia has probably forsaken me. Since Sim's been gone, there's been nobody to eat my experiments. I haven't baked for Vocal Jazz or added to my recipe notebooks for weeks. And since Mom's always dragging me to the restaurant in the afternoons, I don't make my own dinner now, and we usually eat something there. I miss cooking for
me.

Banging around with the pots and pans and the food processor, getting out the good knives, and hunting around to see what's new in the cellar drawer is satisfying, and soon I'm humming along. Mom comes down after a while and leans against the counter watching as I brown the hamburger rolls in the broiler for our hummus burgers and grill some extra onions and mushrooms to go with the tahini sauce.

“Had a good day?” she asks finally.

“It was fine,” I say, trying to figure out if the pineapple salsa in the fridge would go with the burgers. I decide no and opt for tomatoes and avocado instead.

“The new menu got reviewed in the
Metro,
” Mom offers after a small silence, and I look up at her. She's still wearing her loose cotton work clothes and looks tired.

“Yeah? How'd it go?” My mother asks me every day how my day went, and I don't often ask her anything about hers. I feel a little sliver of guilt.

“It was a really solid review, a really good one. Pia thinks that will start to show in our numbers.”

“Cool.” I smile at Mom so she knows I really mean it. “Good for you.”

Mom pulls out a stool and motions for my tomatoes. I slide her a cutting board and a knife so she can begin slicing.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about this. It poses a little bit of a problem for you and me,” Mom continues. “One good review usually means that we'll be reviewed by others—some food magazines, larger local papers, that kind of thing. Things are really starting to change for us now. I feel like I need to get more involved with the restaurant. I may not be able to spend much time finding an internship for you.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

Mom looks unhappy. “Elaine, I'm really going to need you to follow through on this one for yourself. The way things are going—we're going to seriously need to look at hiring another manager, a real one. I've taken human resources classes, but really—this is all over my head. If we're going to be a success—a real success—it's time to take some big steps.” Mom's shoulders seem to slump a little beneath the weight of her words.

“Oh.” I wonder if any other response is required.

“Well, don't sound so broken up about it.” Mom straightens and rubs a hand over her face and sighs. “You're going to find an internship and let me know. And we're still going to take time to do something together over your spring break, even if it's just a day trip.”

The phone rings, saving me from having to defend my lack of enthusiasm. Mom wipes her hands quickly and snags the cordless from the cradle on the kitchen counter.

“Vivianne Seifert.

“Oh, Ana, hi!”

Mom's face lights up and her voice gets louder in that happy way I haven't heard in ages. She picks up the knife again and cocks her head to hold the phone against her ear with her shoulder.

“No, we've been fine! Thank you! It
was
a good review, wasn't it? Pia and I are really thrilled.”

I kind of tune out as Mom keeps talking, slicing tomatoes deftly while she chuckles. I wonder if there's a way to talk Mom into going to Santa Cruz. Maybe I can tell her something about seeing UC Santa Cruz. It'd be educational, after all.

Mom's been breathing down my neck so much I just need to get away. I wonder if this is how Sim felt all the time while he was here. Though if it weren't for him, Mom and I wouldn't have this tension between us at all.

As soon as I think the thought, I feel guilty. It might not be true. Maybe if it hadn't been Simeon, something else would have pushed us in different directions. After all, people grow up….

Mom's still talking, but she looks up at me, her brows quirked into a pantomime of surprise. “Really? She didn't say….” She slices the last tomato, then sets down the knife, holding out her hand to stop me from leaving. I wait, fiddling with my apron strings.

“Ana, that's really gracious of you, but we just couldn't. We…” A long pause. “No! No, of course not. No, it's not that at all. Well…Well, if you're sure it'll be no bother…. No, it sounds like it would be really wonderful. All right, let me look at my calendar, and I'll give you a call tomorrow. And, Ana, thank you. I appreciate this so much. It'll be nice to catch up with you and Kevin.”

I give Mom a curious glance and lean against the counter as she hangs up. “Kevin who?”

Mom gives me a bemused look. “Kevin Haines. That was Ana.”

“Haines?” A terrible suspicion clenches my stomach.

“She and Kevin are going up to their cabin at Yosemite and they invited us up. You know, I remember the year they bought that thing! You and Chris were just—”

I am so far beyond horrified that I can hardly even form the words to interrupt. “Christopher
Haines?
Mom, we're not going, are we?”

My mother gives me a look.

“Mo-
om
!” I know before the word is out how middle school I sound, but I can't help it. This is more than I can take.

“Mom, no. I don't want to spend my whole vacation with Christopher Haines!”

My mother's eyes narrow. “I, I, I, and me, me, me is all I hear from you these days. You're not the only one in this family, Lainey.”

I sigh and prepare for a long lecture. “Well, I'm
sorry.
Mrs. Haines is nice, but Chris is kind of a dork. What am I supposed to do with him for a whole week?”

My mother shakes her head, closing her eyes. She must be more tired than I thought. “Tell me, Lainey. Has this boy who's such a ‘dork' got parents saying they're going to sue me? Does he lie to them? Has he run away from home?”

Shocked, I suck in a breath through my teeth. “Mom! That's not fair. Chris isn't Sim! And anyway, it's only been one time something like that has happened with Simeon, once.”

“Elaine, all it takes is once.” My mother's voice is clipped.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Tension crowds my stomach.

My mother cocks her head. “Did you think I didn't listen to what you said? Did you think I wouldn't look at my bank records, at the dates? You haven't been totally straight about what went on with Simeon, Elaine, and I've been waiting and hoping, but…” She shrugs.

“Mom—” My stomach clamps with dread. “Wait. Let me—”

“You said you didn't give Simeon ‘much' money, and I find a five-hundred-dollar cash withdrawal from my account….”

“But, Mom, that was just—”

“You
said
he came to this house for dinner on Friday, but you made him sandwiches on the rolls I brought home from the restaurant well after you were in bed asleep on Friday night.”

“Mom, I can explain—”

“You
said
you don't know where he went, and you know what, Laine? I don't believe you. I've always been able to trust you before this, and now that I've found that I can't—well, you can look forward to me being a whole lot more skeptical of what you
say,
Miss It-only-happened-one-time. Once is enough to break a trust.” My mother sets down the knife firmly.

“Mom.” I'm groping for words. “This…it isn't a big deal! That was my money from Grandma Muriel. You said that. And anyway…I never meant to lie to you.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Mom says acidly. “But you opened your mouth and did it anyway, didn't you?”

14

It isn't until we're behind the first motor home of the day that I realize just how long this trip is going to take. We're lucky Christopher Haines is driving down with us even though he's been a total suck-up to Mom. At least he's a suck-up who knows the way to a house with a decent bathroom.

Mom's face scrunches up in impatience as we inch up the serpentine roads, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Thank goodness for passing lanes,” she mutters as we accelerate past the bulky vehicle. We made a wrong turn somewhere, and now we're backtracking through the valley floor. We slowly drive past campsites and cinder block bathrooms, skirting cyclists and hikers in an overabundance of plaid.

I shrug and look out the window again. The boulders are immense, making ants of those of us on the road with their incredible height. Wide-bottomed trees snuggle against the thin ribbon of road, and grass and wildflowers struggle to cover every available growing surface. Farther along, the sky seems almost within reach of the massive woods.

“Just look at those trees,” Mom sighs.

“They're giant sequoias,” Chris says, well into his tour-guide act.

“So were you a Cub Scout or what?” I ask.

Chris laughs uncomfortably. “No.”

The little silence that follows makes me happy, even though I know my mother is glaring at me in the rearview mirror. I deliberately lean toward the window and look up. We're dwarfed by dramatic granite cliffs and looming chains of snow-capped mountains. It's actually gorgeous out here.

“So, Chris? What are those little brown metal boxes? Do they recycle up here?” Mom points out the window.

Chris looks over his sunglasses. “They're bear boxes.”

Mom gives a theatrical shudder. “Bear boxes? There are bears?”

I roll my eyes at Mom's theatrical shivers. “Well, we're in the woods.”

Chris grins. “Pretty much anything will get into your food—or your car—if you leave it out, and nothing stops a bear from eating something unless he can't get to it.”

“It's not like that's an issue since we're staying in a
cabin.
” I don't address my comment to anyone in particular, but my mother knows I'm talking to her.

“Well, it's just an issue when you put out garbage,” Chris corrects me. “But the Dumpsters are pretty far from the cabins, and they lock too.” He turns back to Mom.

“Bears aren't really a problem, Mrs. Seifert. I've seen a couple of bears up here before, and mostly they're pretty nonaggressive.”

Whatever. I roll down the window and smell the air, tinged with pine and wood smoke. When we were packing, Mom left a box on the counter for any seasonings and specialty items from the kitchen she thought I'd want, since cooking in the back of beyond is bound to be a little limited. As I look at the long stretches of woods and quaint A-frames, I wish I'd packed more than fresh herbs and dried spices. I feel like I should've brought the whole refrigerator. Plus pots.

“Tent-cabins are what they call those little huts.” Chris points out a distant campsite from his post in the front passenger seat. “They've got outlets. You can bring a heater.” Mom makes some agreeable noises about tents and camping in general, like she's an expert, and I shake my head in disbelief. Chris offered to sit in back when we got started, but Mom told him he'd better navigate, and then she proceeded to yak for three hours. It's taking forever to get to the cabin. Between tourists braking abruptly and pulling over to snap pictures of the gushing waterfalls, ground squirrels, tall trees, and patches of snow in the woods and Mom not actually listening to Chris when he tells her to turn, I'm going insane. Plus, Mom's been doing this subtle interrogation thing the entire drive, asking Chris about his grades, his friends, and his college choices, which I think is pointless. After this long cooped up in the car, even if he were someone interesting, he'd be working my last nerve. He's just too patient, and he and Mom are having too much fun.

“The old Wawona Hotel is just off that way,” Chris continues, pointing. “They've got a Pioneer Center or something around there too, you know, horses and buggies and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, Lainey should like that,” Mom says brightly, her eyes checking for my reaction in her mirror.

Chris laughs. “Yeah, it was pretty good when I was about eight or nine.”

“Oh.” Mom smiles again. “Well, I'm looking forward to seeing it anyway.”

He shrugs. “There's a nice golf course out there, uh, the Mariposa Grove, and…the Wawona has a decent restaurant. Maybe you'd like to go, huh, Lainey? You think?”

The thin bubble of personal space I'd constructed between the front and back seats pops abruptly.
What? Did he just ask me out? Is he kidding me?
“I didn't bring any clothes…. Actually, I thought I'd…um…cook something.”

“Lainey,” Mom chides, “where's your sense of fun? That place is a national landmark, and they've got a world-famous chef!”

“She's just not in vacation mode yet,” Chris says agreeably.

“What
ever,
” I mutter.

“You can cook us something tonight,” Mom says, trying to sound placating. I sigh and look out the window.

“It's a nice place,” Chris says, turning around. He seems very intent. “You'd like it. We should go.”

I blink at him. He's practically ordering me to go out with him.

“Chris…”

“Mom and Dad are having some friends of theirs over tomorrow night,” Chris adds. “It's a card party. It'll be more fun to go out. You'll thank me.” He shrugs.

“Fine.” I have no idea why he thinks his company is preferable to his parents', but I'll say just about anything at this point to get him to turn around and leave me alone already.

The cabin isn't as posh-looking as I expected, at least from the outside. It's old and comfortable, an A-frame nestled beneath tall trees with dark-stained redwood decks and leaf litter on the stairs. There's a sweet, piney smell in the air. It's quiet, except for the sounds filtering from the cabin across the street, which is filled with hyperactive adults running up and down the stairs, unloading their SUV.

Mr. and Mrs. Haines meet us at the door, looking relaxed and happy. When I see Mr. Haines, I realize how much Christopher takes after his mom, who shares his olive coloring, broad shoulders, and dark wavy hair. Mrs. Haines is wearing a bright floral wrap skirt, T-shirt, and clogs, and I feel sweaty and overdressed in my jeans and hoodie. Mr. Haines looks like a Clark Kent–type dad, mild-mannered, tall, and soft-spoken, wearing rimless glasses. His silvery hair is cropped military short, in contrast to Chris's twisty mop.

“Welcome! We're so glad you could make it!” Mrs. Haines says, enveloping Mom in a big hug. As always, she talks a mile a minute, inquires about the drive (
isn't it gorgeous?
), exclaims over the traffic (
it was horrendous!
), thanks Mom for fetching Chris from school, kisses him soundly on the forehead (earning herself a look of mild reproof), and generally makes our appearance a noisy and confusing event. Mr. Haines shakes my hand, takes the box of kitchen stuff we brought from home, and retreats behind the dining room table with a vague smile. He must do that a lot.

“Thanks for inviting us, Mrs. Haines,” I mutter dutifully in the limited space between Mom's gushing and Mrs. Haines's welcome.

“Oh, you're grown up now, Elaine—you're old enough now to call me Ana,” she insists, squeezing my shoulder with a friendly hand. “We're so glad you're here. But we'll catch up later—Christopher, show them their rooms!”

Mom and Mrs. Haines have chattered away any feeling of awkwardness I might have had about spending time in the cabin. It is clean and comfortable-looking, and the airy rooms make me think of reading quietly during long evenings and getting up early to see the sun. The carpeting upstairs is straight out of the seventies, some kind of brown pile, but it's soft and thick. The walls are a light tan instead of the homestead pine planks I expected, and the bedroom has bunk beds. Mom's right on my heels when Chris shows us where to dump our stuff and points out the bathrooms.

“Do you want the bottom bunk?” Mom asks politely. I shrug. What I really want is for her not to share a room with me, but I can see she's going to, and she's going to be chipper and upbeat and ignore the fact that I'm grumpy and not really speaking to her.

I dump my stuff on the bed and call out to Chris, “So, is there anyplace to get groceries around here?”

“We're mostly stocked.” Chris appears in the hallway. “Mom and Dad usually take care of the shopping on their last day and then buy fresh stuff the next time. Is there anything special you wanted? What do you want to cook?”

“Whatever.” I shrug, suddenly feeling tired.

“Don't you usually cook at home?” Chris wants to know.

“Well…”

“Oh, Lainey, don't be modest! This girl has won contests.” My mother comes out of the room and places a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Why don't you two go in the kitchen and see what you need? I saw a grocery store on the way up if you want anything more.”

If I wanted to cook before, I fully don't want to now. I turn around and give her a look.

“Lainey…go. Show your stuff, huh?” Mom pushes me toward the stairs.

Gritting my teeth, I go down to the main level. Mrs. Haines—Ana—has put out soda and a plate of vegetables, dip, and chips on the counter, with paper plates for us to help ourselves. The pantry is open. Mrs. Haines looks like she's taking inventory, and on the counter are boxes of breakfast cereal and biscuit mix, cans of beans, boxes of pasta, and frozen foods. Mrs. Haines straightens from putting something into a cabinet.

“Are you guys hungry yet? I was going to start dinner, but I haven't been shopping yet, and I wasn't sure what you wanted…. Lainey, what do you like to eat? Shall we order pizza? Curry Village actually has a place where we can pick some up, or get burgers, or—”

“Lainey's cooking,” Chris announces. He seats himself on a bar stool. “She's an amazing baker; she always brings stuff to Vocal Jazz—you've got to taste something of hers.”

Chris makes it sound like I came just for the sole purpose of cooking a meal for him. “No! I don't have to! I just thought—”

Ana interrupts with great enthusiasm. “Marvelous! Christopher, stay in the kitchen and pick up some pointers from this, huh? You'll be cooking for yourself when you go away to college next year.”

I am the focus of three pairs of interested eyes as the Haines family lines up on the other side of the bar and watches my progress. I want a cooking show someday, but this studio audience is way too close. If I were at home, this would be a piece of cake.
Cake…
I see a box of mix. But we can't have that for dinner. “Um…”

Without my notebooks, I'm lost. This is my vacation. I wasn't planning on showing off for anyone but myself.

“Well…” My mind is gibbering as I survey my domain. Where's Saint Julia when I need her? The kitchen is huge, with a gas range, a double oven, what looks like some kind of grill backed by a brick wall, and lots and lots of pine drawers and cabinets.

“Uh…” I'm rescued by the sight of a bag of apples. “If you have an apple corer…”

Ana frowns. “Well…no. But will a knife…?”

“No problem,” I say quickly, switching gears from the baked apple idea I was going to use. “Christopher, if you could slice some apples…”

“Apple pie?” he asks shrewdly.

No dice, smart guy.
I can't stand making pastry crusts. “Crumble.”

“Huh.” Chris sounds mystified.

The quick dessert is already in my head, but with five people, I've got to make something else reasonably speedy and filling. Chris gets busy slicing the four apples I handed him, and I leave him to his mother's interference (“Thinner, honey. She said ‘thin.'”) and ponder the main event. I cast around, desperately looking at the groceries on the counter. Mom and I usually have fresh food around the house, but the canned beans and chicken broth give me an idea. If only there's some frozen corn…. I grimace when I find canned, but it's better than nothing.

“Chowder,” I mutter. What will I need? I strain to recall an episode of a Jacques Pépin cooking show. Then Mr. Haines brings over the box of ingredients from home, and I take a deep breath with relief. My cilantro is a frothy green flag, waving me onward. I fill a glass with water and stuff the herb into it after snipping off the stems. This way, it will be fresh for a while longer.

“Need any help?” Mom appears at my side, beaming smugly.

I ignore her expression. “Menu suggestions,” I say, feeling overwhelmed. “I'm thinking a corn chowder with maybe some muffins?”

“Oh, I have a mix,” Ana interjects. “I found one in the back of the pantry.”

My mother gives me a level look, and I return it.
Mix.
We never use mix. That's blasphemy at our house. But it's better than nothing by far. “Thank you,” I say fervently. I turn to my mother.

“Do you think there's hominy at the store?”

“Hominy? Well, I'll look.” Mom purses her lips doubtfully. “If not, it'll be fine without, won't it?”

I nod. I prefer to have everything I need when I cook, but you can't think of everything.

“If you're going to the store, I'll go with you, Vivi,” Ana announces. “Loren's coming down Tuesday night—I think we'll need a little more food. At least some frozen pizza. Loren eats like a sumo wrestler. You know that boy tries to live solely on ramen noodles at school?”

“Apples are done,” Chris announces.

“Great. You guys have a muffin tin?”

“Uh…” Chris starts slamming cupboards. “Think so…”