Notes for the Unauthorized Biography

I was thirteen and waiting at the doctor’s when I realized that my daddy owned one of the companies that printed several of the magazines on the table. Sunrise, Tomorrow’s Gourmet Living Digest, for example. It was the same story at the hairdresser, the dentist and the therapist. Wherever you wait my daddy has a good chance of grabbing some of your time.

When I was thirteen my father divorced his third wife, my second stepmother. I told my therapist that it was okay that wives came and went in his life. He still loved my mother the most and if she were alive he’d still be married to her. I believed it then because my daddy told me so. He believed it then. He still believes it. It’s convenient.

Maybe that’s why I love him as much as I do for a man with an ego the size of a midwestern state and business scruples that would make the Mafia blush. He’s strictly legal: he doesn’t dump toxic waste or sell anything that causes cancer. He just makes money off the advertising by people who do.

They say that I’m a lot like him. The Paine Webber analysis on the parent company has a paragraph about me which includes the phrase “heir apparent.” Nice of them not to say heiress. Heirs are presumed to work while heiresses spend. I do spend, that is true, but I work darned hard. Hard enough to be able to ask Daddy for business favors.

That was how it all began. I asked Daddy for a favor because a woman with blue-violet eyes had given me the perfect idea for mixing profitable business with extremely satisfying pleasure. I’d only met Valkyrie Valentine once. I’d never heard of Jamie Onassis—she’s not related to the Onassis family. I have since come to the firm conclusion that women with big names are big trouble.

Chapter 1

Jamie ducked under a tray laden with large entree plates and snatched her pastry bag from the counter next to the rinse sink. “Damn it, Chuck, I wasn’t done with it.”

“Keep track of it then. Marcus told me to clean up.”

Fuck Marcus. Jamie thought it as loudly as possible, aware that she could have said it and no one would have heard her over the din of the kitchen with all stations working at fever pace.

A waiter breezed by her, saying in passing, “I’ve got two chocolate soufflés, no raspberry on one.”

“Two chocolate soufflés, no raspberry on one,” Jamie echoed. She quickly whipped egg whites back to a stiff peak, then broke the frothy whites by slowly blending in a small amount of creamed dark chocolate. Then she poured the now cocoa-tinted whites back into the dark chocolate mixture, folding the two mixtures together with gentle strokes until dark and light were blended. She deftly filled two soufflé cups, neatly encircled with parchment chimneys, and set them in a baking pan a quarter-full of hot water. She repeated to herself, “Steve’s soufflés, timer number four,” after she put the pan in the pastry oven.

She handled more than a dozen dessert orders before the soufflés were done. She enjoyed the artistic end a little bit, but filling in for the flu-stricken pastry chef for the night was intense. She flocked deep blue plates with powdered sugar, then ladled on nearly black chocolate sauce. Teaspoon dollops of white chocolate sauce followed around the perimeter of the dark sauce, then she used toothpicks as paintbrushes to create decorative whorls in the white sauce. She carefully set truffles with mint-chocolate leaves and other decorations on the beds of sauces just as she had seen Antoine do every night for the last four months. Marcus had not been happy when Antoine had insisted Jamie fill in for him.

She took a short mental break after what seemed like the umpteenth Chocolate Curl Fantasy—a scoop of lemon ice surrounded by long, sensuous curls of four different chocolates—and wondered what Aunt Emily would think of the desserts. They looked nothing like anything Aunt Em had ever served at her boardinghouse, but the boardinghouse guests had left the table just as pleased and a whole lot less poor. Jamie yummed to herself—a slab of bread and cinnamon-roll pudding with buttered rum sauce would be delicious right about now.

When the soufflés were done she arranged thick milk chocolate curls on more powdered-sugar-flocked plates, then set the cups with their towers of soufflé in place in the center of each. The waiter arrived just as she finished and whisked them and a single bowl of chilled raspberries away while Jamie followed with a boat of warm milk chocolate sauce. She liked Steve—he had a sense of panache. At tableside he punched down the soufflés like an artist, then stepped back with a flourish to let the chef-hatted, apron-wrapped Jamie add the final touch.

This part she loved. The guests were watching their soufflés deflate with equally deflated expressions, but when Jamie poured in the sauce and the soufflés swelled again their eyes lit up. Steve added the chilled raspberries to one plate while Jamie faded back to the kitchen.

At the end of the night, more then seventy-five desserts behind her, plus two dozen chocolate soufflés, Jamie heaved a sigh of relief when the bus crew came in to finish cleaning in the kitchen.

Juan and Taikem gave her heartfelt looks of gratitude upon discovering that she had already dumped her many bowls and saucepans into one of the sinks to soak. Antoine was not as tidy. But Jamie had learned to appreciate tidiness after years of scrubbing up after her aunt. Aunt Emily cooked fast and economically in terms of pans used, but she could never be described as neat.

Marcus suddenly loomed over her. “You were behind. Some of the waiters complained.”

Jamie knew she had not been behind. She clenched her teeth and counted to ten.

Steve’s voice floated over from the other side of the kitchen where the waiters were putting on their raincoats. “If you’re talking about what I said earlier, it was somebody complaining that the soufflé took twenty-five minutes—typical tourist. The menu even says to allow thirty minutes and they complain when Jamie does it in twenty-five.”

Jamie was grateful to Steve for putting in a good word, but she knew it was pointless. Marcus disliked her as intensely as he disliked all women. He barely tolerated them as waiters but certainly did not want one in his kitchen. He probably believed that Jamie’s ovaries would somehow spoil the soup.

The waiters were disappearing into the rainy night. With the aroma of food dissipating, Jamie could smell wet sidewalk and damp asphalt. Between the rows of workstations and hanging pots and pans, Jamie saw Steve glance in her direction. She shook her head slightly—she was not in need of any white-charger routine on his part. It was only delaying the inevitable.

“I don’t know why Antoine puts up with your standards,” Marcus said sharply. “The desserts were sloppy. I’m sure everyone noticed. Word will get out and that’s it—we’re out of business. Do you have any idea the perfection it takes to keep a five-star restaurant in business? Do you think people pay eleven dollars plus tax and tip for a messy soufflé?”

He paused as if waiting for an answer. She knew he just wanted her to open her mouth as if to answer so he could cut her off. She didn’t give him the satisfaction, which just made him more angry. His face was so red she wondered if he’d have an apoplectic fit on the spot. No such luck, she thought, then mentally smacked herself for an impulse Aunt Emily would have considered uncharitable.

He began his favorite rant. “I’ve sunk everything I own into this place, and people like you are going to run me into the ground…”

Not strictly true, Jamie thought. Antoine owned half of the Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant and had confided that last year he’d made more than ever before because of San Francisco tourism going up and the economy remaining strong. Enough people could afford eleven-dollar desserts.

She liked Antoine a lot—he was not easygoing by any means, but he wasn’t a shrieker like Marcus, who ranted three or four times a night that they would close down. She stayed because she was still learning from both Marcus and Antoine. Antoine made breads and pastries with style and flavor—no guest ever left Le Monde feeling as if they’d eaten beautiful but flavorless air for dessert. And every week Marcus surprised her with a new entree—this week it had been roasted pork seared in mustard and brown sugar with a sweet champagne, prune and apricot sauce. It was delicious. Jamie had sent the recipe to Aunt Em, noting that the addition of sweet potatoes and carrots would make the dish a hearty stew. The champagne was optional.

Marcus was winding down and Jamie hadn’t heard even half of it. If Antoine had been here he’d have shut Marcus off in midstream with one of his quiet observations.

“I really think we have to reevaluate your program here. You think you can just do the fun stuff. Antoine’s spoiled you, letting a first-year intern handle pastries. You don’t know a ganache from a giblet. When I left the C.I.A I was happy to be a pantry chef for two years. Two years I chopped vegetables and made salads—not even dressings! Two years. And you’re not even from a proper cooking academy. I don’t know what he sees in you. I’d think you were sleeping together if he wasn’t queer—”

“—just like you.” Jamie hated it when Marcus called other people queer as if he wasn’t himself. “Antoine will be back tomorrow and the pastries will be fine and I’ll go back to salads and breads and you won’t go out of business, okay?”

“Don’t patronize me.” Marcus bit off whatever he had been going to call her. Probably “you little bitch,” which was his favorite phrase for everybody, male and female alike. He yanked his chef’s hat off his head. “You think this is easy, you wear it.” He twisted it and threw it on the floor, then stormed into the main restaurant to swear at the clean-up crew still wiping down chairs and vacuuming under tables.

Jamie’s fingers only shook slightly as she folded her own chef’s hat and then unwound her aprons. It had been a neat night—nothing had seeped through all three layers. She could head home without looking as if she’d bathed in her dinner. She’d seen Antoine finish the night looking as if he’d committed an ax murder.

Juan looked up from the sink. “I don’t know how you take it.”

“I don’t listen,” Jamie said. “It’s how I deal with most men, except for you, darling Juan.”

“And they say dykes don’t flirt.”

“Juan, I learned it all from you.” It wasn’t idle flattery. Juan had told Jamie she was too serious, so she had tried to pick up some of his glib ways with marginal results. As for being a dyke—well, she hoped there was no minimum requirement for number of lovers to qualify for dykehood. Judging from the personals and articles in the local gay weeklies, her body count of one might not be enough to qualify.

When she stepped out into the dank night she lifted her face to the mist and inhaled the heavy scent of salty rain and drifting fog from the nearby bay. For a brief moment she was home in Mendocino again. She’d forgotten her coat and umbrella that morning, but the temperature couldn’t have been below sixty. After two winters in Philadelphia this weather seemed tropical by comparison. Philadelphia was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer, but the Culinary Science Academy had a good reputation without costing more than a graduate degree from Harvard. Marcus was always pointing out his own Culinary Institute of America credentials, but Jamie knew it had taken him twelve years to pay off the student loan.

Her extension classes were the “improper” academy credentials he scorned. When she’d learned all she could—to the point of feeling she would forget what she’d learned from Aunt Em—she’d decided enough was enough. No more classes and no more snow. She had nursed her ailing Hyundai back across the country, pausing briefly at the Continental Divide to heave her snowboots into a rest area trash can. San Francisco had been near enough to home and offered a wide range of opportunities. She’d settled in, found the job at Le Monde and worked her brains out, six days a week. Aunt Em’s hours had been longer, seven days a week during the summer, but she’d been working for herself. Slaving for Marcus and Antoine was wearing thin.

The rain was washing away the stress of the day. She made her way from the crowded sidewalks of Fisherman’s Wharf to the Columbus Street bus and from there to the Ocean Beach trolley to within a block of the three-bedroom apartment she shared with two other women. It was close quarters, but they all worked long, non-overlapping hours and saw each other very little. Chris was a flight attendant and was rarely home. Suzy would just be getting up for her shift at UC Med Center and would not be bothered by Jamie’s shower to get the stench of the restaurant out of her hair. Who would have thought that so much good food could smell so foul put all together?

By the time Jamie got home she was soaked through and she decided hot chocolate and toast was recommended. KatzinJam yowled an urgent request when she opened the door. She said a weary hello to Suzy, quickly sprinkled some dry food in KatzinJam’s empty bowl, then wriggled out of her wet, smelly clothes. Her shower was brief and very hot. When she emerged KatzinJam was disappearing into the closet where his favorite middle-of-the-night sleeping place could be found. Jamie knew that as soon as KatzinJam smelled the toast he’d be back.

Suzy was just rinsing out her late night breakfast dishes when Jamie padded into the kitchen to make hot chocolate.

“Want some?”

“I’d love it, but I’m running a bit late.” Typical Suzy. “This came for you, by the way. It was under the door when I got home.”

“Thanks.” Jamie glanced at the FedEx envelope. Probably from Aunt Em, who was fond of sending notes and recipes via overnight mail so that Jamie could still smell whatever she’d been making that day in Mendocino, four hours or so up the coast. She got out the milk and cocoa powder and was happy to find her whisk and saucepan where she’d left them. She and Suzy were very orderly, but Chris was a whirlwind.

“See ya,” Suzy called from the front door.

“Later,” Jamie answered, and then it was just her and KatzinJam in the apartment.

She slathered her favorite cranberry marmalade on the toast and settled into the apartment’s one comfortable chair with the steaming mug, plate with toast and the FedEx envelope within reach. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she put her feet up on the ottoman. Like most restaurant workers, relaxing to Jamie meant getting off her feet.

After a sustaining swallow of creamy hot chocolate, she opened Aunt Em’s FedEx letter.

It smelled of vanilla. Sure enough, a seed fell out of the envelope along with several sheets of paper covered in her aunt’s neatly penciled handwriting, a manila envelope and a picture. The picture was a studio portrait of Aunt Emily—snazzy. She’d written “A few months ago” on the back.

“Dearest Jamie,” the letter began, “if you are reading this I am dead.”

Jamie blinked several times, then shook her head. She had misread it, that was all.

“Dearest Jamie,” she read again, “if you are reading this I am dead.” She clutched the arm of the chair, suddenly feeling like she was falling. Her heart pounded as she struggled to comprehend the rest. “I learned not long ago that I was dying, and decided not to tell anyone, not even Kathy, until I absolutely had to. As I write, I have only a few days left and forgive me if I ramble. My thoughts now are of you, and all you have meant to me. Kathy has been away on a trip and returns tomorrow and she will know when she sees me that I am going.”

The next sentence was hard to follow; it had been erased several times.

“I figured that at this last point in my life I was allowed some privacy and the right to take care of my affairs my own way. So I went to a lawyer a month or more ago and have taken care of all the details. By now Jacob O’Rhuan will have disposed of my ashes off the coast, everything taken care of as I wanted. Liesel will see to that. I couldn’t bear the idea of you or Liesel weeping next to my grave. Whenever you see the ocean you’ll know I’m near. My legacy is the people I’ve loved and fed in my life, and that’s quite a lot as you know.”

Jamie put the letter down and closed her eyes. For several minutes she could only breathe raggedly.

She would have told anyone who asked that Aunt Emily was the glue of her life—more than a mother, more than a teacher, more than a friend. But she couldn’t have conveyed, not fully understanding it herself, the way Emily Smitt had been a part of her.

Her mind spun with unanswered questions. What had she died of? Had she suffered? When did it happen? Why had she kept Jamie away? Liesel—poor Liesel. Having to do this by herself. They had so many friends, and Liesel was a strong woman, but she must have felt so alone. It was the middle of the night—no sense calling her when she might be getting some badly needed sleep.

Other, murkier conflicts surfaced. How was Kathy—Aunt Emily’s only child—handling this? Thinking of Kathy brought the usual twist of pain, tempered with compassion. Surely Kathy had seen past her problems with her mother during the final days. Perhaps she had even realized that her mother and Liesel hadn’t deserved being called perverts—but that didn’t bear thinking about. Hoping Kathy would change had cost Jamie too many years already. And yet she still ached for Kathy to realize that what Jamie could offer was as lasting and as true as the love between Aunt Emily and Liesel, between any two people, for that matter.

She hadn’t had to confront death like this before. She hardly knew what she thought of an afterlife or if Aunt Em could watch over her. Maybe Aunt Em now knew, from some distant, happy place, that Jamie had become who she was—chef, hiker, sailor, lesbian—because Aunt Em had been those things, and Jamie had always longed to be just like her. And she’d succeeded reasonably well, except for when Kathy had refused to be Jamie’s Liesel.

Jamie pressed her hands to her eyes. Stop thinking about that, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to cope with today, and that’s enough.

When she was able, she finished her aunt’s final letter. “I know you will forgive me for being so businesslike about my end. I’m sure it won’t really surprise you. Of course, I wish I’d known five years ago this was all the time I had for retirement. I’d have never sold the Waterview and could have left it to you. I know how you loved it. But getting some warning let me put my affairs in order. Liesel gets the house, of course, as the survivor on the deed. She has a very good pension from the army so I know she’s taken care of. I’ve saved a bit over the years and got a nice sum for the inn, and when you put everything together they make a tidy amount. I was rather surprised. I’m sure Kathy knew it down to the penny, but since she didn’t approve of her mother’s life I’ve decided not to give her the chance to disapprove of my money.”

So Kathy hadn’t reconciled with her. Kathy was still—Kathy.

“I want you to have it. I’ve always loved you as if you were my daughter, and you gave me such joy and love when you came into my life. Liesel loves you too. Kathy’s marrying a rich lawyer, and she just doesn’t need this. You do. I want you to buy a place where you can cook the way you want to. Make yourself happy. Above all, beloved Jamie, make yourself happy.—Aunt Emily.”

Aunt Emily was dead.

Kathy was getting married. To a man.

An hour passed before Jamie could make herself open the manila envelope.

She gasped, then went back to crying.

She was stiff and cramped when she awoke in the chair. KatzinJam was biting her ankle. Her head and eyes throbbed, and her back refused to straighten completely as she hobbled to the kitchen. KatzinJam bit her two more times before Jamie managed to pour some dry food into his bowl.

In a daze, she made herself a bowl of cereal and dumped a can of Katz’s favorite food into his bowl, once again empty. After she rinsed up she found herself mechanically setting out ingredients. She was opening the can of evaporated milk before she fully realized what she was doing. German chocolate cookies were her favorite, and they never failed to provide comfort.

She halved the recipe in deference to the apart­ment’s tiny oven and even tinier cookie sheets. Even with four cookie sheets in rotation, it took over an hour to turn out two dozen cookies. She settled in the comfy chair again with several warm cookies and a large glass of milk, while KatzinJam angled for complete possession of the ottoman.

The aroma and taste of the cookies took her back to the Waterview like no photograph ever could. They were probably her earliest memory of Aunt Em. She’d been so unhappy and frightened, abandoned to the care of a woman her mother had said was related to the half-sister of the man she thought might be Jamie’s father. In other words, a perfect stranger who hadn’t said no when Jamie’s mother had asked if she could leave Jamie there while she “pulled herself together.” Seven-year-old Jamie had been used to her mother’s habit of parking her with people, but it was usually someone she knew. She’d learned to call a lot of people “Aunt” and “Uncle.”

Somehow, she’d known her mother wouldn’t be back that time. She’d heard the desperation in her mother’s voice, and internalized, if not actually understood, her mother’s last words to her: “I hear the schools are good and the other kids seem real nice. Be good.”

She curled into the corner of the chair, chewing on caramel and coconut. Her nose dripped steadily—the sleeve of her robe was a mess, but she didn’t care.

Her gaze fell on the manila envelope and she felt dizzy. Her aunt had wanted Jamie to buy a place where she could cook the way she wanted. She could quit Le Monde today and start looking, but that required initiative. It required making a plan. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

She couldn’t make any plans until she had answers to some of her questions. To her relief, Antoine answered the phone when she called the restaurant and he easily agreed to give Jamie a few days off as bereavement leave. Marcus would have a fit.

She packed a small bag and left a note for Suzy. It was clear and breezy when she finally got into the Hyundai. KatzinJam scrambled into his accustomed place on the passenger seat. Highway 1 took longer, but she could stop to picnic at Seal Beach, just as she and Aunt Emily—and Liesel, when she’d been along—always had. She might as well start her journey with pleasant memories.

Chapter 2

“You must think you’re pretty good.”

“No, just pretty capable.” Valkyrie Valentine kept her expression, always too eager to smile, as serious as possible. Her nose tickled. She hoped she didn’t sound nasal.

“So tell me more about your concept.” The agent looked bored to Val, as if he’d already made up his mind that whatever she had to say wasn’t interesting, especially since she wasn’t wearing anything low cut.

You’re not boring, she told herself. She let herself smile, finally, and launched into her spiel.

“My concept is a one-hour program called A Month of Sundays. Instead of finding This Old House sorts of projects to fix up, we’ll concentrate on more ordinary houses and apartments, suburban and urban, and show what can be done if the viewer is willing to invest four Sundays—four shows and four weeks per project. Everything from home renovation, interior design, adding a room for a nursery—there’s a baby boom on you know—and the sort of undertaking that a typical homeowner will see as achievable.” Don’t babble, she reminded herself, even if his eyes were rolling back in his head. “The kind of project that can be done without a lathe, router or any of the other expensive equipment you’d find in The Yankee Workshop.”

“Sort of like a women’s show. Like what’s her name, Lynette somebody.”

Val gritted her teeth but kept her smile. “Somewhat like Lynette Jennings, yes, but Lynette stays almost exclusively inside the home and her projects are not covered in minute detail. We’ll do the occasional outdoor project, some gardening, and like I said, devote four hours over four weeks to a single home, not five minutes. And I want to emphasize that the projects can be done by working people. You won’t have to be unemployed to find the time to do my projects.”

“You’re aiming for cable?”

“Cable or PBS, yes.”

“Hmm.”

God, Val hated the “Hmm” moment. Her nose itched. All plastic surgeons should be shot.

“Well, it’s an interesting idea.” He looked bored almost to sleep. “If I hear of any outfit looking for something like it I’ll get back to you, Ms. Val…ky…Val.”

Val shook the agent’s limp hand and kept herself from wiping her hand on her slacks until she was out the door.

He’d get back to her, would he? Right. Not an ounce of interest in taking the project to Viacom Corporate for The Learning Channel. Or even to any of the local PBS stations.

She munched on an oversized cranberry-apple muffin from the bakery next to the Muni station and then shoved her way onto the N-Judah toward home. Her column was due at the end of the day and she needed to do one last proof.

The streetcar clanked through tunnels and up some of San Francisco’s less challenging hills. All the while Val resisted the urge to rub her nose. It would just make it puffy. She opened her satchel then closed it again. Mr. Bored hadn’t wanted even to look at her collection of clippings from her column in Sunrise. Given his lack of interest in anything she said, why on earth had he agreed to meet with her after she’d cornered him at the Bay Area Cable Producers convention?

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dirty window. Oh yeah. Sometimes she forgot. With her nose now suited to her face, men were certainly more eager to meet with her. Like Bored, however, they readily agreed to meetings but listened hardly at all once Val insisted they meet in an office, not a hotel bar.

Maybe I should have kept the schnoz. She looked at her profile. No, she was better off without the Durante. Although unprepared for the dramatic change in her appearance without it, she was ready and more than capable of going in front of a camera, in addition to pounding a keyboard.

She popped open a diet Coke when she got home and changed out of her “I’m serious, damn it” suit into jeans and a sweatshirt. A favorite sweatshirt, too. Deep purple with white lettering: That’s Ms. Muffdiver to You.

She tripped over the laundry pile on her way from the bedroom to the living room, dropped into her chair at the crowded desk and snapped on the lamp. The light wavered, then steadied. She remembered she hadn’t picked up more fuses on her way by the hardware store and hoped that nothing blew just because she chose to turn on two lights and the computer. The precarious quality of the electrical supply was just one of the reasons the apartment rented at a minimum, which was still most of her budget. But she didn’t have to have a roommate—pesky things.

She had just opened her document when the phone rang. Kim, her editor.

“I need it before five, please, Val. It’ll keep me from killing myself.”

“I’m just about done.”

“Your food thing is really working too. We’ve added three new food advertisers.”

“Thanks. I try.” No need to tell Kim just how much of her columns were imagination when it came to cooking. She had added some serving and menu ideas at Kim’s behest, but it required some serious research. Food that didn’t come out of a box first was a mystery to her. One ex-girlfriend had complained that Val could ruin Cheerios.

She now had a stack of useful cooking references—Joy of Cooking for one. It helped, to a point. She’d read the entry on folding egg whites six times and still didn’t know what it meant, but she could use the word fold properly in a cooking sentence now.

“Could you mention some brand names? Pick anything. We might be able to corner some more advertisers that way.”

“By brand?” She hated the idea.

“By brand, sweetie darling. And send it to me ASAP. I’ve just got to have it this afternoon or heads will roll.”

“That explains why all the men have high voices.”

Kim snarked—an indelicate snort of laughter that Val enjoyed getting out of her from time to time. Kim was far too ladylike. “You are so bad.”

“And you are too stressed.”

“It’s my job, sweetie darling. And yours.”

Val muttered under her breath after Kim hung up. She understood that for most magazines ad revenue was tied to editorial content. If you wanted fast-food restaurants to advertise, you’d better have an article specifically mentioning that advertiser or at least french fries and burgers. It was even worse in so-called women’s magazines. Ads for lip liner were invariably placed near articles on how to use lip liner or on the qualities of good lip liner which just happened to be the same qualities described in the ad. Her inner journalist was too pragmatic to be overly appalled.

She scrolled through her document one last time. She found a few places to add brand names. She used Sunrise’s own recommended best buys as a source. At least then she knew she wasn’t recommending junk.

My guests are almost here and it’s lovely to greet them with a bank of beeswax candles in the foyer. It sets the mood for the evening and the light is wrinkle-friendly. Light, jazzy music drifts from the four speakers newly hidden in the living room. This project eliminated the speakers as boxy eyesores and the diagrams below will show you just how I did it.

Val’s only stereo equipment was a boom box, but she had built the hidden speakers for someone else. Same thing. Sunrise had wanted Val to adopt Martha Stewart’s personal style and so she had. It was actually easier for Val than the impersonal how-to articles she’d started with. It seemed to her that a reader would be more interested in reading about how to do something if they had a reason why.

Choose your speakers for their quality and size. They don’t have to be identical. In particular, choose them with an idea as to where you’re going to hide them. I chose a small Klipsch speaker because the diameter of the woofer was two inches less than the depth of the bookcase I was going to hide it in. My matching mahogany end tables hide a matched pair of Sonys. But don’t forget you need the means to balance the sound between speakers so a large speaker doesn’t drown out the others. An investment in a good quality receiver might be necessary to pull this project off. (See Aug ’97 p. 98 for Consumer Electronics Special Report for Best Buys tips on receivers). Infrared hookups, though expensive, can eliminate wiring worries completely.

She wasn’t crazy about the brand name thing, but if she stayed with good quality and generally available merchandise she knew she wasn’t leading anyone astray. She mentally constructed the speaker hideaways as she proofed the article for the last time, then skimmed the closing paragraph.

Music and a menu should complement each other. Jazz calls for light and sparkling fare. Simple ingredients handled with care can make a fine feast. Grapes rinsed with spring water and splashed with champagne for Louis Armstrong. Mashed sweet potatoes with honey as an artichoke dip for Chet Baker. Art Tatum? Chicken Marsala and giant sweet cheese ravioli with blanched sugar-snap peas. Dave Brubeck? That’s easy—Napa Valley Chardonnay shimmering in crystal. If food be the music of love, dine on.

Shakespeare, the hack, would forgive her. She e-mailed the finished article, then settled into her well-worn comfy chair, avoiding the broken spring out of habit. She dug through the magazines stacked on the floor to find the Architectural Digest article on poured concrete flooring. She found it, eventually, behind the crate she used as an end table.

She wondered for a few minutes about heading to happy hour where the girls were always aplenty. No, she needed an early night if she was going to look her best for the video shoot in the morning. Her nose was swelling slightly and sleep was the best way to help that. Any activity that required breathing through her nose for any length of time was right out. She hadn’t done any heavy breathing for over five months now. All plastic surgeons should be shot.

VAL: The next step in this process is simple, but messy. Let’s see how Janice is coming along. (to door behind you)

JAN: Well, Val, I’m just about ready to pour the grout solution on our tile counter.

VAL: Nice duds.

JAN: (laughs) I learned the hard way to wear a slicker and boots when working with liquid grout.

VAL: (to camera) This solution is easy to mix and pour. It can even be tinted to shades more complementary to your tile color.

(chit chat/pour/and out)

VAL: (to camera) We’re going to leave this to set while we check on Stan’s progress with the bathroom flooring.

“Cut!”

Jan clapped her hands. “That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I could get used to this TV stuff.”

“The proof is in the tape.” Val worked her jaw back and forth and then grimaced. Her face muscles felt as if they couldn’t stop smiling. Her contacts stung, but her eyes were too dry to tear. She longed to take them out, but the contacts were the only way she could read the teleprompter. All the liquid in her body seemed to be in her nose. She sniffled.

“Your face could get stuck in that position.” Mike cruised past her with his high-tech steady cam on his shoulder, leaving Val to lug the portable teleprompter.

“I’m afraid I’m going to end up like Sue Ann Nivens.” Val trailed after Mike.

“Is Sue Ann your latest barfly?”

“Mike, you are so out of it. Sue Ann Nivens…the Happy Homemaker…the Mary Tyler Moore Show... television. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“Television. What a waste of time.”

Val rolled her eyes at Stan, who was setting up the bathroom shot. “This from a man who is supposed to help me get famous. I’m doomed.” Belatedly, she realized she should have argued with Mike’s innuendo that Val was over acquainted with barflies.

Stan grunted as he whacked the underlayment down in one corner. “I’ve known that from the beginning.”

“You never know,” Val began optimistically, but then she had to laugh. “I’m doomed.”

But she hoped her shared investment in good equipment for Mike to do the filming would give her a professional quality demo tape. It was cheaper than hiring a pro, that was for sure. Pitching her own show would be easier with proof that she could perform in front of a camera. It hadn’t been hard to convince Mike to do the filming. He was practicing shooting outdoors and lighting and wanted some money for better equipment. He was good enough at it that Val hardly cared that he couldn’t name a single Brady.

Not even Marcia. He’d also known friends working on a small construction project—Jan and Stan appeared to be getting a kick out of being filmed. The home­owner had agreed, too, even though it meant that the day’s work wasn’t as productive as usual, but it was only for one day.

They worked steadily until the light began to fade, then Mike packed up. He promised them all professional dubs of the tape, then disappeared down the rutted track to the road.

“I’m starved.”

Val started. Jan’s voice in her ear had taken her by surprise. “So am I. Is that steakhouse in town any good?”

“Don’t know. Feel up to an adventure?”

Vibes. Val was getting good vibes from Jan. She had thought Jan and Stan Marsh were husband and wife. Now she realized they both had the same slightly bent nose and high forehead. Brother and sister. Well, alrighty then.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

She followed Jan’s Toyota into the outskirts of Healdsburg and decided that Jan’s long legs and quirky smile were endearing. Certainly worth getting to know. Highway 101 was clogged heading north from San Francisco, but the southbound journey was easy enough.

The steakhouse was crowded, giving them time to down beers and attempt conversation over the bar babble. Val learned that Stan and Jan were indeed siblings, and that Stan was also “family.”

“He said you were cute,” Jan shouted in Val’s ear.

“Typical man.” Val had to lean back awkwardly around a pole at the bar to get into Jan’s audible range. “Who wants to be cute?”

“I’d settle for cute. But you’re…not cute.”

Val grinned. “Thanks.”

Jan’s eyes sent a You’re Welcome as she took her time assessing Val’s not-cute qualities. Five months, Val thought. She was really enjoying this even though she was out of practice.

By the time they had eaten, neither making any bones about being hungry after the day’s labor, Val was very conscious of Jan’s knee pressing against hers under the table. They were sitting far closer than the size of the booth warranted. When the waiter offered dessert and coffee Jan declined.

“We could take in a movie if you like,” Jan suggested.

Val nodded to make the waiter go away, then said with a quirk of her lips she couldn’t suppress, “A movie is not quite what I had in mind.”

Jan’s eyes half-closed and Val heard her catch her breath. The booth was not nearly dark enough to do what she wanted, which was to kiss Jan thoroughly, and damn the consequences to her sinuses.

“Did you notice the motel across the street?”

Val nodded. She let her knees part as Jan’s hand slid slowly between her thighs.

“Why don’t you get us a room,” Jan whispered, her palm firmly against the seam of Val’s jeans, “and I’ll get breakfast.”

“It’s a deal.” Her hips tilted to give Jan more access. They tipped all by themselves. Val’s ability to make conscious decisions was fast slipping away.

They left the restaurant at a slow walk. Each step felt like foreplay—the sound of Jan’s thighs rubbing together, the light brush of Jan’s shoulder against hers. As they crossed the motel parking lot Val took advantage of a patch of shadow to put her arm around Jan.

“Wait for me right here,” she said. She didn’t want to be too abrupt, but she couldn’t help but give in to the urge to brush her lips across Jan’s neck and earlobe.

Jan was obviously not feeling very patient either. She hummed her pleasure and slipped her hands under Val’s sweater.

Val’s nuzzles turned quickly to half-biting kisses as she worked her way to the hollow of Jan’s throat. She went weak-kneed when Jan’s fingertips deftly found and encouraged Val’s swelling breasts.

“You want this, don’t you?” Jan’s question required no words. Val’s body answered in quivering yesses.

She tore herself away from the delicious attention Jan was paying to her breasts only when she knew she had two choices—get a room or do it on the ground.

She was back as quickly as possible and they stumbled toward the room. Jan’s jeans were unbuttoned and Val’s bra undone by the time they got the door unlocked and stumbled through it. Val kicked it shut as Jan pulled her to the floor.

They didn’t make it to the bed right away.

They went right to what they needed. Jan shoved Val’s sweater out of the way and feasted on the swollen flesh of Val’s breasts. Val shuddered and bit back an unnecessary plea, then groaned with delight as her hand finally made its way past too much cloth and buttons to the heat of Jan’s clasping thighs.

She slid her fingers through Jan’s shuddering wetness and offered up her breasts for all the attention Jan wanted to give them. It was hard to concentrate. The part of her that controlled her fingers was losing focus.

Jan gasped. “Hurry!”

“Hold still for a moment,” Val managed to say, but Jan ignored her. Val managed to tear her breasts away from Jan’s mouth and get enough of a grip on Jan’s jeans to pull them down. She slid under Jan until she could curve her hand inward.

Jan froze as Val entered her, then ground herself onto Val’s fingers. “Jesus. How did you get me like this?”

Val could have asked the same question. She was aching for the same delicious treatment she was giving Jan.

Jan’s orgasm was sudden and convulsive. Val wrapped her legs around Jan’s thigh, bringing the energy of Jan’s shaking against her own need.

Jan finally rolled off her onto the floor. “Jesus.”

“I assure you, he’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Shaddup,” Jan said, her voice edged with fondness.

Val raised herself up on one elbow and shared a smile with Jan in the dim light from the window. Then, knowing that Jan was watching, she brought her hand, covered with Jan’s essence, and slowly ran her tongue along her index finger. She felt drunk on sex, and it was a fantastic feeling after five long months without even a kiss.

Jan said huskily, “You can get that right from the source.”

“I should tell you that I—” Val began. That wasn’t the right way to go about it. “I haven’t had a chance to, I mean I have, well, there’s a chance that, I guess I’d say I don’t know if—shit.” She slumped on the floor. She congratulated herself for having thoroughly ruined the mood.

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve never done this before?”

“Not with this nose.” Val, you idiot. You know she’s going to laugh.

Jan laughed. And why wouldn’t she? “Well, I suppose a new nose could make certain things different.”

“I have a temporary condition,” Val admitted miserably. “At least I hope it’s temporary. I can’t really breathe through my nose for any long period of time.” She really didn’t want to belabor this. Why didn’t I just do it and make the best of it?

“I suppose you’ve never had sex with a head cold.”

Val’s sense of humor reasserted itself. “Head colds only stick around for seventy-two hours. They drink all the milk and don’t bring their own Kleenex. Lousy lovers.”

Jan tickled her, then suggested they move to the bed. She shed the rest of her clothes and lounged on the sheets with her body accessible from every angle. “I don’t care if it takes you all night to reperfect your technique.”

Val hid a nervous swallow as she pulled her sweater over her head, kicked her shoes off, and shinnied out of her jeans. She straddled Jan’s bare thigh. “Maybe I need a refresher course before I give it a try.”

Jan sat up and drew Val’s mouth to hers for a sensuous kiss. Her lips descended to chin, to jaw, to throat.

“Please,” Val whispered. She lifted her breasts to Jan’s mouth, then threw her head back in surrender. She was soon on her back and ecstatically aware that she’d forgotten nothing about what it felt like to be with a woman.

“It seems to me,” Jan said, after Val had recovered her composure, “that you just spent a long time breathing very hard through your nose.”

“I did?” Val thought about it. Paper-thin apartment walls had taught her to clamp her mouth shut when she wanted to scream. Jan was right. A slow smile spread over her face. Her sinuses were just fine—she should have tried this sooner. “Well then, come here, woman.”

“I intend to,” Jan said. She put her hand on the nape of Val’s neck, lightly massaging the taut muscles. Val purred her approval, then let Jan pull her head down.

Jan was so upfront about having enjoyed Val’s company for the night that Val was only the teensiest bit annoyed when Jan made it very clear that there were no emotional strings attached—Jan was stealing her lines. But they did agree to call each other. It had been too good not to.

Back in her apartment Val settled in for an afternoon of reading, glad that no one was around to see the silly smile she couldn’t stop. It was good to know she was fit as a fiddle and ready for love. Plastic surgeons no longer needed to be shot. Yesterday’s gray skies had given way to blue and she pushed the sofa over into the sunlight and stretched out like a cat.

She woke up ravenous and in a panic because she heard a strange voice in her apartment. A woman’s voice. After a moment she realized it was the answering machine.

“So let’s have a weekend, okay? Ever been up the coast at all? We could dine out and sleep in.” Jan laughed.

Val scrambled for the phone. “I was asleep,” she confessed.

“Funny, I needed a nap this afternoon, too. Then I got to thinking about why and decided to call you.”

“I’d love to go away for the weekend. Which one?”

“Weekend after next. Do you want to stay someplace romantic and cozy or—”

“Someplace with thick walls.”

Jan chortled. “You read my mind, you wicked girl.”

“Do we have to wait until then to see each other?”

“I have a family thing to do next weekend. Sorry.”

Val sighed. Well, she’d gone without for many moons, so two weeks was a piece of cake. Besides, she had her own work to do. “We’ll just have to make the most of it, then.”

“I could make a suggestive reply to that, but phone sex is really not my thing.”

“Okay, I hear the sound of goodbye.”

“Never goodbye, mah precious one,” Jan oozed, in a thick French accent. “Just ta-ta for now.”

Val chiseled a box of macaroni and cheese out of the freezer and crossed her fingers while it microwaved that she wouldn’t blow a fuse. She peered at the bubbling contents and decided it wasn’t as old as she had thought. She burned her tongue on the first bite, then gobbled the rest.

She settled down in front of the computer for the evening to write the core of her next Sunrise article. Tomorrow she could go for a long walk in Golden Gate Park, then out to a renovation project she was overseeing for an absent owner. Monday she had two more appointments with agents. Maybe Mike would get her the demo tape in time for those meetings. If she kept at it long enough someone would take some interest. Surely someone would. Of course they would. Wouldn’t they?

Chapter 3

The first glimpse of the small town perched atop the gray-green headlands brought fresh tears to Jamie’s eyes. She willed them away. She wanted to have some semblance of equanimity when she saw Liesel.

The whitewashed buildings were dazzling in the late-afternoon sun. Offshore, a tall bank of fog waited for its moment to blanket the town in quiet, sending the tourists back to their lodgings or into one of the half-dozen restaurants. She turned off Highway 1 onto Lansing Street. When she passed Union she didn’t turn, but instead continued down the slope of the headland toward the bluffs. When she turned off the engine the first thing she heard was the low lament of the foghorn.

KatzinJam wandered away from the car to do some private cat business, but Jamie stayed in the car for some time, watching the sun drop behind the fog. In a single moment the bright afternoon dimmed to early evening, and the wind curling through her open window snapped cold against her cheeks. Aunt Emily had loved that moment. How many times had she stopped everything she was doing to step out onto the porch with her coffee to feel the day reclaimed by the relentless pattern of coastal weather? Poor Liesel, she thought suddenly. Another afternoon over and she’s all alone.

Mendocino was too far from San Francisco for a casual visit. Distance, and a ten-hour workday six days a week, had kept her from visiting Aunt Em since her return from Philadelphia last year. Since deciding to leave Mendocino for cooking school she’d only returned once, over two years ago, and the inevitable meeting with Kathy had damaged her self-esteem so much she just couldn’t risk it again, not until she’d done something, made her mark, anything that helped her hold her head up under the torment of Kathy’s flaying tongue. She wondered if learning to cope with Marcus would help. She was sure to meet Kathy if she stayed in Mendo for any length of time.

She’d written Aunt Em weekly—sometimes more often. She sent her a videotape the school made of her class. Aunt Em mentioned Kathy only in passing in her letters. She knew why Jamie stayed away so long. In one letter Aunt Em sent a recipe for spanakoppita, noting, with a touch of wistfulness, that she hadn’t made it in thirty-five years because it reminded her too vividly of her first love. All wounds heal, she’d written, but they do take time. Jamie had wondered then if she was trying to comfort her. Most likely. And what a letter writer Aunt Em had been. Almost a lost art in an electronic world.

Her thoughts wandered as she watched the mist gain its first inch of rocky land. As it crept toward her car she inhaled the salty aroma on the wind and let the sound of seagulls and waves fill her ears. She was home. It had been too long.

KatzinJam was gnawing on Jamie’s overnight bag by the time Jamie pulled up in front of the house Aunt Em and Liesel had shared after selling the Waterview. Liesel had two cats, so Jamie assured Katz there was food forthcoming.

Liesel opened the door before Jamie was halfway up the walk, her arms spread in greeting. They wrapped around Jamie with a fierceness that warmed Jamie’s aching heart.

“I knew you’d come,” Liesel whispered in her ear. “She wanted it this way. I wanted to call you, but she wanted it this way.” The rest was lost in a rush of heartfelt German that Jamie half-understood from Liesel’s early attempt to make her bilingual.

They sat over Delft blue demitasses of Liesel’s incredibly strong coffee. Liesel welcomed KatzinJam, told Hansel and Gretel to be friendly, and set KatzinJam in front of the food dish. Jamie was amazed that the three animals didn’t even spit at one another, but Liesel had that effect on animals and people. On everyone but Kathy, actually.

Jamie had never been in the house, but the cups, the table, the linens, the aroma of chicken broth from the familiar stockpot on the stove, the jolt of the coffee on her nerves—they were all home. She felt parts of her filling up that she hadn’t realized were empty. But the biggest emptiness, she knew, would remain.

“It was her pancreas. The cancer was there. Do you remember when she was ill last winter?” Jamie nodded. Liesel’s rolling R was delightful to hear. “That was when they found it. She was having that chemotherapy and after two months of not being able to keep a spoonful of anything in her stomach for more than an hour she stopped going. She had lost thirty-five pounds—imagine that.”

It was hard to imagine. Aunt Em had been a large woman, broad-shouldered and tall. Rubenesque, Liesel had always said. Still, thirty-five pounds would have left her gaunt. “But the picture she sent, she looked wonderful.”

Liesel was nodding. “Yes, as soon as she stopped that chemotherapy she felt better. She hadn’t felt ill before it, but the doctors said go, so she went. But when they looked again, after the two months, they said there was no improvement and with the treatments she would live perhaps eighteen months. Without it, probably not even a year. She said she wasn’t going to make her last months of life an agony. She stopped going and felt much better for quite a while.”

“I wish she’d told me.”

“You were just settling into your life. She didn’t want you to give it all up to worry over her. I think she was afraid you’d try to convince her she should go back for treatments.”

“I might have.” Jamie sipped the coffee and let it zigzag through her nerves. The way Liesel made it should be illegal.

“When she began to feel ill it happened very quickly. She was worse every day. It happened so fast. I expected it, but I was still stunned when she…” Liesel bowed her head over her cup.

“I know.” Jamie patted Liesel’s hand. “Don’t relive it, liebchen.”

They sat in silence while the dusk turned to night. Liesel stirred, finally, saying, “I’ve made some dumpling soup. I knew you would be here today. It will only take a few minutes to finish.”

Dumplings…oh my. Liesel’s dumplings floated on broth in defiance of gravity. Jamie set the table, automatically falling into the routine of life before she had left home. One of the first things Aunt Em had taught was that a set table was a sign of civilized behavior. Liesel ladled the rich soup into thick stoneware bowls patterned with delicate wildflowers—wildflowers Jamie had looked at every day of her life since arriving in Aunt Em’s home.

Like the German chocolate cookies, the soup was incredibly comforting. Liesel was more of a gossip than her aunt had been, so Jamie caught up on what was behind a divorce Aunt Em had mentioned and shared Liesel’s outrage that a new merchant was petitioning to widen Lansing Street to four lanes.

The bed Liesel tucked her into, just as if Jamie were twelve again, was the one she’d always known, from the room on the third floor that had been hers. She could almost smell Aunt Emily’s apple cobbler in the oven and hear the scratchy Louis Armstrong recordings that had often brightened an evening.

KatzinJam curled up as close as possible to the middle of the bed and before she would have thought possible, Jamie was asleep.

Banana pancakes greeted her in the morning and Jamie heeded Liesel’s advice to visit old stomping grounds and see if she could find Jacob O’Rhuan, who had disposed of Aunt Em’s ashes.

Jacob was easy to find. When Jamie opened the front door, he was on the steps.

“Come away in,” Liesel called from the kitchen.

“I thought you’d be here,” Jacob said in his booming voice. “Do I smell pancakes, m’darling?”

Jamie let herself be drawn back into the house and even ate another pancake while Jacob downed six or seven.

“She told me I’d know where a good place was, and she was right. I automatically went out to my favorite place to watch the tide. Where you can see the town but not the cars and people. Nice place.” He forked the last bite of pancake into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully and added, “I’ve got a tourist charter tomorrow. If you crew for me I’ll take you by.”

“I’d love to,” Jamie said quickly. She hadn’t been on the water for years.

Jacob smiled, his beard bristling where deep-cut laugh lines pulled tight. He’d been Aunt Em’s friend for over forty years, had wanted to marry her after her husband died. But Aunt Em had known by then that friendship was all she needed from men. Jacob had been a little suspicious of Liesel Hammond when she’d become part of Aunt Em’s life, but that had mellowed into lasting friendship too. It all would have been idyllic if Liesel had lived with them, but Kathy had made that impossible.

“I’ve been hearing,” Jacob added, “that you’ve gone and got yourself a fancy culinary degree.”

Jamie shook her head. “No degree. Just lots of classes.”

“And you been putting any of it to good use? I’m thinking I could use a good caterer in town again for the charters. Hasn’t been the same since Em stopped filling my orders. The Waterview sure hasn’t been the same either. Liesel here is a fine cook—”

“But dumplings and pancakes are my limit. I’ll never have Em’s imagination or her way with pie crust.” Liesel turned quickly to the stove.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying,” Jamie said into the awkward silence.

“Well, now, Liesel will be wanting you here.”

Liesel plopped one last pancake on Jacob’s plate, serene once more. “We haven’t even had a chance to talk about it. My door is always open to you, sweetling. Always will be and for as long as you need it.”

“Well, I have a job.” A job she was growing to hate. “But Em left me her money, you know that, right?”

Liesel sat down and fixed Jamie with a no-nonsense stare. “As it should be. You were more of a daughter to her than—I can’t even say her name. I never told Em just how I felt about Kathy because it wouldn’t have served any purpose. She’s a bitch of the first order and I’m glad she won’t benefit a dime. You do what you want. I did my twenty in the army, and I’ve got all I’ll ever need.”

Jamie swallowed hard, aware that if Liesel hugged her she’d cry again. She blinked furiously to keep the tears back. Kathy was a bitch of the first order, but that didn’t change Jamie’s lingering regrets or the if-onlies she played in her head when she was lonely. She was aware that Jacob was querying Liesel with a glance and that Liesel gave a slight shrug in response.

Jacob set his coffee cup down with a thud. “Well, how about you throw something together for me tomorrow? I’ve got about seventy dollars to spend on sodas and snacks for twelve. Nothing really fancy, but tasty counts.”

“Okay,” Jamie found herself saying. It would be something to do. And crewing would be a blast. “How about crab puffs and finger fruits and vegetables, and some rolled sandwiches?”

“Sounds delicious, m’darling.” Jacob counted out the cash and winked. “I’m assuming you’ll be keeping enough of that to cover your time. And there’s the usual crew pay tomorrow. Jeff’ll be there too.”

“I’d love to see him again. Thanks.”

Jacob drained his third cup of Liesel’s coffee—which would keep him awake for three days, Jamie thought. She had missed the squeak of his slicker and boots. The screen door slammed behind him.

“That man could wake the Titans,” Liesel said fondly.

“His heart is as big as his voice.”

“I don’t want to push you, Jamie, but think about what you want to do. I know it was a lot of money Em left you.” She took Jamie’s hand. “She longed to know you were happy.”

Jamie squeezed Liesel’s fingers, noticing the extra wrinkles and spots that had come over the years. “I know. But I don’t think I know yet what will make me happy. I just know what won’t.”

Liesel let go of her hand with a sigh. “She won’t ever change. She’s marrying that big-shot lawyer. What a donkey’s behind he is.”

Liesel had always been the repository of Jamie’s turmoil over Kathy. She just hadn’t been able to tell Aunt Em much more than the basics. She loved Kathy. Kathy didn’t love her. “I don’t believe she’ll change. I just wish I could put it behind me.”

“Well, you just take a breather here for a while, then. Things will seem much clearer after you get the city air out of your lungs.”

Jamie grinned, suddenly lighthearted. “I think you’re right about that. And I think I’ll go for a walk, like you suggested.”

“Call if you won’t be back for lunch. I was thinking of turning out some sour cream biscuits.”

Jamie was at the door, but she rushed across the kitchen to give Liesel a bear hug. “I will stay, if only for your biscuits.”

“Don’t make promises yet, it’s too soon. Now get on with you.”

The fog peeled back as Jamie walked up Union Street toward Lansing. She peeked into stores and when she saw a familiar face she went in for hugs and condolences—she had missed the genuine human warmth of the small town. Her aunt had been well-regarded and each embrace felt like a loving tie being wrapped around her heart. She would stay because this was home. And Kathy be damned. She couldn’t let Kathy make her stay away anymore. She’d already cost her the last years of Aunt Em’s life. It would be a long time before she forgave Kathy—or herself—for that.

Her footsteps led her unerringly toward the Waterview. The old inn faced Main Street, a few doors down from the much more splendid Mendocino Hotel. Aunt Em hadn’t wanted the fuss of daily check-ins and maid service, so the inn was really a boardinghouse for seasonal workers, with a full scale eatery on the ground floor. Aunt Em preferred calling it an eatery because her food was simple, inexpensive and plentiful. It was the kind of place where two dollars on the counter bought you an endless cup of coffee and a slice of pie, with some change left for the waitress.

Well, that’s how it had been. Jamie peered through a dirty window and saw that her aunt’s scrubbed wood tables topped by glass had been replaced by fancy black lacquer. A chichi neon sign read “Dining Room.” The menu on the wall was gone and she saw a waitress—could that be Darlene?—handing a tasseled gold card to a diner.

The dinnerware and food coming from the kitchen looked the same, though. Maybe the new owner had thought some frills would bring in more customers. She glanced at the menu in the holder outside—yikes. Coffee and pie would cost five bucks. No wonder the place was sparsely filled, even though early lunch was approaching. Sure it was offseason and the tourist trade was just a trickle. But there was no one she recognized inside except Darlene. Local customers had kept Aunt Em going. Tourist season was a bonus with more than enough extra trade from folks grateful for a no-frills meal that helped out the budget.

For that kind of money you could be at the posh Mendo Hotel, or over at McCallum House. The dinner prices were almost what the world-famous Cafe Bdaujolais, just up the street, commanded. Her aunt had never tried to compete with the haute cuisine in Mendocino—it was too good.

Jamie slipped through the front door to catch Dar’s eye when she finished with her customer.

“Jamie, sweetie, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Dar’s hug was the biggest of the day, so far. She had worked for Aunt Em for years and had apparently carried over to the new regime. “I’m so sorry about Em, but I have to tell you it was a relief. She was in such a bad way, I’m glad she was finally released. Come have a cup, no, you’re drinking Liesel’s, how about some soda or water? Sit over here, sweetie, the counter’s gone, I miss it.”

Jamie took the seat Dar indicated and smiled inwardly, remembering how Dar’s voluble nature had sold slices of pie by the dozen.

Dar dropped her voice. “I won’t suggest you have anything to eat. It’s overpriced and doesn’t hold a candle to anything Em turned out. Don’t know where Bill found this cook—second one in four months. Bill’s in the back, he says I gab too much. Be right back.”

Jamie watched as Dar delivered a check, filled three coffee cups and cleared away plates. As she took the dishes to the kitchen Jamie could tell the meals were half-eaten, and from what she saw she didn’t blame them. Burnt burgers and canned vegetables. The fries looked like dough.

Dar set a piece of pie in front of her. “Thought you’d want to see what they have the nerve to call Emily’s Special.” She whisked away to deliver a check.

Jamie took a bite and put the fork down with a shudder. It was canned cherry pie filling on a store-bought frozen crust. Nothing wrong with the crust, really, but it needed a special filling to compensate for the lack of flakiness. The topping was decent, with small bits of coconut, but it didn’t save the pie from mediocrity. Aunt Em would have been mortified if anyone thought the recipe was hers. Jamie wondered how the new owner was staying afloat.

A man with a deep scowl peered out from the kitchen. He saw Jamie looking and faked a genial smile. “Welcome,” he boomed.

Dar went back to the kitchen, saying as she breezed by, “Bill, this is Jamie Onassis, Emily Smitt’s niece.”

“Jamie, well, it’s a pleasure,” Bill said. “I really admire the way your aunt ran this place. If I do it half as well I’m a happy man.”

Jamie made polite noises, lied about liking the tabl

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 782