Family Tree (23 page)

Then

A
nnie was soaring when she realized her documentary was nearly done. She had shot hours and hours of raw footage of Martin, had taken hundreds of still shots of him, his craft, his world. When it came to Martin Harlow talking about himself and his work, there was no dearth of material. Yet he managed to be compelling, whether talking about foraging for ramps and morels in the springtime, or finding the perfect presentation for a simple dish. He was as generous with his time as he was with his cooking.

She disappeared into the project, editing late into the night, culling through the hours of footage and splicing together the story with his words, ambient noise, music, street scenes, clips from their drive up the Hudson Valley, touring organic farms. The making of this film became more than simply an assignment. While working on the final cut, she hit a creative zone she'd never found before. Going for hours without stopping, she was fevered, almost high. She had no sense of time passing, and when her mobile phone rang at five in the morning one day, she realized she had been up all night. She found her phone too late and missed the call, but there was a message from her mother: “Gran is sick. You need to come home.”

Annie slept in her grandmother's bed that night, the way she had as a little girl when she was lonely in her own bed. The room was down the hall from the one she'd occupied as a child. And just like when she was young, she would lie amid the downy comforters and pillows while she and Gran talked about life and food, and family and dreams.

This time, there was a special poignancy to their conversation. Gran's illness had come suddenly and she was in hospice care, refusing categorically to try invasive and risky treatments. She was determined to exit her life the same way she had lived it—on her own terms, in her own time. She was extremely frail, but the lively light in her eyes still glimmered when she gazed into Annie's face. “You're very special to me,” Gran said. “I know you're aware of that, but I still want to make sure you hear those words.”

“Aw, Gran.” Annie had been fighting tears from the moment she'd boarded the train from New York. “Please don't leave me.”

“I won't,” she said with a gentle smile. “Keep me in your heart, and you'll always know where to find me.” With a trembling, paper-light hand, she stroked Annie's hair. “And yes, I know it's not the same. Nothing stays the same, ever.”

“I hate that.”

“No, you don't. Big changes are what keep us moving forward.”

“Aw, Gran,” she said again. “I don't even have the words for how sad I am.”

“Then think of the wonderful times. What a beautiful life I've had. So full of everything important. It's still beautiful today.”

“I'm glad you can say that,” Annie said. “I'm glad I'm part of it.”

Another smile, sweet and tired. “It's lovely to see you going for your dreams.”

“Is that what I'm doing? Going for my dreams?” Annie's voice wavered. She was losing the one person who truly understood her. The idea
frightened her so much. “This is the only place in the world that feels like home to me. But when I think about what I want for myself, it takes me far away from here.”

“Ah,” said Gran with a slow, sage nod. “These choices aren't always easy, but the answers will come. Be patient with yourself. Listen to yourself.”

Annie offered a wobbly smile. The advice sounded remarkably similar to what Professor Rosen had told her. “I would, but I keep contradicting myself.”

“I was very unsure of myself when I married your grandfather and moved up from Boston. In those days, it was like going to a foreign land. I didn't know if I would fit in here in the northern woods. I had no idea whether or not I would love living on a farm and making sugar, or if I would find friends. As it turned out, I found my whole life here, all I ever wanted, and many things I didn't know I wanted.”

“How did you know Grandpa was the one? I mean, you had your whole life in Boston. Your family and friends. And then you met a farmer from Vermont . . . He must have seemed so different from everyone you knew.”

“He was. Making a life with him seemed so unlikely for a city girl. And then I had a key moment. Do you know what that is?”

“A key moment. Tell me.”

“That's the moment when everything changes. There's before, and then after. And once a key moment occurs, there's no going back to before. You make a choice, and it's like ringing a bell. You can't unring it. A key moment is a feeling. Your heart tells you. The point is, you have to pay attention.”

“Do I not do that?” Annie sighed. “A key moment. I will have to look for one.”

“Then I have no doubt you will find it.”

“I'm not even sure I am going to like the things I want,” Annie confessed
. “I've loved everything about my studies. I've learned so much. I have big ideas and ambitions.” She smoothed the quilt over Gran's shoulder, feeling the delicate, birdlike bones underneath. “Things like that keep me busy. But sometimes I get so lonely I ache all the way to my bones. I have friends, it's true. So many of them are pairing off now that we're through school. Three of my roommates are already engaged.”

“Do you want to be engaged?”

“No.” Annie's reply came swiftly. “I mean, not anytime soon. It would be amazing to be in love again, though.”

“And you will be.”

“When?”

“You and your burning youth. You don't get to choose when. You just have to stay open to the possibility.”

Annie thought about the guys she'd met in school. She went on dates. She let them get close. And then she let them go. Every time she met someone, her thoughts always circled back to Fletcher Wyndham, and the firestorm of emotions he stirred in her. No one she'd known since then measured up.

She turned on her side and tucked her hand under her cheek. “I don't want to have to be in the world without you, Gran.”

“You don't have a choice, my love. I know you're going to be all right.”

“I won't. I'll fall apart.”

“If you do, then we both lose. Because it means I failed to teach you anything.”

“You've taught me everything.”

“No. You're just getting started. Everything you need to know is right here.” Gran touched Annie's forehead. “You simply have to know yourself and know what you need. And what you want. And how to get there.”

“Simple,” Annie whispered. “Gran?”

“I'm here.”

“Is there anything you regret? Anything you wished you'd done?”

“Not that I know of. If there was something I wanted, I did it. With your grandfather, in the kitchen, with the family. I have no regrets. That's quite a blessing, isn't it? To have no regrets.”

Gran smiled, but it was a tired smile. Mom said she slept a lot. Last night after Annie's arrival, the hospice nurse had met with the family, helping them prepare for the road ahead. Saskia Jensen was a wise, incredibly kind woman who listened more than she talked. One piece of advice she'd offered occurred to Annie now.

“Saskia told us we shouldn't leave anything unsaid,” she told her grandmother. “Have we said everything? How can that be possible?”

“We're very lucky, you and I, Annie. I know you love me,” Gran whispered. “I've felt that from you every day of your life. I know you've given me so much to be happy about, and so much to be proud of.”

Annie shut her eyes, containing the tears. Then she opened them to gaze into her grandmother's face. It was the most beautiful face in the world, her eyes the color of dark amber syrup, her lips bowed in a slight smile. The lines of her face were a road map of a life well lived.

“Have I ever said thank you?” Annie whispered. “Maybe that's what was unsaid. Thank you, Gran, for every little thing. When I think of you, I think of everything good in the world. And I can't believe I never said thank you.”

“Oh, sweet Annie. You just did.”

Annie fixed food, all of Gran's favorites, but Gran could barely eat. She tasted tiny samples of homemade butterhorn and crème brûlée, and she admired Annie's creations, but Gran was content with her Pedialyte and the occasional soda cracker. Annie made smoothies for her to sip on—a sinful chocolate concoction made with real malt powder Annie had bought from a gourmet shop in New York, and another with maple syrup and nutmeg.

They moved Gran's bed downstairs to the keeping room, a small fireplace area adjacent to the kitchen. When the house was first built, Gran
said, it was where people stayed when they were ill, or about to give birth. Or dying. The room had a picture window facing the back garden.

A last blast of winter suddenly blanketed the yard with dreary snow, threatening the delicate buds on the apple trees. Thick, untimely snowflakes drifted down steadily through the night, erasing all traces of yesterday.

Unfazed by the spring storm, the kids bundled up and played outside. Gran watched the fun through the window. Annie helped them build a snowman. They dressed him in Grandpa's old plaid hunting cap with the earflaps, and he held a sign lettered with the lyrics to Gran's most favorite song—
You Are My Sunshine.

Gran wouldn't hear of Annie putting off the end of school. She had to finish the work she had started, Gran said, and could come for visits on the weekends. As the weeks rolled by, Annie watched her grandmother fading away, bit by bit.

One Saturday in May, Annie took the utility vehicle into town, just to get out of the house and to meet her friend Pam Mitchell, to catch up. Pam had become, of all things, a master distiller of whiskey, following in the footsteps of her father. She worked for her family's operation, a small-batch distillery, which shipped its specialty spirits to high-end bars downstate and in Boston.

“Show me around,” Annie insisted. “And can I film your operation?”

“Of course. You're going to love it.”

“You know me well.”

Pam showed her the container with the secret family recipe—corn, malted barley, and toasted flake rye. “Looks like birdseed now, but after we add the well water and whiskey yeast, we'll strain out the solids and pipe the liquid into the still. The neighbor's pigs get the leftover solids, and he claims the livestock have never been happier.”

The shiny copper still was located in an old converted horse barn, now redolent of fermented mash. Annie inhaled the heady aroma while Pam drew off a sample of the clear liquid and gave her a taste. “This is the white dog whiskey—that's the term for unaged spirits that used to be called moonshine.”

Annie took a small taste and made a face. “Yikes, that's lighter fluid.”

“It's awful until we age it.”

The former horse stalls were crammed with white oak barrels, each toasted on the inside with a hard char to give the whiskey its flavor. There were fifty-five-gallon drums filled with the wash—grains and corn boiled to produce alcohol. “We're only producing about twenty gallons a week. Then it goes into the barrels for wood aging,” Pam continued. “Here's a shot of the same spirits, seven months later.” She gave Annie a snifter. The whiskey was the color of grade-A maple syrup. It tasted of smoke, sweet vanilla, and toasted pecans.

“Wow,” Annie said. “It's fantastic.”

“Thanks. It's an art, for sure. I've been working on the balance of flavors. I call this one our secret recipe—it tastes like bourbon, but smoother and more delicate.”

“I'll say.” Annie filmed and took still photos. She was inspired by her friend's operation, and the alchemy of water and grain being transformed by the process.

The bottling operation occupied another part of the building.

“I like the mason jars,” Annie said.

“Thanks. I'd love to create a fancier bottle, but we're stretched too thin right now.

“We get fifty bucks a bottle these days,” said Pam. “Sounds like a lot, but the overhead is steep. Dad's hoping to find a silent partner. Each barrel alone costs eighty bucks.” She indicated a collection of worn oak barrels stacked by the loading dock. “Most of those are at least twenty years old.
After a while, we don't reuse them. I hope to give them a second life with folks who want to turn them into something else—furniture, carving, maybe even barrel aging something else. It's kind of a thing these days.”

An idea leaped, fully formed, into Annie's mind. “Such as maple syrup.”

Pam grinned. “I like the way you think.”

“Let's not think. I know it's madness, but let's do it. Suppose I send you a couple of drums of syrup. Would you barrel-age it for me?”

“Sugar Rush? Absolutely. It's a plan.” Pam poured them each another taste. “How cool are we? All grown up and doing something mad together.”

“To being all grown up,” Annie said. “Even though it's not all it's cracked up to be.”

“Well, we can drink,” Pam said with a twinkle in her eye. “That's something.” They clinked glasses.

They talked of their high school days and traced the journey their lives had taken them in the past three years.

“We should play a drinking game,” Pam said. “Every time one of us says ‘Do you remember . . .' we have to take a drink.”

“In that case, we wouldn't last five minutes. And drinking your fifty-bucks-a-bottle hooch would probably tick off your dad. Fill me in on the gossip,” Annie begged. “I've been a million miles away.”

“I got nothing,” Pam said. “I work all the time.”

“Come on, give me something.”

“Well, I'm seeing a guy. Not just seeing him. I'm falling in love with him.”

“Pammy!” Annie's heart soared for her friend.

Pam blushed. “His name is Klaus and he's a sommelier. He works in Boston. It's hard, being apart. We've already talked about moving in together, though.”