Family Tree (32 page)

His initial offer to Celia was to provide child support and share custody of the child. She'd rejected the idea out of hand. She wanted to be married. She claimed to love him, but Fletcher wasn't that stupid. He knew what she loved, and it wasn't him. He also knew Celia held the trump card—a clear understanding that Fletcher would do whatever it took to be a dad. There was no way a child of his would come into the world and go through life without a father.

“I did what I did,” he said to Annie. “Now I have Teddy, so I can't say I regret a single moment. I'm sorry I hurt you.”

“And I'm sorry I—” She broke off. “We should stop apologizing to each other. Life happened, and here we are.”

“Timing was never our strong suit,” Fletcher said.

She nodded. “Your father's accident. Then I moved to California. And then Teddy. Could be the universe was trying to tell us something.”

“Like what?”

“That we weren't . . . meant to be.”

He studied her profile—delicate, thoughtful, haunting. “You don't really think that.”

“No. I don't.”

“Here's a thought. What if we quit worrying about the timing and made this moment our time?”

She turned and gazed at him with her heart in her eyes. “And suppose we didn't worry about what happens when the moment is over?”

“What if we decide it doesn't have to be over?”

She smiled, soft and sad. “That's too big a ‘what if.'”

No, he thought. It wasn't too big. “Would you like to go out with me?”

“Out . . . where?”

“I don't know. Somewhere nice. Dinner and a movie. On a date.”

“A date. Oh my gosh, that sounds fun.”

“Now you're being sarcastic.”

“Look, I can't . . . I shouldn't. No, Fletcher. This isn't about timing. I can't go on a date with you. I can't be romantic with anyone until I figure myself out.”

Damn. “So you'll just . . . what? Hide in the kitchen and bake?”

“Yes. Maybe I will.” She stood up, moving slowly, and blotted her face one more time. “It feels terrible to say this, but I have a long way to go before I'm recovered enough to be myself again. In fact, Dr. King says I'll be someone new. I might turn out to be somebody you don't even like.”

He grinned. “Sure.”

“Don't you need to be somewhere? Judging something, or whatever you do?”

He nodded. “Come on. I'll introduce you to my son.” The other kids had left, and Teddy was dribbling the ball by himself. Fletcher motioned the boy over. “This is Annie,” he said. “She's a friend of mine.”

Teddy offered a quick smile. “Hi. I'm Teddy.” He stuck out his hand with a little awkward flutter. But he looked her in the eye and shook hands with a firm grip, the way Fletcher had been coaching him since he was a tyke.

Annie looked delighted. “I was watching you play basketball. You're pretty good.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

“Is Ms. Malco still the PE teacher at school?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm not a ma'am,” she said. “Ma'ams are old ladies. I'm just Annie. Malco was my PE teacher when I was your age. I grew up here. Did she teach you the game of horse?”

“Um, don't think so.”

“It's a basketball game for two. Want me to show you?”

Teddy's eyes lit up. “Sure.”

Fletcher checked the tower clock again. “I have to go. I'll be done at the usual time, Ted.”

“Okay, Dad. See you later.”

He left them to their game, feeling ridiculously happy that they seemed at ease with one another.

“I have to warn you,” Annie said to Teddy as Fletcher walked away. “I'm kind of uncoordinated.”

“I'll go easy on you.”

“No way. The first rule of any game is that you always play to win.”

A
nnie thought long and hard about her conversation in the park with Fletcher.
What if we quit worrying about the timing and made this moment
our time?

No. She couldn't start something with him. But she wanted to. Now? No. Her life was a mess. She had too many things to figure out. She lived at the farm with her family, but was it her home? She didn't know. She wasn't sure she wanted it to be. All she knew at the moment was that she was safe and happy in the kitchen.

“Hello, gorgeous.” The kitchen door clapped shut.

“Hey, Dad.” She smiled, though a flashback haunted her. How many times had he come through the back door with a grin and a “hello, gorgeous”? It had been his standard greeting at the end of each workday. After he'd left, she used to feel a little jump in her heart each time the back door slammed, followed by a sinking disappointment when she realized he was gone for good.

“I just made a batch of jam tarts,” she said. “Help yourself.”

He grabbed one from the tray, took a bite, and rolled his eyes. “Fantastic. Tastes just like the ones your grandmother made.”

“Her recipe, of course. There's really no improving on perfection.”

He looked around the kitchen. “Where is everybody?”

“Let's see—Kyle took a load of lumber down to Darrington Mills. Beth's at work and the big kids are at school. Knox has preschool today,
and Mom is painting.” She grinned. “Only a month ago, I couldn't say my own name, and now I'm keeping tabs on everyone.”

“You've always been sharp as a tack. It's good to see you getting back to your old self.”

“How would you know?” She couldn't stop herself from asking the obvious question. Her voice flat but crisp. There was no trace of raspiness now. The tracheostomy scar had all but disappeared. “It's been twenty years.”

He winced. “I screwed up, and it hurt you, and I can't change that. I'm here now, Annie. And I know you better than you think. I know your smile lights up the world. I know you're sweeter than this jam tart, and smarter than anyone has a right to be. That hard edge is new, though.”

She nodded. “I don't like being hard. But being sweet stopped working for me. I was so sweet that my husband cheated on me and stole my life.”

“He's a tool. I wish I'd seen that in him. How can I help?”

Annie gave a bark of laughter. “Break his kneecaps?”

“I'd like to, but it wouldn't do any good.”

She sobered. “I know, Dad. I appreciate your wanting to help.”

“Have you contacted him? Does he even know you're back?”

“I don't know. Gordy—the lawyer who's helping me—is going to handle Martin.” She shuddered. “How weird is that? I was married to the guy and I was in a coma and I can't even call him now that I've woken up.”

“Do you want to?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Let's not talk about Martin, okay?”

He finished his tart and washed up at the sink. “What would you like to talk about?”

“How are Nana and Pops doing?” she asked.

“They're all right. They'd love to see you.”

“I'd love that, too.” She wasn't close to her father's parents. After he took off for Costa Rica, she didn't see much of them.

“They need a lot of help these days,” he said.

“Is that why you moved back?”

“Part of the reason.”

“And the other part?”

“Annie, don't tell me you're baking again—oh.” Mom came in, her painting coveralls spattered like a Jackson Pollock original. She stopped cold when she saw Annie's dad. “Ethan. Hey. I didn't know you were coming over today.”

They studied each other for a tense moment. It was strange seeing them together, as strange as it had once been to see them apart. Mom looked flustered, touching the kerchief she wore on her head when she painted.

“I wanted to see our girl.”

“Oh. All right.” Mom checked out the baking tray. “If you keep feeding me like this, I'm going to get fat.”

Her mom wasn't fat. She was still young and pretty. And at the moment, she was blushing like the face on the feelings chart with pink-tinged cheeks.

Annie felt an unexpected tingle in the air. All through her rehab, her parents had spent more time together than they had since the divorce. At first, she thought they got along for her sake. Sometimes, though, she sensed a wistfulness in them. Nostalgia, maybe.

“I'll tell you what,” she said, making a quick decision. “I'll take away the temptation.” As she spoke, she boxed up some of the jam tarts. “I promised these to Pam. Can I use the car?”

“She's driving?” her father said, his posture stiffening.

“The doctor said it's all right,” Mom told him.

“The doc said I could,” Annie said at the same time.

“That's great, Annie.”

Was it? she wondered. How was it great that a thirty-three-year-old woman was able to drive a car? In L.A., she'd driven like a pro, navigating traffic with confidence. No one had questioned her fitness or judgment.
As part of her rehab, she had to undergo tests of her reaction time, perception, sequencing skills, and judgment. She'd repeated each test several times before they gave her the green light.

Annie grabbed her keys and purse and headed out the door. She wondered what her parents would talk about in her absence. Did they worry aloud about their daughter? Reminisce about the past? Argue in sharp voices, the way they had before the divorce?

In one of the family therapy sessions, they'd been told to avoid adopting problems that didn't belong to them. Good advice, but sometimes it was hard to figure out who owned what problem.

Holding the pastry box flat, Annie got into the car. She narrated the steps to herself—another technique from rehab. Say it while you do it. Yes, that made sense, but it felt tedious. Sometimes she talked to herself in a fake English accent or a Minnie Mouse voice. But nothing changed the fact that tasks she used to do without thinking now had to be relearned, step-by-step.

Focus, she told herself. You get to drive now. Don't blow it.

She stayed focused during the drive to town, and then along the farm road leading to the distillery. She hadn't been back to the place in years, and she was eager to see how the local whiskey-making operation was coming along.

She recalled pitching an idea about the Mitchells' whiskey in the writers' room back in Century City, but she'd been shot down. People remembered the previous taping they'd done in Switchback and how it had nearly ended in disaster, and no one was eager to return. They had compromised, doing a special on Casa Dragones tequila. Annie had never been happy with the episode. San Miguel de Allende was a lovely town in the mountains of Mexico, but the product was so expensive that most viewers could only dream of tasting it.

Melissa had fallen ill during the trip. Martin had gone to her suite in the night, bringing her crackers and ginger ale.

“If it isn't my favorite head case,” Pam said, coming out to the parking lot to greet her. “You look fantastic. I'm liking the short hair.”

“Thanks.” Annie held out the box. “Strawberry jam tarts.”

“You're wicked. I'm trying to watch my weight. Still haven't lost my extra baby pounds.”

Pam had a baby, a little boy. She and Klaus, the sommelier from Boston, had married. He had moved to Switchback and they'd started a family. Annie felt a small flutter of envy.
A baby
.

They went inside, and Pam showed her the latest improvements around the place—another shiny brass distilling kettle, rows upon rows of casks and barrels stamped with the distillery logo, an expanded bottling operation. The place smelled of the angel's share—the invisible vapors that escaped as the liquor aged. Their brand name was Switchback Sugarbush, and judging by the expansion, it was catching on.

“This place has grown since my last visit,” Annie said.

“We've come a long way since the horse barn.”

“So business is good?”

“Business is hard. We've been able to expand thanks to a silent partner.” She kicked off her boots and slipped on a pair of clogs. “Sanford and Fletcher Wyndham.”

Annie lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, boy.”

“They rescued us from drowning. I'm grateful for the infusion of funds, but now the challenge is to keep up with demand. My dad's whiskey won a big award, and the latest batch was sold out within a day.” She poured a taste from a numbered and signed bottle and handed it to Annie.

The amber liquid sparkled in the light. Annie tasted it. “Lovely. Pam, this is so great. And this bottle. It looks like a collector's item.” It was in the same mason jar they'd always used at the distillery, but now there was a beautiful label depicting a stylized tree with leaves of gold foil. All the key words were present—“small batch,” “artisanal,” “handcrafted.”

“Packaging is everything. People like that homemade feel,” Pam said.

“In your case, all the words are true. Everything is distilled and bottled right here, right?”

“Yes. We're committed to that. We don't want to be the kind of ‘small-batch' whiskey that's actually mass produced in Indiana and sent out to bottlers. We're hoping consumers will read the fine print. We've opened our place up for tours.” At the far end of the shelves of aging barrels, she showed Annie a marked keg. “Here's why I wanted you to come over. I've been saving something for you. Remember this?”

Annie bent down and read the hand-lettered label—
Sugar Rush
. With bittersweet clarity, she remembered the day they'd filled the barrel with maple syrup. “Wow, I had forgotten all about our experiment.”

“It's just been sitting here ever since.”

“Sugar Rush aged in a whiskey barrel.” Annie stood back and regarded the old oaken cask. “Barrel aging is a thing these days.”

“I know. I've got all kinds of requests to buy my used barrels—for vinegar, hot sauce, fish sauce, bitters, any form of alcohol, you name it.” Pam put her hand on the rough-hewn cask. “Do you think it's spoiled?”

“There's one way to find out.”

“My thoughts exactly. I hope this one aged gracefully. How cool would it be if it turned out?” Pam went to the tasting room and returned with a tap and two crystal snifters. “Here goes. Moment of truth.” She tapped the barrel, and a thin, dark amber stream of syrup flowed from the spigot into each glass.

Annie held the snifter up to the light. “I like the color. Oh my gosh. The smell.” It was a gorgeous commingling of maple and bourbon. She tapped the rim of her glass to Pam's. “To aging gracefully.”

They each tried a tiny sip, just a wetting of the lips with the smooth, viscous liquid. Their eyes met, and they sipped again.

“Well?” Pam asked, eyebrows lifted.

Annie nearly swooned from the flavor of the barrel-aged syrup. A
smoky, boozy essence shimmered through it, giving the liquid a complex depth. “Incredible.”

Pam offered a dazzling smile. “This definitely has the wow factor.”

Annie savored another sip or two. The flavor was multilayered and intense with the rustic taste of maple. She carefully set down her snifter. “I think we might be onto something.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Pam beamed at her. “Can we barrel-age some more?”

“Of course. We've got plenty put by on the farm that hasn't been bottled yet. It's good to have a project.”

“Totally. Hey, we could try cold-smoking it, too. Or how about this? We could create a craft cocktail with this syrup that would knock your socks off. What about an old-fashioned made with Sugar Rush instead of simple syrup?”

“Good idea.”

Pam took another taste of the Sugar Rush. “This is amazing. I love it so much I would marry it.”

“How is married life going for you, anyway?” Annie asked.

“Ups and downs, mostly ups. Hudson and Klaus are my whole world now. Having a baby changed me in ways I never expected. Not just my dress size. It's like he rearranged my heart.”

The old yearning tugged hard at Annie and the void of sadness gaped wider. Some days, she couldn't stop thinking about her lost baby. “Ah, Pam. That just sounds so lovely. I'm really happy for you.”

“Thanks. You know what I'm happy about right now? This amazing syrup. Let's bottle and sell it.”

“Just like that.”

“We can, you know. The bottling operation has been upgraded. Let's get Olga to come up with some label designs. She does beautiful work. She's the one who redesigned our whiskey label.”

“Olga, the model with a Russian accent?”

“Oh! You know her?”

“No. Fletcher said his dad was dating someone named Olga.”

“He married her a few years ago. She's great. Her specialty is woodcut prints, and she's a graphic designer as well. Come and meet her.”

The office area occupied a new building constructed of peeled logs and glass picture windows with a deck overlooking the neighboring hills. Olga was at a workstation in front of a computer and a bulletin board covered with clippings. She was probably in her forties, but she still had her voluptuous bikini-model looks and smoky Russian accent.

“It tastes brilliant,” she said when they gave her a sample of the syrup. “We must give it a special label.” Then she turned to Annie. “So. You are Annie Rush of Rush Mountain. Sanford and Fletcher have always had the nicest things to say about you.”

“Really?” Annie wasn't sure what to make of that. “What sort of things?”

“You were very kind to them after Sanford's accident. And you became famous for your television program.”

“The Key Ingredient,”
Pam said. “Everyone in town watches that show. Annie gave the commencement speech at the high school after she won an Emmy Award, and my mom says half the kids wanted to work in television after hearing her.”