Family Tree (38 page)

After

I
can't believe we're arguing about this,” Annie said, tying on her apron. The teaching kitchen at Beth's school now doubled as her studio for
Starting from Scratch.
The webcast had become so popular that broadcasting from home was no longer feasible.

“Because it matters,” Fletcher said simply. Her camera-shy husband made only rare appearances on her show. When there was a Fletcher sighting, her fans went nuts on social media. Today, he'd agreed to a small role, but she was starting to regret inviting him. Camera 1 was already rolling, because she never knew when a moment would emerge from the chatter.

“Gran used to say all arguments are about power,” she said.

“Gran was probably right.” Fletcher snatched a bite-size homemade cream puff from a tray.

She smacked his hand with the back of a wooden spoon.

“Hey!”

“Gran also used to say that the spoon speaks when words alone are not enough.”

“I don't think that's what she meant,” Fletcher said, savoring the purloined bite.

Annie moved the tray of cream-filled
pâte à choux
away from him.
“Since I'm the one who's the size of a water buffalo, I have final say on the name.”

“Come on,” Fletcher said. “Panisse? What kind of a name is that for a poor, innocent baby?”

“It's a lovely name, that's what kind it is. Lovely and unique, just like our little girl will be.” She smoothed a gentle hand over the mound of her thirty-six-weeks-and-counting belly.

“I looked it up.
Panisse
means chickpea fritters.”

“Nobody knows that.”

“I know it. Anybody with a search engine knows it. Let's move on, Annie. What about Julia, like the late, great—”

“I'm bored already,” Annie declared with an elaborate yawn. Her viewers had been cheering her on through her pregnancy, sending name suggestions from around the world. “Taste,” she said, dipping a spoon into the caramel sauce that was warming on the stove.

The slowly melded blend of cream, sugar, butter—and a touch of maple—brought a smile to his face. “Makes me want to marry you all over again.” He slipped an arm around her waist and bent down to whisper, “Bring some of that home tonight, and I'll—”

Teddy came in from school, dropping his backpack on a chair with a thud. “Hey,” he said. “Something smells amazing.” At thirteen, he was tall and gangly and hungry all the time.

“Ted, buddy, help me out here,” Fletcher said. “She's trying to call my daughter Panisse.”

“That's awesome.”

“See?” Annie gave him a cream puff dipped in caramel sauce, and Teddy's face lit up. “Your son has excellent taste in names.”

“Come on,” Fletcher said. “Give me something I can work with.”

“I like creative names,” she said, arranging the puffs on Gran's favorite Salem china platter. “Aquaria—that's the name of this china pattern. And since she'll be born in late January . . .”

“No,” Fletcher said. “Just no.”

“Keegan's mom called her new baby Maple,” Teddy said.

“Not helping,” Fletcher said.

“Tree names. That could work,” Annie said. “How about Liquidambar?”

“Also awesome,” Teddy said, earning another sample.

Fletcher cuffed him on the head. “You're just saying that so you can keep eating.”

“Both of you, wash your hands and you can help me put together the croquembouche,” Annie suggested.

“Croak and what?” Teddy and Fletcher went to the sink.

“It's a French pastry,” Annie said. “It means something that crunches in the mouth. You make a tower of all these little filled cream puffs and drizzle it with caramel.”

“And then die of happiness,” Fletcher said.

“It's a lot fancier than our usual demo, but since it's my last before little Ganache makes her appearance, I wanted to go all out.” She was stockpiling episodes in order to savor a long, sweet welcome for the baby.

“Ganache.” Fletcher looked directly at the camera. “You see what I'm up against?”

It was such a singular feeling, knowing her broadcast reached every corner of the earth. And as it turned out, people the world over had the same joys and struggles, the same devotion to life and love, food and family. And second chances. And starting from scratch. There was value in beginning anew, putting something together from carefully chosen ingredients and making it wholly your own.

She never once regretted turning down the network offer. All the creative control in the world, the most artfully lit sound stage, could never replicate what she was able to do right here in this close-knit community, surrounded by family and friends.

In the past two years, she'd completed the journey that brought her
home. She'd revised and republished her grandmother's cookbook, and was working on one of her own. She'd launched the barrel-aged Sugar Rush.

And in a flurry of autumn leaves in the maple grove on Rush Mountain, she'd married the love of her life. Now she was expecting a baby. Fletcher was her heart's home. Sometimes when she thought about how much she loved him, she forgot to breathe. And then she would remember again, the way she'd had to relearn after the accident—smell the roses, blow out the candle.

T
his book started with a storm—and a celebration. I wrote the first words of the novel during a snowstorm that brought all of New York City to a standstill one January week. Being snowed in at a midtown hotel turns out to be a fine way to launch a work of fiction, particularly this one.

A celebration occurred that week, too. I was welcomed by William Morrow/HarperCollins with a feast of home-baked treats inspired by my previous novels and prepared by Jennifer Hart, Jennifer Brehl, Helen Moore, and Tavia Kowalchuk, whose lavender scones, morning glory muffins, apple strudel, and pignoli cookies made for a delightful meeting.

All novels should have such an auspicious beginning. I must thank my literary agents, Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and my publishing team: Dan Mallory, Liate Stehlik, Lynn Grady, Brian Murray, Tavia Kowalchuk, Pamela Jaffee, Carrie Bloxson, and their associates at HarperCollins. Then there's the home team—Willa Cline and Cindy Peters, keeping me alive online. And as ever, the brain trust—my fellow writers Elsa Watson, Sheila Roberts, Lois Faye Dyer, Kate Breslin, and Anjali Banerjee—whose generosity knows no bounds. Special thanks to Marilyn Rowe and her eagle-eyed proofreading skill.

And finally, I end where I began—with a sweet, cherished memory of my father, me tucked in his lap, surrounded by his comfortable smell of old wool and pipe smoke, reading
Go, Dog. Go!

SUSAN WIGGS
is the #1
New York Times
bestselling author of more than fifty novels, with her books in print in thirty countries. A native of a small town in upstate New York, she now lives with her husband at the water's edge on an island in Puget Sound, and in good weather can commute to her writers' group in a twenty-one-foot motorboat. A former teacher and graduate of the University of Texas and Harvard, Susan is also an avid hiker, an amateur photographer, a good skier, and a cautious mountain biker—yet her favorite form of exercise is curling up with a good book.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

CONTEMPORARY NOVELS

         
Home Before Dark

         
The Ocean Between Us

         
Summer by the Sea

         
Table for Five

         
Lakeside Cottage

         
Just Breathe

         
The Goodbye Quilt

      
HISTORICAL ROMANCES

         
The Lightkeeper

         
The Drifter

         
The Mistress of Normandy

         
The Maiden of Ireland

Cover art and design by Alan Dingman

Background photographs © Shutterstock

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

FAMILY TREE
. Copyright © 2016 by Susan Wiggs. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-242543-0

ISBN 978-0-06-249940-0 (international edition)

EPub Edition AUGUST 2016 ISBN 9780062425478

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