Sugar: A Novel Part 10

"He sounds like a mean and evil step-boss," Zara said, very serious. "Maybe you should get another boss."

"Avery is not mean and evil," I snapped, instantly softening when I saw the hurt on Zara's face. "He's just doing his best," I said more gently. "We are all trying to do good work, and that can take a lot of time."

I saw Kai's jaw tighten, but his eyes remained neutrally focused on Cinderella and her plight.

"Shall we keep reading?" I said brightly. I adopted a particularly cranky voice for the stepmother that had a giggle-inducing effect on the kids, and though my phone registered nine more texts from Avery by the time the ball was over and the slipper found, the kids and I quickly became proficient at ignoring it. So much so that I looked up, surprised, when Kai took Zara's pink unicorn pillow and smooshed it down, none too lightly, right on top of the next vibration.

When the Buzz Lightyear and Rapunzel nightlights were emanating a cheery glow in the room and I had kissed both children's cheeks six times each, Kai pulled shut their bedroom door with a quiet click. I wrapped my arms around him in the semidarkness. He held me close, and I let my head rest on his chest. Manda's laugh floated up the stairs as Jack's voice became animated with some story.

Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I couldn't let go of the texts and the irritation on Kai's face.

"Listen," I said, pulling away so I could see his eyes. "My work is really important to me," I said, sounding more tentative than I'd have liked. I cleared my throat. "Sometimes I'm going to have to be in touch with Thrill even when I'm with you."

Kai waited so long to answer, I wondered if I should repeat myself. Finally, he spoke. "I totally get it," he said. I wondered if the brightness of his tone was authentic or a tad forced.

"You do?" I said, then backpedaled quickly. "Of course you do. You work in the same industry."

Kai suppressed a smile. "Technically. I mean, we both serve food, but if this were a feudal system, for example, you would be a member of the n.o.bility and I would be a peasant."

"But a very good-looking one," I said, moving in for a kiss. A shiver ran up my spine. "And one that smelled remarkably good for all the mucking of stalls and milking of cows that you did."

"I think you're mixing metaphors," he said between kisses.

"Shh," I said, "or I'll have you imprisoned for treason to the queen."

"You're not doing this right," he said, but within a few moments, I'm pretty sure he changed his mind.

13.

TOVA'S nose-empty of the piercing she'd gotten on Monday, her most recent day off, and that I'd insisted she remove before we started work-hovered only inches above the mixing bowl. We'd finished the early morning prep and had the sublime gift of extra time before plunging into the next round of tasks, so I was taking the opportunity to teach her how to make a piecrust.

"So, this is a miniversion of what we will make on a larger scale later today," I said, pointing to the bowl. "We've whisked our flour and salt, and we are ready to incorporate our fats. Now, people feel very strongly about the b.u.t.ter-lard issue, but I like a mix of both. More b.u.t.ter than lard, but a combo of both makes for a very flaky and flavorful crust."

Tova nodded. "Whatever you say, Charlie, I will do. I grew up on frozen Pillsbury, so anything homemade is an improvement."

I smiled, feeling magnanimous. "I'm sure the Pillsbury ones were made with love, too."

Tova snorted. "Probably not. My mom was more interested in her revolving door of boyfriends than in making piecrust."

"Ouch," Mike, the cameraman said quietly from behind his mammoth lens, and I realized how accustomed I had become to having my every move and conversation filmed.

"So even though we make this in bigger batches, the same principles apply," I said. I pointed to my precise, tiny cubes of b.u.t.ter and lard. "Chilling is essential. Pastry dough is very temperamental and really only shines when you respect its need to remain cold and as untouched as possible. I remember-"

"You're so insensitive!" Tova's exclamation was sudden and loud.

"Excuse me?" I asked, genuinely baffled. My hands hovered above the metal bowl.

"I'm trying to talk to you about my alcoholic mom who had issues with promiscuity, Charlie." Her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g, but no tears fell. "I lived in a shack. With no running water. And lots of bugs." Her chin dropped indignantly.

I stared, unblinking. "I'm sorry," I said. "I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't." She flipped her hair as she continued. "You're so absorbed with yourself and your career and your rise to the top." She punctuated this last sentence with a poke by one righteous fingernail to the ceiling. "I'm a woman, too, Charlie. I would think you'd want to help another female chef in this male-dominated profession."

Why did I get the feeling she'd had to practice saying those words together?

"Listen," I said, hands still clumpy with lard and flour, "I have been helping you. In fact ..." I moved one step in her direction. "I have been ignoring the fact that you are eons behind where you should be to have your position here and have, instead, taken you under my wing."

"Your wing is rigid and uncaring!" she cried, one single tear rolling down her cheek.

"All right," I said, flipping the faucet k.n.o.b and pumping three vigorous slams on the soap dispenser. "I need a break and so do you. We can do pie crust another time."

The light on the camera dimmed, and Margot stepped around the crew.

"Excellent. Perfect, Tova."

I looked at Tova, who looked extraordinarily pleased with herself. "Wow," she said. "That was intense." She met my confused expression. "Thanks for going with that, Charlie. I really felt the freedom to become the scene."

"What the-" I began.

Margot put her hand on my arm. I could feel its icy temp through my shirt. "You were fantastic."

My brows knitted together. "I wasn't fantastic. I was offended. Can someone please tell me what on earth just happened here?"

Margot pointed to a spot on the clipboard she carried. "We were working on a story line for Tova in this episode and thought we could address the issue of women in the professional kitchen. This scene will be a part of a montage that will highlight the struggles she's had, the injustices, the victimization, the victories she's scored in such a male-dominated profession."

There was that phrase again, clearly outlined for Tova during a previous tutorial.

"So," Margot finished, "Tova did an excellent job of drawing out the delicate war between feminine strength and relationship building."

"Was any of that real?" I asked, my mind whirling.

Margot looked bemused. "That, my sweet girl, is the question we must always ask and to which none of us has a good answer. Hence the enduring success of reality television." She smiled, and I saw a line of crooked lower teeth I'd never noticed before. "But to ease your mind, yes, Tova was speaking from the heart. Right, Tova?"

"Wow," Tova said, basking in Margot's attention. "I'm so glad you liked it, Ms. Rubin. It's really such a huge honor to be working with you." She must have felt me staring hard at her because she turned and wilted a bit. "Just so you know, Charlie, my mom really did sleep around."

"The shack without running water?" I was doing all I could to remain civil.

She shrugged, suddenly sheepish. "A split-level in Las Vegas. But sometimes my mom forgot to pay the water bill and they shut it off! For, like, two days!"

I shook my head and took a deep breath before addressing Margot. "I don't think I'm meant for this." My eyes took in the entire kitchen, most parts of it clicking along at a normal pace, but my area crowded with people and cameras and boom mics and forced emotional scenes. "I told Avery from the beginning that I wouldn't tolerate dishonesty."

I saw a flicker of hardness flash through Margot's eyes, but it was gone before it settled into anything tangible. "I understand," she said, her voice crisp and professional. "You need a break-you've been working every day since we started filming. I'm going to suggest to Avery that you take the next two days off. It's midweek, so he can manage fine here without you until the weekend. Go somewhere, relax, and we can resume filming of the pastry segments when you return."

More than anything, I wanted to let my head roll in a slow half-circle in an attempt to get rid of the kinks and strain that had gathered into a huge orb of tension at the top of my shoulders, but I was not about to show Margot how tired I was. "All right, I'll think about it," I agreed. "A couple days off does sound good."

Margot nodded quickly, then motioned for the crew to move out. "Rest well. You deserve it."

I returned to the bowl of piecrust, deciding to finish it off with cinnamon-dusted apples and an inch-high streusel. I knew just the man who would appreciate a homemade pie.

"Sorry about the outburst, Charlie," Tova said quietly when she stood again by my side. "And I do want you to know I totally listened to what you said about lard and b.u.t.ter. It made perfect, awesome sense."

I raised my eyebrows in her direction. "I'm on to you now, Tova. And I'm willing to guess that compliment wasn't exactly genuine."

She started to speak and then stopped, her pretty painted lips parting in a smile. "Okay, fine. But I do like pie. That much is true."

I shook my head but found myself giving Tova a pa.s.s. "You fit in around here way better than I do."

"Thanks!" she said, effusive. "You're so sweet. And Charlie!" She beamed. "I think we'll have a super emotional reconciliation on screen, don't you?"

I closed my eyes and took my time counting to three. Then I texted Kai. I was hoping it wasn't too late to get in on the day trip to sun and orchards and a bossy sister or two.

Kai picked me up the next morning after the breakfast rush at Howie's, and we were on our way out of the city by ten.

"Hey," he said, holding the car door ajar for me. He leaned in to kiss me softly on the cheek. "Mmm," he murmured into my hair, "you smell delicious."

"You too," I said, my nose in his warm neck, still damp from a shower. "How do you scrub all the kitchen smell out of your skin? I always feel like it's a losing battle."

He pulled back and took me in with his eyes, making me feel a little exposed and a lot happy. "I use a very special soap made only here in Washington. And Tibet. Washington and Tibet. The secret is sandalwood."

"Seriously?" I said, all ears. "Can I have some?"

He shut my door and jogged around to the driver's side. "You know," he said while turning the ignition, "for such a city girl, you believe lots of things told to you by nervous men on all-day dates. I use Dial soap. And you can certainly have some. I buy it in bulk at Target."

"See now," I said, shaking my head, "it's highly irritating that you set me up to feel like a total idiot and then you soften the blow by being humble and transparent. Shrewd, Malloy." I reached over and took his hand. "Why are you nervous?"

"Well, first, because you are breathtakingly pretty. The dress ... " He stopped, took a deep breath, stole a look at me, even though we were in heavy traffic. "The hair, your face ... you can be intimidating, Garrett."

I stifled a smile, secretly giving Manda props for convincing me to buy the dress. It was a maxi, insanely soft and comfortable while also feminine and beautifully cut along the bodice. The blue-gray on top slowly faded to a deeper blue by the time it brushed the tops of my new strappy sandals.

"I would think I'd be more intimidating in my chef's whites, my gelled-back bun, and my I'm-a-girl-and-I'm-angry kitchen face."

He sniffed. "No way. I could totally take you down in the kitchen."

I raised one eyebrow. Then I cleared my throat. He ignored me and kept his eyes on the road.

"But," he added, "hit me with wavy, day-off hair, freckles, and a feisty smile, and I'm a goner."

I let my spine sink into the seat, willing my back to relax and my mind to stay far, far away from Thrill and Margot and Avery and TV shows. Much of Seattle was hurtling through a weekday, sidewalks full of people walking with purpose, talking on cell phones, trying to dodge the light rain that had developed in the clouds overhead. I watched the city fall away as we moved first past traffic, concrete, and metal, then neighborhoods, trees, and driveways.

Kai and I laughed and talked as we felt the miles and our normal lives drop behind us. I recoiled when he picked the radio station (eighties punk), and he mocked me mercilessly when it was my turn to choose (seventies funk with an unrepentant helping of disco). We agreed to let Paul Simon sing us through the Cascades and so listened to him tell stories about diamonds on the soles of her shoes and Rene and Georgette Magritte as we climbed and then descended in the greens and blacks and purples of the mountains.

"So, tell me about the orchard. And how about a crash course on family names, please." I reached for my bag and took out a memo pad and a mechanical pencil. I'd drawn a neat line down the middle of a page, with "orchard" on one side and "family" on the other when I felt Kai's eyes on me. I met his stare and surmised he wasn't going to compliment my dress and hair this time.

"You're taking notes." He said it as a statement of fact, and I nodded, forsaking my impulse to say, "Duh."

"Family details can get confusing," I reasoned. "I don't want to accidentally call your niece the name of a nephew. I'm guessing that in a family where the children are named Kai, Gemma, and Dahlia, the kid names might be some hair-raisers."

Kai shook his head. "You are, um, quirky, Garrett. Scratch that. You're a head case."

I was rummaging in my bag for the little container of extra graphite I kept with me at all times. My pencil was running low, and I would not suffer a dull point.

Kai was still talking when I emerged victorious. He was starting to mutter. "This from the woman who shares her name with millions of American men." He pointed at my list. "But just to fly in the face of your prejudices, I'll have you know that Gemma and Kory's little girl is named Lucy. And Dahlia and Ruben have two kids, Ted and Anna. Mainstream, Fourth of July, all-American top-100 names, all the way."

I grunted and wrote the names under the proper heading. I quizzed him about the kids' ages (Lucy was a toddler, Ted and Anna were fourteen and eleven, respectively), and the ways in which his sisters met their husbands. I had just moved into work experience and pet/food allergies when Kai strong-armed me across the front seat, not unlike the way my mom used to hold me back at stop signs.

"What?" I asked, scanning the road for oncoming vehicles.

At that, Kai swerved, pulling onto a wide shoulder and next to some sort of farm stand. He put the car in park and turned to me, eyes bright. "I love the CIA. I do. I think they play a pivotal role in national security. But you," he said as he took my notepad out of my hands and tossed it roughly into the back seat, "are a chef, not a CIA operative. And we are in central Washington during the summer. So you can ask Gemma all about the time she got hives at summer camp when she was eight when you actually meet Gemma. But for now, can we please stop with the talking points? There's someone I want you to meet."

Before I could respond, Kai bounded out of the car and was reaching for a handshake with an elderly man. A light breeze lifted the canopy above the baskets of apricots, blueberries, and cherries. I opened my car door and lifted my chin to the movement of warm air and the cloudless sky, amazed at how much a climate could change when a girl crossed a mountain or two.

"Charlie," Kai said as I approached the stand, "I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Tom Breyon, this is Charlie Garrett." I thought I saw Kai's ears pinking but felt Tom's hand in mine before Kai finished speaking.

"Well, I'll be," Mr. Breyon said, his blue eyes crinkling with mischief. "I thought I might not make it to this auspicious day." He tried, unsuccessfully, to repress a grin. His hand was as rough as a swath of sandpaper between my two palms. I held on, taking an immediate liking to this man in worn Levis and Velcro tennis shoes.

"What makes this day auspicious?" I asked.

Kai said, "Tom, I really don't think-"

"Well, for one thing, I don't often have the pleasure of seeing women around here, see."

Kai rolled his eyes and looked as though he might have heard this line before.

"My wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, G.o.d rest her soul. After she died ten years ago, the only people who kept hanging around were my male field hands and an occasional tomboy." He frowned for dramatic effect. "Tomboy is actually cutting those girls some slack. They rarely shave their armpits and seem to think organic means 'don't bathe.'"

I drank this man in, my laughter only appearing to egg him on. Kai wandered among the baskets of fruit, dipping his nose, feeling the apricots for firmness.

"So," Mr. Breyon continued, "this day is auspicious because I have a lovely city girl here and I can already tell, she took a shower today."

I grinned. "Well, this is a red-letter day."

"Secondly, this day is one for the books because Kai Malloy has had the good fortune to nab a girl and dupe her into visiting his hometown. I believe this is the same man who said at the end of his high school years that he would shake the dust off his feet as he left and not worry about ever coming back."

"That was Jesus who said that," Kai called from over by the blackberries. "I just said I thought Wenatchee was a waste of s.p.a.ce and that I was sick of everybody knowing all my business."

Tom nodded slowly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "Auspicious, I tell you."

"That's probably enough of this conversational topic," Kai called from the end of the row of baskets. His ears, I noticed, were still pink. "If you can take a moment away from hara.s.sing your customers, I'd like to purchase some fruit."

Before attending to Kai, Mr. Breyon winked at me. "Welcome to Wenatchee, Miss Garrett. You got yourself a good man here, even if he is a bit of a pain."

I watched Kai negotiate a price with his friend, neither of them looking one bit interested in the money exchanged once the banter had concluded. I watched him hug Tom warmly and ask him to say h.e.l.lo to mutual friends. And I felt his arm loop around my waist as we walked back to the car, our bags full of apricots, berries, a box of crackers, and Mr. Breyon's house-made strawberry-rhubarb jam. Kai felt alive and warm and protective in all the right ways.