“These are the top contenders for my competition entries,” I tell Henry. He is not a judge for the competition—he’s just hosting the awards dinner—so it’s not cheating to have him give me his opinion. I trust his palate, and he moves in these culinary circles. He’ll be able to provide valuable feedback.
Solemnly, he takes a bite of the first one I hand him, the browned butter hazelnut toffee bonbon, and closes his eyes, concentrating on the flavors and texture. “This is superb,” he says, “but I wonder if it would be even better as a truffle, with the hazelnut toffee in a browned butter ganache? Perhaps give that a try. The caramelized crumbles on the top are perfection.”
I make a note of his suggestion. Henry peruses the other chocolates carefully, and I watch him as he does so. He’s looking handsome in a slim navy suit and a bow tie. It would look absurd on most men, but he looks adorable in it. I smooth my dress self-consciously, glad I chose my fanciest outfit. I don’t remember the last time I got this dressed up for a date. Maybe Paris? A gala at an art museum with Romaine. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I like the dark chocolate bonbon with huckleberry gelée, but I do wonder if it needs a bit more complexity?” Henry smiles apologetically. “Another note to give it some added dimension of flavor.”
“That’s great feedback, thank you!” I jot down a note to figure out how to make that one more complex. Maybe use wild huckleberries and add lavender or lemon?
Henry tastes all of my chocolate creations, offering helpful critiques for each. At last he glances at his watch. “Emmie, we’d better be off if we want to catch our ferry,” he says.
I stash the Tupperware in the kitchen and grab my clutch.
“Night, baby. Listen to Jakob and to Grammy,” I instruct Gus,walking over to him and bending to press a kiss on his head. “I love you.”
He doesn’t look up, just gives a grunt of concentration. “Bye, Mommy,” he says, his attention one hundred percent on the task before him.
Jakob glances up, his gaze searching. “Be careful, okay?” he says in a low tone, glancing at Henry. He looks unhappy.
“Of course.” I step back quickly, brushing away the dart of warmth I feel with his eyes on me.Not your past, your future, I remind myself. I cross to Henry and take his proffered arm. I smile up at him.
“Let’s go.”
I don’t look back, but I feel the weight of Jakob’s ice-blue gaze following me all the way out the door.
Chapter 26
“I hope you’ll enjoy this evening,” Henry tells me as he pulls the vintage Volvo he has on loan from Crisanto into the line of cars snaking off the ferry. The ferry crossing was calm and beautiful, the lights of Seattle twinkling and growing closer as we crossed Puget Sound and Elliott Bay.
“I can’t wait,” I reply. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” Henry smiles. “I think you’ll like it.”
He’s right. I wasn’t aware that Seattle had a fancy dinner-and-dancing venue, but Henry has managed to find one on the waterfront. It’s an intimate, posh space with white tablecloths, waitstaff who speak in hushed tones, panoramic views of Elliott Bay, and a full band in white tuxedos playing big band–era jazz. We are shown to a leather banquette in the corner of the room, the most desirable table, and Henry orders local oysters and champagne, salmon tartare, and some sort of complicated dish with smoked corn miso and fish roe. There are no prices on the menu and thefood is tiny, each bite superb. I can’t imagine how much this all costs, but Henry seems unruffled by any of it.
“Try this. It’s delicious.” He scoops a generous bite of the fish roe appetizer onto my plate. I nibble it cautiously, surprised to find itisdelicious. I’m not the most adventurous eater, a fact that always dismayed Romaine, but tonight I’m feeling bold and daring. Henry makes it easy. He tastes everything in a way that does not seem as though he is a critic as much as an admirer of good food. We savor and sip and I feel like I’m in a dream. I can’t remember the last time I wore heels. The other dates I’ve been on since I moved back have felt sloppy compared to this. Henry speaks French to the sommelier, who recognizes him and thaws his snooty tone immediately, bringing us a very good bottle of white wine to go with our main course—sea buckthorn–glazed black cod grilled on a cedar plank.
I recognize the label on the wine. French and very expensive. Henry seems completely at ease in these surroundings, unpretentious but comfortable. It’s obvious that rarefied settings like these are familiar to him. As the meal progresses, I want to feel at ease like Henry does, but I’m not sure I do. Not entirely at least. Something feels a little off. I can fake it. I got good at faking it with Romaine, but I never felt entirely like myself. Now I find I feel the same way. I try to tell myself I’m just nervous, that I need to relax. I have another glass of wine. But partway through the main course I have to admit what I know in my heart to be true, that this just doesn’t quite feel like me.
It’s not that I’m not having a good time. I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s just that this doesn’t feel like me. This isn’t my life. I wear jeans on a good day, yoga pants most days. Now I wiggle surreptitiously in my chair, trying to adjust my support panties.My Spanx are constricting me. This fancy version of me is not that comfortable. I feel just a smidge like a child playing grown-up. When did my urbane Parisian polish wear off? Was it the grind of early motherhood, where even taking a shower felt like a self-care victory? Or the years spent navigating my dad’s slow decline? There is nothing glamorous or sexy about the long slog of a drawn-out terminal illness, the medication bottles and side effects, the mouth sores and bedpans. Or was it the seven years of making endless batches of fudge instead of handcrafting gorgeous artisan chocolates? Perhaps all of these have slowly chipped away at the sophisticated confidence I’d managed to acquire after years living in Europe.
Or maybe that was always just a façade. Truthfully, I always felt a little like I was playing dress-up, playing at being a cool girl in Paris. Somewhere in my heart, I am just a small-town Pacific Northwest girl. This evening highlights that to me. The food is gorgeous, Henry’s company warm and witty, but I don’t feel totally comfortable. A small part of me wishes I were curled up at home with a bowl of Tillamook ice cream, watchingSavorin my most stretched out pajamas. Ashamed of the thought, I throw myself into enjoying the evening. I laugh, I sparkle, I try to be at ease. I fake it and tell myself this might be the best date I’ll ever go on, which is very possibly true.
“How’s the book coming along?” I ask Henry as we finish our perfectly grilled fish entrée.
“Slowly,” he admits, “but I’m getting there. I already had a good bit of it written before I got here. I think I have about a third of the book left to write, so that’s good progress.” He spears a bite of black cod, swirling it through the bright orange sea buckthorn glaze. “My goal is to be done with a first draft of the entire manuscript by the end of summer, and I think I’ll make it,or at least I’ll come close. I can work on polishing it up over the course of the year. I have a lot of time alone on the road to work in the evenings.”
The mention of him going back on the road hits me like a punch. I’m reminded that there is a ticking clock hanging above us. I’m nowhere near ready to open my shop. At least I have a storefront and there is a subfloor now, not a gaping hole. Jakob and Walt will be laying the hardwood floors on Monday. Still, time feels short.
“When do you leave town?” I ask lightly, chewing a bite of tender grilled sunchoke, which I just learned from Henry is the edible tuber of a species of sunflower. It’s tasty, with a nutty flavor.
“The end of August,” Henry says. “And from there I’ll head straight to Vietnam. We start filming the next week.”
“How long are you usually gone when you’re filming?”
“It depends.” Henry sighs. “Sometimes it’s a few months at a time with a break in the middle. Usually about ten weeks of filming, a break for a week or two, then back at it. I’ve been asked to do a special project this year that would keep me on the road longer though, a documentary about the migration and spread of popular foods around the world. It sounds interesting, but it would require me to be gone all next summer.” He frowns. “I’m not sure I want to do it. I think I’m reaching a place in my life where I’m beginning to wonder just how long I can keep up this pace.”
I see the opening and take it. “Do you ever think about a different life?” I ask curiously, sipping my glass of white wine. “Have you ever wanted a family or to settle down someday?”
