Page 53 of Aftertaste

FRAIS

VERA DUHOVNY IS upstate, living in a small, brown, featureless farmhouse on an orchard—cherry, not apple—that she tends with motherly love. She resembles Kostya as she works, not in feature so much as expression, the fold of concentration in her forehead, the way her eyes close as she tastes, how her brows reveal surprise.

One tree has pushed its fruit out early, outpacing all the others, the cherries that it bears bright red, their skin so delicate, the first bite almost achingly tart, so sour it draws tears from her eyes. Vishnya. She’d gone back to Ukraine to get it. To the village Sergei’s grandmother once lived. She dotes upon it like a child, this family tree she’s saved.

In the kitchen, she sucks another cherry clean, and spits its pale stone into her palm. The same way Kostya used to. The rest she washes, pits, and jars, makes preserves to send away. To the people who knew him. Who loved him. Rio. Frankie’s mother. Maura, who eats them with a spoon.

The recipe’s unorthodox. Unexpected. One that Sergei taught her. A way to keep them all together, memories sun-sweet in her mouth. The tartness of life’s cherries tempered not by sugar, but by salt.