Page 34 of The Wandering Season

The hugs at the airport lingered longer than usual as Avery boarded her flight to New York.

“Promise me you’ll come to New York soon. Please?”

Her eyes were pleading as she joined the queue to board.

“I’ll try. Honest.”

I couldn’t bring myself to promise outright, but I would do better to make an effort. There were fare sales to New York often enough that I could find a way to economize a few hundred dollars.

Avery turned to Stephanie. “I’m trusting you to hold her to that. Bonus points if you tag along.”

Stephanie chuckled and took Avery in for a hug. “It’s a deal. Especially if an outing to Bloomingdale’s is on the agenda.”

“Always,”

Avery promised.

“The culinary capital of North America and you all are worried about clothes. Typical.”

The two exchanged knowing glances, and Avery was soon sauntering down the Jetway and back to the bustle of the city she loved.

“Coffee?”

I asked. Stephanie’s flight to Denver wasn’t for another hour, and she was never one to balk at a second cup in the morning. My flight to Copenhagen was half an hour after that, so I had time to kill as well.

“Always,”

she replied, echoing Avery’s last comment.

We found a little coffee shop near her gate and settled in with our cappuccino, which we managed to order just a few minutes before it would have been gauche to order a coffee with milk of any sort. Italians took their coffee seriously and we wanted to honor that even in the airport where all manner of caffeine-related sins would have been forgiven.

Stephanie set me with a hard glance from across the table. “So how are you really doing?”

I took a fortifying sip of my cappuccino. “It’s been a lot. But I really appreciate all your research. It makes me feel a little less nuts, you know?”

“I get it. And I want to keep digging when I get home. I think your subconscious wants you to learn more about your family than you realize.”

I shrugged. “She’s been working overtime the last couple of weeks, that’s for sure.”

“Can I tell you something? As your best friend?”

“Always,”

I said, eliciting an eye roll from Stephanie.

“I think that despite”—she gestured broadly—“everything, Europe has been good for you. There’s a glow and a confidence about you I’ve not seen in a long time. Since high school to be precise.”

“Travel is good for the soul. You’re just seeing the magic of an American who has taken three weeks off from work. You see how relaxed the Italians seem, even here in a bustling city like Milan? It’s the five weeks of annual paid vacation talking.”

Stephanie snorted. “You’re not wrong, but I don’t think you’re seeing the full picture. You’ve started to connect with your birth family, even if your methods are a little unorthodox. And I think the experience will end up being a positive one for you. It’s opening your eyes to new possibilities about your past, and I hope it will do the same for your future.”

“Why do I sense you’re about to go tough love on me again?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, searching for words. “No, not really that. I want to level with you and tell you something you’ve not been able to admit to yourself: you’re not happy. Not in your career, not in your relationship with Jonathan, not with a lot of things. And it’s not too late for you to change things. You’re in your mid-twenties . . . Nothing has to be set in stone yet, nor should it be.”

I wasn’t sure which part of that to tackle first, so in typical me fashion, I deflected. “This is rich advice coming from the woman with her entire life figured out.”

“Hardly. I have the job thing well in hand, maybe. But I have a lot of other stuff to figure out. I won’t pretend otherwise. I like the trajectory of my life, sure. But I don’t think you can say that. Sorry to be blunt.”

It was a defining characteristic of her personality, but it didn’t make it sting any less. “I love my work,”

I said, my defensive hackles raised, even if I knew she meant well.

“You love food. You love sourcing ingredients. You love the restaurant scene. But I don’t think you love being on the periphery of it. The Vero I knew in high school wanted to be a Michelin-star chef, not mentoring them. At least not in lieu of running your own kitchen.”

I scoffed. “I grew up. I realized what a slog it would have been to make a name in Denver, let alone beyond it. The Gordon Ramsays and Jamie Olivers of the world are rare. Most of us become Lou, the disenchanted restaurateur who now works as a line cook at Applebee’s.”

“That is the jaded and cynical talk of an old lady who’s given up on finding joy in life. And if you were fifty or sixty years old and had given it an honest shot and failed, I’d live with it. But what I can’t live with is you not even giving yourself the chance to succeed. The idea of ‘making it’ terrifies you, and you used to be the most ambitious out of all of us.”

I laughed. “Please, you were designing ad campaigns for the student council candidates since middle school. You carried a briefcase starting in junior year.”

“So I could keep up with you, Vero. I saw your eyes fixed on the prize, and I didn’t want to be left behind. Avery too, if you haven’t noticed. Your parents bought you a chef’s coat with your name embroidered on it when you were in eighth grade. The briefcase was my feeble attempt to look like I had a plan as solid as yours.”

I remembered the white jacket with Chef Stratton emblazoned in green thread on the right side. It was a real, honest-to-goodness professional chef’s coat my mother had personalized. I’d loved the thing for years but left it behind in the depths of my childhood bedroom when I’d moved away to college.

But at the memory of Stephanie and her cordovan leather attaché case with her initials emblazoned in brass, I scoffed. “You can’t be serious. You two have always been the most-likely-to-succeed types. Not me.”

“No, they were far more specific with your yearbook superlative, weren’t they?”

I sighed. “Most likely to be the next Julia Child.”

“Exactly. We all saw it. And I bet every single kid from our high school would be shocked that you hadn’t scurried right along to the Cordon Bleu or the Escoffier School. Or some private academy none of us have heard of that’s even more prestigious. And the real shame of it is that you still could.”

I turned my attention to my coffee. “I don’t see how.”

She gave an exasperated groan. “I assume there is an application process like any other educational establishment. Perhaps an audition of some kind, or whatever you’d call it in the cooking world.”

“Practical examination.”

“See, you know the jargon already. You’d get in anywhere with kitchen chops like yours, probably on scholarship. And if not, there are student loans if you won’t accept help from your folks. It’s a grand American tradition to go into unhealthy amounts of debt for an education. It’ll help you feel connected to your fellow man.”

I snorted. “You’re a poor saleswoman on this, Steph. Hate to say it.”

“I kid because I think you’d shut down if I were any more serious.”

The truth hit like a sucker punch to the gut, impossible to ignore. “Listen, I know you mean well, but in case you haven’t noticed, my life is kinda upside down. It seems like maybe not the best time to be starting an expensive new venture like culinary school.”

“It couldn’t be a better time. If your life wasn’t upside down, you wouldn’t need to change it. Why not summon some of Aoife’s, Imogène’s, or Carlotta’s grit and take charge of your own future? They’d be proud of you.”

She’d been listening. And she hadn’t thought I was insane . . . and I found myself unable to come up with any reasonable arguments against her claims. I was spared the need to respond by the loudspeaker announcing the boarding of her flight. I walked her to her gate and embraced her as she joined the long queue.

“Just think about it, okay? You don’t have to decide this minute. Just keep your mind open to it. And, Vero? You have always deserved better than what you’ve allowed yourself to accept. Please remember that.”

I didn’t have time to react before she turned and whisked off to the agent scanning boarding passes. I watched until it was her turn to disappear down the Jetway, relieved I was able to keep my tears at bay. She was probably right about everything, but it was just so much to consider all at once. I felt the overwhelming urge to text my mom, but it was four in the morning. She kept baker’s hours, to be sure, but she took advantage of the quiet months to catch up on her sleep.

Boarding for my two-hour flight to Copenhagen would be announced before too long, so I tracked down my gate and camped in one of the seats in the mostly empty gate area. It seemed Denmark wasn’t too popular a destination in January, and I wasn’t horribly shocked to find that the plane was a smaller commuter-style aircraft that would be at maybe a third of its capacity.

It occurred to me that, apart from the flight to Dublin from Denver and the quick hop to Milan from Bordeaux, I’d not been alone on my travels. First Niall, then the girls had been my companions since this insane trek began. So as I sat alone for the final leg of this trip, the solitude felt oppressive. I enjoyed my own company well enough, but having the support of two people whom I’d loved almost my whole life, and another who had become increasingly important to me, had been more comforting than I’d realized.

I slipped my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture of the sign over the gate that read Copenhagen and sent it to Niall with the caption: Off to Denmark! Hope all is well at the castle.

Breezy and friendly. I’d considered adding Wish you were here to the end of it but erased the clichéd words before I hit Send. Clichéd or not, it was the truth—probably for both of us—and better left unsaid. To let him think I cared for him more than as a friend when neither of us would be able to act on those feelings was just hurtful to both of us.

When my turn came to enter the jet bridge and board the small aircraft, I didn’t enjoy the feeling of isolation that washed over me, but wasn’t it better to get used to the sensation?