Page 37 of The Wandering Season

Upper West Side, Manhattan

I arrived at Avery’s condo a little before eight in the evening—and my body clock had absolutely no idea what to do with that information. I dragged myself from the lobby of her building on the Upper West Side to her fourth-floor walk-up. As tired as I was, I couldn’t help but want to explore Avery’s private lair I’d never had the chance to see. It was, as one might expect for a young professional living in Manhattan, cramped, but not markedly more so than my own apartment in Denver. Despite the limitations in size, Avery had made use of every inch of space to be both functional and beautiful. Because of my parents’ help, she was able to live alone in a one-bedroom condo instead of a dingy studio or crammed in with three roommates. It was a huge advantage to her career to have a restful space of her own, and I was glad she had it.

The walls were adorned in vintage clothing posters, tastefully matted and framed. The furniture was sleek and minimalist, with a few cozy blankets and throw pillows to soften the vibe. It was almost exactly as I would have pictured a space she’d designed all her own. The wall of family pictures, both portraits and candid shots, were a touching addition I hadn’t expected. There were several of her and me on various childhood vacations and a few of me alone, which surprised me the most.

One that caught my eye in particular was of me when I was a freshman in high school, wearing the chef’s jacket Mom had made for me, standing in front of a massive cake and platters of appetizers I’d made for a cousin’s bridal shower. They hadn’t trusted a fourteen-year-old with the wedding cake, of course, but I’d begged to cater the shower. The assortment of canapés had been devoured, and the three-tiered lemon cake filled with fresh lemon curd and sliced berries and frosted in ivory buttercream with intricately piped scrollwork had been the talk of her shower. I’d spent weeks practicing my piping and perfecting the buttercream. It was the recipe my mother still used in her shop, and even now I was chuffed when I thought of that. When the bride pulled me aside at the reception and whispered that she wished she’d had me make the wedding cake instead of the professional she’d hired, it was the sort of compliment a kid remembers for a lifetime.

And it hit me that this was how Avery saw me. The budding chef with all the promise in the world who just changed the course of her life on a whim. It was how Mom, Dad, and Stephanie saw me too. I guessed they were trying to reconcile the version of me who seemed ironclad set on a career track for years, only to veer off on an unexpected trajectory.

I thought about the email from Fairbanks. It would be a path toward shoring up The Kitchen Muse for a more lucrative future, but maybe everyone was right about this particular aspect of my life: I was hiding behind the genius of other chefs to avoid failing on my own. Every rationalization I’d made about the perils of the restaurant world, while true, were nothing more than thinly veiled justifications for me not to take a risk on my own talent.

And I was talented.

It had been a long time since I’d acknowledged it, but it was true. And if I was ever going to take the plunge and go out on my own, I’d have to find the confidence of the girl in that photo who had outbaked the professionals.

I changed into the decadent cashmere pajamas I’d purchased in Milan and padded into Avery’s small bedroom. It was large enough for a queen-size bed and a pair of nightstands, but without much wiggle room to spare. Her linens were top-notch, and the room was the perfect temperature for sleep, but despite my utter exhaustion, I couldn’t slow my brain down long enough to doze off.

I’d have to make a decision about Fairbanks, and soon. But that wasn’t even the most pressing issue. I was in the same city as my birth mother. I’d have six days in New York, three of them Avery-free, and I’d have to decide if I was equal to meeting with this woman.

I pulled her message back up on my phone.

Tara.

It smacked of a name that peaked in the late seventies. So the timing made sense. I was born in the late nineties, so signs would indicate she’d been fairly young when I was born. I’d expected as much—an older, established woman wouldn’t have had a reason to give me up. And her surname was Irish, which would have pleased Niall.

I felt a pang at his memory and forced it aside.

I read and reread her message a dozen times or more as sleep eluded me. And I began to think that Avery was onto something here. Tara was the only person who could answer the questions that I couldn’t deny had been lingering in the back of my brain for years. Tara herself said I owed her nothing, but I did owe myself the peace of mind that answers might bring.

I didn’t know how many times I rolled over a potential message in my brain, but I finally found the resolve to press the Reply button at the bottom of her message.

Hello Tara,

I’m glad you reached out. As it happens, I am in New York for the next few days. I know it’s short notice, but I’d like to meet up if your offer still stands.

—Veronica

I honestly wasn’t sure what I wanted her to say when she responded. If she responded. She was just as entitled to cold feet about this meeting as I was, I had to admit. Whatever she might not be entitled to, I couldn’t begrudge her a good case of nerves. As I lay in Avery’s bed, wishing sleep would lap over me like gently cresting waves, I genuinely hoped the meeting would happen and that I’d come away from it with a few more answers than I went in with. Or perhaps new and compelling questions beyond the most obvious of them: Why?

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later an alert from the app flashed across my screen. Tara wasn’t going to ghost me just yet, it seemed.

Hi Veronica,

I am grateful you responded. Could I take you to dinner tomorrow? I’d be happy to clear anything off my schedule if that doesn’t work. Just propose an alternative and I’ll be there.

—Tara