Page 40 of The Wandering Season
Estes Park, Colorado
My hands shook intermittently on the drive back up to Estes Park. The ghosts of memories that waited for me there were far more unnerving than any of the visions I’d seen on my travels. These ghosts were my own and I’d have to face them.
I pulled up in front of Mom and Dad’s cabin, took several slow breaths, then grabbed my bag from the passenger seat before I opened the door to my Toyota SUV and swung my feet onto the driveway with the familiar, satisfying crunch of shoe rubber on gravel. True to my word, I’d worn some of my new clothes from Italy to show off and felt a smidge more confident for the added effort with my appearance.
Dad greeted me with a hug, like old times. He was one big smile in a flannel shirt, but I did notice a few extra creases around his eyes and a couple of extra gray hairs. Mom, who was usually on the porch before I could reach it, unless she was elbow deep in making a meal, hung back until I’d entered. Was she worried I wouldn’t welcome her usual greeting embrace? She claimed that she didn’t want things to be different just because I knew, but this was exactly how different happened.
I’d have to be the one to make things right. I’d have to make the gesture this time.
I removed my boots and hung my coat in the closet, debating my best approach. The living room felt stark without the Christmas decorations, and no wafting aroma was beckoning from the kitchen. Mom had been taking things badly if she wasn’t baking. They both had, though Dad was better at putting on a brave face. My stomach lurched at the knowledge they’d been struggling. I wasn’t a mother, but I could empathize enough to know that any sort of familial strife was the worst kind of torture for them both.
“You look great, shortcake.”
Dad gave me an appraising glance. “Travel suits you.”
“Thanks, Dad. It’s the new wardrobe. Avery just happens to have a knack with clothes, if you haven’t heard.”
I shot him a wink.
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “Once or twice maybe. But it’s not just the clothes.”
I shrugged, not quite sure how to respond. “Well, it’s been a whirlwind month, but I’m glad I went.”
“Glad to hear it, kiddo.”
He wrapped his arm around me in another side hug. I crossed over to Mom, who looked like she was struggling to keep herself together. I wrapped my arms around her and took in the warmth of her cheek against the top of my head.
“Are you doing okay?” I asked.
Her voice was raspy. “Better now that you’re back. I’ve missed being able to chat with you.”
“Me too, Mom. Me too.”
I felt the warmth of her tears sprinkle the top of my head, and I chuckled as she clumsily tried to dry them and stem the flow. She and Dad both dissolved into giggles as she did her best to restore her calm fa?ade.
“Can we have a talk? I’ve got a lot to unpack with you.”
Dad gestured to the sofas, and my head spun with where to start. Blackthorn? Niall? The email from Fairbanks? But I settled on the topic that, despite what I’d said to the contrary for years and years, mattered most.
I clasped my hands tight in my lap, forcing myself to breathe. “I didn’t just go to New York to see Avery. I met my birth mom, Tara.”
Dad’s cheeks grew pale, and Mom’s eyes didn’t meet mine. They offered no comment, so I continued.
“The NDA expired, and she actually sought me out. She wanted the chance to explain . . . everything, and I decided it was time to know the truth.”
Mom and Dad absorbed the information I spewed at them at the rate of a fire hose’s spray with the grace and dignity I’d learned to expect from them. There weren’t any real “bad guys”
in my story—save for maybe my birth dad who was, as villains go, pretty mundane. He was just your basic rich guy who very much enjoyed getting his own way. The sort who was responsible for a lot of the problems in the world but utterly convinced of their benevolence and brilliance.
Tara’s story led naturally into the rest of the trip. I waxed poetic about Westport, Beynac, and Piozzano. My stay in Copenhagen had been cut short and was definitely not the highlight of the trip, but I even managed to find a pleasant anecdote or two to share. I gathered the courage to tell them of the visions I’d seen throughout my travels, the echoes of the women from my past, and they listened with intensity and understanding. Even if what I’d seen had been some sort of manifestation of my imagination, they were experiences I’d needed to have.
“So what’s next, shortcake?”
Dad asked. “Helping Fairbanks through the Valentine’s Day rush this weekend?”
I resisted the urge to run my fingers through my hair and instead leaned back into the sofa. “Oh, Fairbanks is probably set for this weekend. He does want to have a chat though, and it will likely lead to some sort of job offer, from the sound of it. I have some big decisions to make.”
“Good,”
Mom interjected. “It’s time for some big decisions. I am sick to death of my brilliant, darling girl making small ones. You’re better than that.”
I widened my eyes.
“I know. I know. I’ve always said that what makes you happy makes me happy, but I’ve been wrong to pretend that you weren’t selling yourself short.”
She got up from her place on the sofa and handed me a kraft paper box wrapped with a green satin bow. “I should have given this back to you when your plans first wavered as a reminder of what you wanted for yourself.”
I pulled the ribbon and opened the box to find the chef’s jacket she’d given me roughly fifteen years before. Chef Stratton still proudly emblazoned above the pocket. I stood and put it on over my clothes. It fit like it was tailor-made for me. She’d ordered it in the large size when I was in middle school, knowing that even if I’d achieved my full height by then, I’d still have some filling out to do. She’d purchased it intending for me to wear it into adulthood, probably hoping this one and a few others would be worn out by now.
“Looks good on ya, shortcake.”
“Darling, I don’t often try to browbeat my girls into making the decisions I want them to, but please don’t go to work for Fairbanks. I’m sure he’s talented and has the sort of reputation that many chefs dream about, but you need your own kitchen.”
I strode over to the entryway to inspect my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a chef. In time I might feel like one.
“We still have your culinary school fund intact. It’s probably doubled by now. You could probably go to any culinary school in the world and it would be covered. I couldn’t bear to cash it out and take the stiff tax penalties.”
“Didn’t I use that for college?”
I turned away from the mirror.
Dad shook his head. “I had a separate fund for culinary school. Perhaps it was disloyal of me, but I couldn’t be convinced it wasn’t where you wanted to go.”
“It pains me to admit it, but you’re right. I do need to go.”
I gave my reflection a hard stare, daring her to argue with me.
Dad’s face split into a grin and Mom clasped her hands and held them to her mouth in delight—the same sort of joy usually reserved for the announcement of an engagement or a baby. But this was every bit as momentous for me, and I was supremely lucky to have parents who understood that.
“I almost forgot, I have a present for you as well. For your collection.”
I fetched the tissue-filled gift bag and passed it over to Mom. Inside were little ceramic Santas. The one from the thrift store in Ireland, the outdoor market in Périgueux, the little village outside Milan, and even one I’d managed to find in my brief stay in Copenhagen.
Mom’s eyes had gone from brimming to spilling over. “Oh, darling these are lovely. I didn’t think they made them anymore.”
“Thrift shopping for the win,”
I said. “They were a lucky find. Now they can bring Irish fruitcake, French nougat, Italian panettone, and Danish butter cookies for Christmas.”
“We’ll have a Christmas-around-the-world theme at the bakery next year,”
Mom proclaimed. “I can see it now.”
“It’ll be a hit.”
I patted her knee. “And I’ll help you source ingredients from culinary school. The Kitchen Muse won’t go away entirely.”
“Where will you go?”
Mom asked. “Culinary Institute of America? Johnson & Wales? The Escoffier School in Boulder is good, and you could even commute from here if you wanted to save money on rent.”
Mom’s eyes fairly glistened at the idea of one of her chicks flying back to the nest.
I crossed back over to them, wrapped an arm around her, and placed a kiss on her temple. “A bit farther afield, I think. Apart from this trip, I’ve hardly spent any time out of Colorado. And when I have, it’s been almost entirely in the American West. I think it’s time to expand my range a little.”
“Hear! Hear!”
Dad said. “We know you’ll come back to visit when you can.”
“And you can come visit me too. Trust me, a bit of wandering is good for the soul.”