The Probable Future
Page 72
“Hey, old man.” Matt patted the dog’s head, then opened the white bakery bag. He took out a caraway cake, freshly baked. “Don’t tell anybody about this,” he said as the dog gratefully gulped down the cake.
Stella had watched the encounter from the garden, where she’d been sulking. She smiled when she saw her uncle dust crumbs from the wolfhound’s beard.
“You made it,” she called as she walked over through the damp grass. Little frogs skittered out of her path, leaping into the bushes.
“I did, but I’m not sure I’m really welcome.”
“My grandmother might put a curse on you and my mother might poison you with her casserole, but if you’re not afraid of them and you don’t mind vegetables, come on in.”
“Did you say casserole?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s been cooking all day.”
“Really?” Matt thought that over, pleased by her interest, yet reminded of the time when the women in town filled his freezer with turkey-noodle lasagne and lima bean pie. “A casserole, you say?”
Stella was already through the door.
“Are you coming in?” she said when he paused.
Matt had stopped so he could take the time to look around. He might never be invited back, and he wanted to experience Cake House. The only other time he’d been inside was the dreadful day when he’d sneaked in to defend Will against Elinor.
“I saw you when you were born,” Matt told Stella. Argus, usually standoffish and dignified, followed along, nose twitching, in the hope another caraway cake might be tossed his way. “Actually, it was three days after you were born. I brought my mother with me, your grandmother, Catherine. We both agreed that you were the most beautiful baby in the world.”
Stella smiled. Her uncle was the sort of person with whom it was easy to feel comfortable. “I made you bird’s-nest pudding, but I burned it.”
“My loss, I’m sure. Although honestly, it sounds revolting. Were there beaks and feathers?”
Stella laughed. “Pudding and apples.”
“Equally bad. I hate sweets.”
Elinor had come into the hall. Although she looked displeased to see a guest in her house, she accepted the bakery bag, into which she peeked. “Your mother’s favorite,” she said.
Matt was impressed that she would have remembered. Though he’d worked for Elinor for years, he couldn’t say he knew her, and when people in town asked what she was like, he kept mum. All he knew was that she refused to pave the driveway, which he often suggested, and that she didn’t want to bother leveling off Dead Horse Lane.
Now, standing here in the hall, Matt realized that although he’d only been in the house once before, he’d dreamed of it many times. In his dreams, it was always the original house, before the additions were added on like frosting. It was a house made of wood and mud and straw. Everything smelled like smoke and water lilies in his dreams, and he thought he detected the scent now, although it was quickly replaced by the aroma from the pan of rolls Jenny brought out of the kitchen. The rolls were from a package, but Liza Hull had advised that if sprinkled with butter and a few sprigs of rosemary, they’d appear to be homemade.
“Well, here you are,” Jenny said cheerfully. She fanned herself with the tea towel; holding on to the pan of rolls must be causing her to burn up. The scent of rosemary made her feel somewhat intoxicated. “Our first guest ever.”
Matt had recently read in Emily Hathaway’s household journal that some fools in love used to believe that the mere act of buttoning a shirt could reveal whether or not they had a chance with their beloved; evens and odds would predict the outcome. The same was true for plum stones found in a tart. Odd meant sorrow. Even, love.
“You can take your wine home with you. We don’t drink,” Elinor said.
“Some of us do,” Jenny said as she took the bottle of Chardonnay from Matt. “Of course, if Will were here he’d insist upon whisky. And only the best. Johnnie Walker, isn’t that what he drinks?”
Once it was said aloud, Will’s name sat there on the carpeting, an unwelcome toad.
“Good old Will,” Matt Avery said.
In studying her uncle, Stella saw that he was her father’s opposite in every way. If the brothers were placed facing each other, it would be as though one were shadow and the other substance. Only which was which?
“Aren’t genetics fascinating?” Stella said as they proceeded to the table. She was wearing the silver bracelet her father had given her and the bell chimed softly as she reached for the salad to pass to Matt. “The variations. The mutations. That’s why I’m going into medicine,” Stella informed her uncle. “Anything’s possible.”
Stella had watched the encounter from the garden, where she’d been sulking. She smiled when she saw her uncle dust crumbs from the wolfhound’s beard.
“You made it,” she called as she walked over through the damp grass. Little frogs skittered out of her path, leaping into the bushes.
“I did, but I’m not sure I’m really welcome.”
“My grandmother might put a curse on you and my mother might poison you with her casserole, but if you’re not afraid of them and you don’t mind vegetables, come on in.”
“Did you say casserole?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s been cooking all day.”
“Really?” Matt thought that over, pleased by her interest, yet reminded of the time when the women in town filled his freezer with turkey-noodle lasagne and lima bean pie. “A casserole, you say?”
Stella was already through the door.
“Are you coming in?” she said when he paused.
Matt had stopped so he could take the time to look around. He might never be invited back, and he wanted to experience Cake House. The only other time he’d been inside was the dreadful day when he’d sneaked in to defend Will against Elinor.
“I saw you when you were born,” Matt told Stella. Argus, usually standoffish and dignified, followed along, nose twitching, in the hope another caraway cake might be tossed his way. “Actually, it was three days after you were born. I brought my mother with me, your grandmother, Catherine. We both agreed that you were the most beautiful baby in the world.”
Stella smiled. Her uncle was the sort of person with whom it was easy to feel comfortable. “I made you bird’s-nest pudding, but I burned it.”
“My loss, I’m sure. Although honestly, it sounds revolting. Were there beaks and feathers?”
Stella laughed. “Pudding and apples.”
“Equally bad. I hate sweets.”
Elinor had come into the hall. Although she looked displeased to see a guest in her house, she accepted the bakery bag, into which she peeked. “Your mother’s favorite,” she said.
Matt was impressed that she would have remembered. Though he’d worked for Elinor for years, he couldn’t say he knew her, and when people in town asked what she was like, he kept mum. All he knew was that she refused to pave the driveway, which he often suggested, and that she didn’t want to bother leveling off Dead Horse Lane.
Now, standing here in the hall, Matt realized that although he’d only been in the house once before, he’d dreamed of it many times. In his dreams, it was always the original house, before the additions were added on like frosting. It was a house made of wood and mud and straw. Everything smelled like smoke and water lilies in his dreams, and he thought he detected the scent now, although it was quickly replaced by the aroma from the pan of rolls Jenny brought out of the kitchen. The rolls were from a package, but Liza Hull had advised that if sprinkled with butter and a few sprigs of rosemary, they’d appear to be homemade.
“Well, here you are,” Jenny said cheerfully. She fanned herself with the tea towel; holding on to the pan of rolls must be causing her to burn up. The scent of rosemary made her feel somewhat intoxicated. “Our first guest ever.”
Matt had recently read in Emily Hathaway’s household journal that some fools in love used to believe that the mere act of buttoning a shirt could reveal whether or not they had a chance with their beloved; evens and odds would predict the outcome. The same was true for plum stones found in a tart. Odd meant sorrow. Even, love.
“You can take your wine home with you. We don’t drink,” Elinor said.
“Some of us do,” Jenny said as she took the bottle of Chardonnay from Matt. “Of course, if Will were here he’d insist upon whisky. And only the best. Johnnie Walker, isn’t that what he drinks?”
Once it was said aloud, Will’s name sat there on the carpeting, an unwelcome toad.
“Good old Will,” Matt Avery said.
In studying her uncle, Stella saw that he was her father’s opposite in every way. If the brothers were placed facing each other, it would be as though one were shadow and the other substance. Only which was which?
“Aren’t genetics fascinating?” Stella said as they proceeded to the table. She was wearing the silver bracelet her father had given her and the bell chimed softly as she reached for the salad to pass to Matt. “The variations. The mutations. That’s why I’m going into medicine,” Stella informed her uncle. “Anything’s possible.”
