“Spaghetti with clam sauce.”
“Well ain’t you fancy, cooking all ee-tal-yun.”
“It’s one of Emeril’s recipes.”
“Well you know I love Emeril on occasion, but give me Paula Deen any day. That woman ain’t afraid of butter.”
Analise laughed. “No, she’s not. That will be six forty-nine.”
“Here you go,” she said, handing her a bill.
“Out of ten. That’s three and fifty-one back.”
“Keep the penny in that little dish, honey.”
“Okay.”
“Casey’s diarrhea under control?” Terry asked.
Analise blushed. “Yes. Has been for some days.”
“Did you try carrot soup? Carrot soup and brown rice works wonders with the squirts. But so does turmeric.”
“She’s fine. I just got some Imodium.”
“That works too. Tell Christian not to forget to bring his kerchief to the pack meeting, we’re making kerchief rings. Have a good night.” She turned back to me. “You too, Mr. Christensen. I wish you well on your walk.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling a little.
She walked out. Analise sighed. “Like I was saying, Mr. Christensen. There are no secrets in Sidney.”
“Clearly.”
At five minutes after six another woman walked into the store. She was younger than Analise, and wore tight Wrangler jeans and an open shirt with a tube top underneath. “Sorry I’m late, Lise. Rush-hour traffic.”
“Rush hour in Sidney’s a bear,” Analise said. “Don’t worry about it. Ciao.”
“Have a good night,” the young woman said to Analise, glancing at me suspiciously.
“Let’s go,” Analise said. She picked up her purse and a plastic bag with groceries.
“May I help you with that?” I asked.
“Thanks.”
She handed me a plastic bag, which contained spaghetti, a loaf of French bread, and cans of tomato sauce, then I followed her out to a brown Ford Ranger truck. “This would be my transportation,” she said, opening the door by remote.
I threw my pack in the truck’s bed and climbed in the passenger side.
Analise turned the key in the ignition and the Moulin Rouge soundtrack came on. She reached over and turned off the CD player.
“I live just a mile from here.” She backed out of the stall then pulled a U-turn in the middle of Main Street.
I thought back to the young woman’s excuse for being late. “Rush-hour traffic?” I said.
She nodded. “It’s code for her boyfriend. His name is Rush.”
Analise’s home was surprisingly large and beautiful, a two-story Folk Victorian house painted pale yellow with white trim, dark red shutters, and a ground-level wraparound porch. A large American flag hung from one of the porch’s posts.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said. “My wife would have loved it.”
“You’re married?”
“I was. She passed away.”
Analise looked at me with real sympathy. “I’m so very sorry.”
She pulled the truck up to the side of the home, and we both got out. I pulled my pack from the truck’s bed while Analise waited for me. As we approached the front porch, a little girl came running out. “Mama!”
“Hi, Case.” Analise squatted down and hugged the girl. “How was school?”
“Boring,” she said. “And Kyle picked his nose in front of everyone.”
“Well that doesn’t sound boring,” she said, standing back up. She looked at me and smiled. “The glamorous life of a mom.”
“Who are you?” Casey said to me.
“I’m Alan.”
“Alan?”
“Mr. Christoffersen,” Analise said.
“Hi, Mr. Christoffersen. Are you going to have dinner with us?”
“I think I am,” I said.
She smiled. “Good.” She turned and ran into the house.
Analise and I followed after her. I could hear the girl shouting, “Christian, Mommy’s home. And she brought someone.”
Analise turned to me, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Sorry, it’s big news when someone visits. We don’t get many visitors this far from Earth.”
We stepped inside the house.
“I’m sorry, it’s messy. I’ve been working extra lately.”
“This is really beautiful,” I said.
She smiled. “Thank you. The guest room is right here next to the den. You’re probably tired. If you’d like to rest or wash up, it will take me about forty minutes or so to get dinner on.”
“When does your husband get home?”
“You never know,” she said. “The work of a farmer never stops. Working for family makes it worse. I’ve stopped waiting for him.”
“I’d be happy to help you cook. I’m not a bad cook. I mean, I’m not Emeril, but I can boil water.”
She nodded. “Great. You’re hired. The kitchen is right through that door.”
“I’ll go wash up,” I said.
I carried my pack into the room Analise had pointed to. The guest room was quaint and tidy, the kind of room you’d expect in a bed-and-breakfast. It had a high-mattressed canopy bed with white carved posts. There were pictures of the children on the wall. The largest picture was a portrait of the entire family. I figured the photograph was fairly dated as Casey was still a toddler. Matt, Analise’s husband, was tall and muscularly built. I thought he looked more cowboy than farmer. He was handsome. In fact, the whole family was rather attractive.
I washed my hands and face, then found my way to the kitchen. Analise had put on an apron and was standing at the stove frying something in a skillet. Next to her was a large pot with a high flame beneath it. The room already smelled wonderfully of garlic.
“Smells delicious,” I said. “What would you like me to do?”
“Would you mind helping me fry the garlic?”
“No problem,” I said.
She stepped away from the stove. “Great. I’ll get the clams and pepper ready. The garlic’s only supposed to cook for a few minutes. When you’re done, we add crushed red pepper and clams then cook for two more minutes.” She walked over to the counter and put the clams and peppers in a bowl, then brought them over to me. “The garlic should be about ready.”
“It looks ready,” I said.
She poured her bowl into my pan. The clams sizzled loudly. “Okay, do you know how to sauté?”
“Just stir, right?”
“Right.” She left, then returned with a cup of white wine, which she also poured into my pan. “All right. Just let that cook until the wine reduces a little, then we add the tomato sauce. I’ll get the pasta going.” She opened a package of spaghetti and dropped it into the boiling water.
“I think it’s ready for the tomato sauce,” I said.
She glanced over. “I think you’re right. Just pour it all in.”
I took the can and added the sauce to the sizzling mixture. The aroma was delicious.
“How long do I let it cook?” I asked.
“According to Emeril, just until the clams start to open.” She looked at me. “You’re from Seattle; you probably cook clams all the time.”
“No,” I said. “But I do love a good chowder.”
She stirred the noodles a little, then went to the door and shouted, “Casey, come here.”
A moment later the little girl walked into the kitchen. “What, Mama?”
“Where’s Christian?”
“He’s in his room. He’s playing video games.”
“Will you tell him to come down and help you set the table?”
“Okay.”
A few minutes later she returned with her brother in tow. Christian had long, blond hair and an excessive frown. “I was playing Xbox.”
“It’s time to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “Help Casey set the table.”
He rolle
d his eyes and walked out. Analise shook her head. “You can’t live with them, you can’t lock them up in cages in the basement.”
She put on oven mitts, then squatted down at the oven and brought out a pan of garlic bread. She set the pan on the counter and stacked the bread on a plate. Then she lifted a piece and held it up to my mouth. “Try this.”
I went to take a bite but she pulled it away from me. “It’s hot,” she said. “You’ve got to blow on it first.”
I blew on the bread, then took a bite. “That’s good.”
“I use garlic salt, then add Parmesan cheese.” She took a bite as well then set the piece on the counter. “The pasta should be done.” She stuck a wooden fork into the pot and lifted out a noodle, dangling it into her mouth. “Perfect. Al dente.”
“Al dente?”
“To the teeth. It means it’s not overcooked. Now, if you’ll take the bread out to the table, I’ll drain the pasta.”
I took the plate of bread out to the dining room. Casey was putting the silverware next to the plates while her brother sat on the ground by the wall playing a handheld video game.
“Christian won’t help,” Casey said.
“Of course he will,” I said. “Won’t you.”
He didn’t look up from his game. “No.”
I set the bread on the table. “C’mon, Christian,” I said. “Give your sister a hand.”
He looked up, glaring at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Alan.”
“You’re not my boss, Alan.” He returned to his game.
Honestly, my first instinct was to smack the kid, but I doubted that would fly with his parents. So, being unsure of how to handle the situation, I just went back to the kitchen. Analise was in the middle of draining the pasta into a plastic colander in the sink. Steam was rising up around her.
“Need a hand?” I asked.
“No, I got it.” She poured all of the pasta out, leaving some water in the pot. “You always save a little of the water, in case the noodles get too dry.”
“Got it,” I said. “Emeril?”
She nodded. “Emeril.” She carried the colander over to the stove, where she mixed the pasta in with her clam sauce. Then she turned to me with a satisfied smile. “It’s ready.”
She poured the pasta into a large ceramic bowl and we both went out to the table.
Christian smirked when he saw the pasta.
“Can I have Cap’n Crunch tonight?”
“No.”
“Can I have Lucky Charms?”
“No. You can’t have any cereal. I made spaghetti.”
“It looks gross. It looks like puke.”
Analise blushed. “Don’t talk like that.”
“You can’t make me eat it.”
I could tell Analise was doing her best not to lose her temper.
“You’re going to eat it.”
“No I’m not.”
“Then you can go to your room hungry. Go.”
He glared at her then pushed away from the table. “Fine. I didn’t want to eat that crap anyway.” He glanced over at me hatefully then stormed up the stairs.
“He’s mean,” Casey said.
Analise was embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said to me.
“I couldn’t handle it,” I said.
“What?”
“Being a parent.”
“Well, apparently neither can I,” Analise said.
“You’re a good mommy,” Casey said.
Analise smiled wryly. “Thanks, sweetie. Would you mind saying grace?”
“Okay.” She reached over and took her mother’s hand. Analise reached over and took mine. “God is good, God is great. Bless the food we eat. Amen.”
“Amen,” I said.
“Amen,” Analise said. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Mama.”
I grinned. Casey really was a cute girl.
Analise dished the pasta out onto our plates. It was delicious, though probably a bit exotic for a kid’s palate. After a few minutes Casey said, “Mom, can I be done?”
Analise looked at Casey’s plate. “You didn’t eat very much.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t you like it?”
She didn’t say anything. Analise sighed. “All right. Why don’t you make yourself a peanut butter sandwich? Take one to Christian too.”
“Okay.”
“Then get ready for bed. Don’t forget to brush.”
“ ‘Kay.”
When Casey was gone Analise turned to me with a look of exasperation. “Why do I bother?”
“Kids don’t know what’s good,” I said. “When I was little, my neighbor had an avocado tree. We thought they were the grossest things on the planet. We used to just throw them at each other. Now I pay two dollars for one.”
“I know. They’d be happier if I just poured them a bowl of cereal every night. It would make my life a lot easier.”
“Your husband might have something to say about that.”
She frowned. “The thing is, it’s not like I’m taking the easy way out. I get home from work and I’m exhausted, but then I cook and do the dishes. It’s never-ending.”
“It’s like they say, ‘A mother’s work is never done.’ ”
“Only when you die,” Analise replied. “Then you have eternity to think about everything you did wrong and how you screwed up your children.”
“You sound like an argument for birth control.”
“There are times I think Planned Parenthood could follow me around with a camera and use the video to keep young women from getting pregnant.”
I grinned. “Well, I think you do a really good job. Does your husband help out much at home?”
She looked like she didn’t like the question. “When he’s around,” she said.
“For the record, your spaghetti is fantastic. Emeril couldn’t have made it better himself.”
She smiled at this. “You think?”
“Bam!” I said.
She laughed. “You really do know who Emeril is. I thought you were pretending.”
“I haven’t always lived in a cave,” I said. “I even know who Paula Deen is.”
“Now I’m really impressed.” She looked down at my empty plate. “Would you like more pasta?”
“I would, but I usually try to stop after my third helping.”
“Okay.” She looked at me. “Do you mind if I ask you something about your wife?”
“No.”
“If you don’t want to talk about her, I understand.”
“It’s okay.”
“How did you lose her?”
“We lived in a suburb with a horse trail. She was riding one day and the horse got spooked and threw her. She broke her back.”
Her expression showed her distress. “I’m so sorry. Was she killed instantly?”
“No. She got an infection. She died a month later.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. She looked down for a moment. “I’ve wondered if it’s better to watch a loved one die over time, or to just lose them—never saying what you would have liked to say.”
“Watching her die wasn’t easy. But we said everything we needed to say. I guess if I had to do it again, I would choose to have that extra time together. But she was the one in pain, so I guess I’m selfish.”
“I don’t think that’s selfish. I think it’s beautiful.” She looked down at her plate. “I think I would choose the time too.”
The conversation stopped, swallowed into a cloud of sadness. After a moment Analise said, “That kind of killed the mood. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, it’s good to talk about it sometimes. I carry a lot of emotions and I never have a chance to let them out. Sometimes I think I’m going to explode.”
“How long was it after she passed away that you decided to walk?”
“Two days after her funeral. While I was taking care of her, I lost my business and our home was foreclosed on. The day
after her funeral the bank gave me notice that they were taking my home.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it was. I had nothing holding me there anymore so I just packed up and started to walk.”
“I know I asked you before, but really, why Key West?”
“It was the farthest place on the map.”
She let my words settle. Then she said softly, “I understand better than you know.” She forced a smile. “So before you started your walk, what did you do?”
“I owned an advertising agency.”
“That’s the business you lost?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
She suddenly smiled. “Did you wear your hair that long when you were a businessman?”
“No, believe it or not, I used to look respectable. Short hair, clean-shaven, Armani suits, and Brooks Brothers button-downs, heavy on the starch. You kind of let things go when you’re on the road.”
“It works, though. I think it’s rather rugged-looking. You look like one of those guys on the covers of the paperback romances we sell at the store.”
“You’re saying I look like Fabio?”
She cocked her head with a wide grin. “Maybe a little. You’re not Italian. And you’re not as buff.”
“I’m not as buff as Fabio?”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re in good shape, but just not . . . ”
“I know. Fabio buff.”
She smiled wryly. “Sorry.”
“So I’m not Fabio,” I said. “But I can do two things he can’t.”
She leaned forward. “Do tell.”
“First, I can use words with more than one syllable. And second,” I said, pausing for dramatic impact, “I do dishes.”
She gasped. “Wow. That is hot. I think you just edged out Fabio.”
“I thought so,” I said.
“Really? You do dishes?”
“Yes, I do. Come on,” I said, standing. “Let’s get them done.”
She stood. “You really don’t have to help.”
“Oh, good, because for a second there I thought you had a gun to my head and were making me do the dishes. Since you don’t, I’ll just go read or something while the exhausted, full-time working mother of two children who made the incredible dinner and invited me to stay in her home cleans up after me. Yes, I’ll feel really good about that.”