Family Tree Read online

  Every day as Annie finished up the boiling, Fletcher would come into the sugar shack and they would talk—about school, life, family, the future, everything. She could listen to him talk all day. She liked the cadence of his voice and the light in his eyes when he looked at her. She liked his large hands and the easy, athletic grace with which he moved. She liked him in ways she’d never felt for a boy before.

  She wondered what it would be like to go all the way with him. Sex was still this big unknown thing to her, even though she thought about it all the time. It was like Europe—a place she studied and yearned to visit, but hadn’t had the opportunity yet. She was just waiting for her moment.

  All her instincts and urges told her that Fletcher Wyndham was her moment. Yet even though he was totally easy to talk to, she couldn’t figure out how to bring up the topic with him. Based on her past boyfriends, she figured all she had to do was offer, and he’d jump at the chance. She didn’t want to do that, though. Fletcher mattered to her. His opinion mattered. She didn’t want him to think she was easy, or worse, using him.

  He might not like her at all in that way. How could a girl tell? They needed to get to know each other better. Maybe then it would happen naturally.

  “There’s a cooking competition at the Culinary Institute down in Montpelier on Saturday,” she said one day as she was finishing the boiling. “Want to come?”

  “And do what?” He peered at her through the steam rising from the evaporator. “I know how to make a few things, but competitively? Probably not.”

  “No, you’d watch me cook,” she said. Then she blushed. “I realize it doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs, but—”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sounds great.”

  On Saturday morning. Gran helped her load her ingredients into an ice chest and wished her luck. “Are you taking the pickup?” Gran asked.

  “I’m getting a ride with a friend,” Annie said.

  “Oh?” This was code for “You’d better explain yourself.”

  “Fletcher, one of the guys who’s been working for Kyle.” Annie noted her grandmother’s furrowed brow. “He’s fine. He’s in my grade at school, and we’re friends.”

  “I see.” More code, this time meaning “Don’t get in trouble.” Gran studied Annie’s face in that way she had, her dark eyes calm with wisdom. “So your friend, he’s interested in cooking?”

  “I think he’s interested in me,” Annie admitted. “At least, I hope he is.” She slipped out the back door before anyone else was up, which was good, because her mom would probably give her a hard time. By the time Fletcher pulled into the driveway, she felt totally energized about the whole day.

  “I love these competitions,” she told him as they headed downstate to Montpelier. “Does that make me a show-off?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Nobody likes a show-off.”

  “Somebody likes you.” He kept his eyes on the road. She could see a slight smile playing about his lips, and a warm, melty feeling spread all through her. After a couple of minutes, he turned on the radio, and they talked about the music they liked. She was a fan of new alternative, like Nelly Furtado and Cake. He liked his dad’s old tunes—the Smiths, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie. She promised to put some of his favorites on her iPod.

  By the time she entered the teaching kitchen at the New England Culinary Institute, Annie was feeling cocky about her entry. The theme of the competition was locally sourced cheddar cheese, and she had perfected her recipe for a cheddar, apple, and beer soup that used apples and cider from Rush Mountain.

  “I’m sorry if this is weird for you,” she told Fletcher as he took a seat in the gallery behind the adjudicators. “Usually, my grandmother or my friend Pam comes along, but they couldn’t get away from the sugaring.”

  “It’s not weird,” he said. Then he looked around at the eclectic group of foodies and added, “Well, it is, but in a good way. Go knock ’em dead.”

  Maybe being too cocky was going to jinx her, she thought as she set out her ingredients and got to work. The student chefs were no slouches. There were dishes in flaky puff pastry, creations with truffle oil and gourmet foam, concoctions featuring foraged ingredients, fancy cuts of meat, homemade pasta. By comparison, her rustic soup seemed humble. She kept her game face on as she expertly put together apples, carrots, celery, and potatoes with beer made by Pam’s dad, and stock she had simmered to perfection the night before. Every single ingredient down to the sprig of thyme came from within a few miles of home. Whirled in a blender with local cheddar and cream, the soup was smooth and comforting. The only fancy touch was a swirl of crème fraîche on top.

  The judges—a celebrity chef from Boston and two instructors—sampled each dish, then invited the spectators to do the same. Annie’s hopes rose as the pot of rich, cheddary soup disappeared, clearly an audience favorite. Fletcher gave her a thumbs-up sign. And the celebrity chef—Tyrone Tippet of Soul, a Boston institution—took her aside and said, “You got something there, girl. I love watching you cook.”

  “Really?” Annie nearly burst with pride.

  “Uh-huh. The knife skills, the connection with the food. And you were looking at the audience like you wanted to give them all a hug. Even better was the way they were looking at you.”

  She flushed, knowing that Fletcher was the reason for that. “And how was the soup?”

  “Tasty and perfectly seasoned,” he assured her. “You know that, right?” He gave her his card. “I’m not the only judge, but if you’re ever down in Boston, get in touch.”

  She knew then that she hadn’t won. This was confirmed when the rankings were announced. Sticking the gold-and-white honorable mention ribbon into her backpack, she joined Fletcher in the foyer of the auditorium. “Well,” she said. “That sucked. Sorry you had to come all this way to watch me lose.”

  “You’re no loser,” he said as they walked out together. “Yours was the best by far.”

  The more time Annie spent with him, the more she liked him. And the more she thought about sex.

  “I can’t believe the winner was mac and cheese,” she grumbled. “How could they pick mac and cheese, of all things?”

  “Bacon,” Fletcher said. “Duh.”

  “Hey.” She fake-punched him on the shoulder. “There was white truffle oil involved, too. Damn you, white truffle oil. And how is that a local product?”

  On the drive home, she told him what the celebrity chef had said about her cooking, and the way people watched her, the connection she felt to the food and the audience. “Do you think it’s strange,” she asked Fletcher, “me being so into cooking, the way other people are into sports or music?”

  “It’s not weird,” he said. “It’s cool that you like something that much.”

  “I do,” she said, tracing a foggy spot on the window with her finger. A heart. A flower. A bud about to burst. Sometimes she felt so full of dreams that she nearly exploded, like a kernel of popcorn in hot oil. Pow. “It’s not just the food. I feel really greedy admitting this, but I want everything,” she confessed to him.

  “Everything? You might need to be more specific.”

  “I want everything in the world to happen to me,” she said.

  “Tsunamis? Avalanches?”

  “Oh, come on. I mean like ocean waves and bullet trains and hunting for truffles and getting lost in a foreign city. I just want to see it all and try everything.”

  He glanced over at her, then turned his eyes to the road. “I have no doubt that you will.”

  He reached over and found a radio station playing nineties music. By the time they got to Switchback, it was getting dark. In the in-between season—not deep winter, but not spring either—the town had a bleak, exhausted look. Fletcher tapped the horn as they passed his father’s place, renamed GreenTree Garage. She could see his father inside, working under a car that had been hoisted up on a lift. The garage itself looked bleak, with faded signs and rubber belts hanging from the walls,
stacks of tires and oily-looking tools everywhere.

  She wondered if Fletcher had other dreams besides working alongside his father, but couldn’t think of a way to ask him without sounding insulting.

  He drove up the mountain to her house and walked her to the door. The sounds of dinner in progress clattered from the kitchen.

  “Want to come in?” she asked. “You could stay for supper.”

  He smiled and touched his stomach. “I filled up on samples at the contest.”

  “Me, too.” She felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. She wanted to spend more time with him, but knew that bringing him to meet her family would be awkward. They would be totally nice, of course. They were always nice. However, there would be nosy questions and weird silences and forced conversation. She didn’t want to subject him to that.

  He stood for a moment, looking down at her. Then, with unhurried deliberation, he cupped one hand around her head and the other at her waist. With a gentle tug, he pulled her against him, leaned down, and kissed her.

  She knew instantly that it was that kind of kiss, the kind that had the power to stop time. She would lie awake thinking about it half the night, and wake up in the morning still dreaming of this moment. It was the best feeling in the world. She had never felt this way about anyone. Ever. It was intense and euphoric and wholly exciting. Now she couldn’t imagine how she’d lived for eighteen years without this blissful sensation.

  “See you around,” he whispered.

  “Bye, Fletcher.”

  After he drove away, she walked into the house without even feeling the floor beneath her feet. Her family sat around the long table—her mother; Kyle and his wife, Beth; and the kids.

  “Looks like a winner’s smile on your face,” Beth said, setting some cut up green beans on Lucas’s high-chair tray. “Did you bring home first prize?”

  “Not even close,” Annie said, still floating in a cloud of bliss. Kissing Fletcher Wyndham was so much bigger than a dumb award. She couldn’t even remember what disappointment felt like. She drifted over to the sink and washed her hands.

  “The competition must have been rigged, then,” her mother said loyally. “No way something could taste better than your beer cheddar soup. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Did your friend like the competition?” asked Gran with a knowing look.

  Annie couldn’t stop smiling. “Fletcher liked it,” she said softly. “He likes me.”

  “Fletcher Wyndham? That new boy?” Mom asked.

  “He’s not new anymore. He’s been working the whole sugar season, right, Kyle?”

  Kyle merely nodded, leaning over to cut up Dana’s chicken.

  “I don’t think he should be hanging around so much,” her mother said, passing the breadbasket. “You seem distracted by him.”

  Annie flashed a smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “You need to focus on your future.”

  “I just spent the day at a competition.”

  “True, but you said you didn’t do as well as you usually do. Could that be because you were distracted?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Annie said. “I was making googly eyes at Fletcher and I didn’t cook well.”

  “Oh, sweetie. You know that’s not what I’m saying. I just want to see you going for your dreams.”

  “That’s what Dad did, and you’re still mad about it.”

  Beth and Gran watched Annie and her mom like spectators at a tennis match. Kyle and the kids dug into their dinner, oblivious.

  “Your father left his family behind. It’s completely different. Annie, this is your special time to create the life you want, all by yourself. You’re at the beginning, when anything is possible. Don’t let your choices be influenced by this boy.”

  “Mom.” Annie bristled. “You don’t even know him.”

  Her mother pursed her lips. “I know more than you think. You mark my words, Fletcher Wyndham will never give you anything but trouble.”

  7

  Now

  All rise. The court is now in session,” the bailiff announced, “the Honorable Fletcher Wyndham presiding.”

  “Please be seated,” Fletcher told the room as he took his place at the bench. The courthouse was a venerable old building, its chambers drafty with echoes that seemed to whisper a sense of gravitas to the setting. Not so long ago, Fletcher used to walk past the place on his way to school or to his dad’s garage, never imagining this would one day be his domain.

  There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs, a thumping of briefcases, and murmured conversation as people settled in. As he arranged his papers and gavel, Fletcher scanned the courtroom—clerks and lawyers, a few nervous-looking clients, Natty Gilmore from the Gazette, the court reporter and deputy, an observer or two. All eyes were trained on him.

  When he’d first taken the bench, Fletcher used to feel massively self-conscious, entering the courtroom in his robe, knowing he was the center of everyone’s attention. Knowing he sometimes had the responsibility of changing the direction of someone’s life. Who would he help today? Who was hurting, angry, frustrated? Who had done something completely stupid and needed a way out? What fine shadings of the law would he interpret?

  He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it. His rules for mobile devices in the courtroom were strict, and he adhered to them, too. Friday-morning court was a grab bag. He and his secretary had already reviewed the day’s administrative matters and routine proceedings. Today’s schedule yielded the typical variety of business—a status conference, hearings, requests—with one possibly interesting twist. Earl Mahoney was suing some guy from Texas for selling him a breeding bull that had turned out to be sterile. The seller allegedly knew the bull couldn’t perform, but sold it anyway. Trouble was, Vermont had no jurisdiction over Jimbo Childress, the Texan, because Jimbo had never been to Vermont or done business there. Earl, never one to give up, had arranged it so Childress “won” a free leaf-looking trip to Vermont last fall to view the glorious colors of autumn. As the unsuspecting Texan settled into his cozy B&B in the charming town of Putnam, a process server had delivered the summons to him.

  Tag, Jimbo, thought Fletcher. You’re it. He allowed the suit to go forward. And then he thought, Damn. I love my job.

  Although he worked methodically through morning court, Fletcher never allowed himself to get bored or impatient, even though a good number of cases were tedious. He never allowed himself to check his phone, which had been vibrating with text messages every few minutes. He kept his attention on the cases before him. Some were frustrating or impossibly petty, like the woman claiming damages for emotional distress caused by visiting a haunted house at Halloween, or the man suing the school district after his son was cut from the hockey team for skipping class. Others involved ridiculous amounts of paperwork. A seventy-five-page motion was not uncommon, and Fletcher was one of those judges who read everything.

  That was his job. And he knew from painful personal experience that a person’s day in court might just be the worst day of his life. The least a judge could do was pay attention.

  Today, Earl Mahoney left, satisfied that his sterile-bull issue would be resolved. A couple of motions were granted, a subpoena quashed. After the lunch recess, Fletcher endured a two-hour debate from opposing lawyers over a property-rights dispute. More motion hearings. A status conference. A merits hearing. In a small town, a judge had to wear many hats, dealing with whatever came through the door.

  The bailiff passed a note to him. Fletcher looked at it briefly, and instantly felt a knot tighten in his gut.

  “We’re going to take a fifteen-minute recess,” he said, punctuating the statement with his gavel. He exited through the side door and went down a short hallway to his chambers.

  The door was ajar. Inside, a boy wearing Fletcher’s extra robe was standing on an upended wastebasket so that the robe draped to the floor, making him look freakishly tall. He brandished a lett
er opener like a weapon. No, like a wizard’s wand. He was working his way through the entire Harry Potter series, and dreamed of going to wizard school.

  “Hey, Teddy,” Fletcher said.

  The kid turned in startlement, and the wastebasket tipped over.

  “Whoa,” said Fletcher, lunging for him. Too late. Teddy hit the floor, and the letter opener flew from his hand, skittering across the hardwood planks. Fletcher sank down next to Teddy. “Hey, are you all right?”

  “That depends,” Teddy said in a small voice, “on how much trouble I’m in.”

  “You could have broken your neck.”

  Teddy rolled over and sat up. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Hang that robe up,” Fletcher said, grabbing the letter opener and the wastebasket. “What if you’d fallen on this letter opener, huh? What if it stabbed you in the liver and you bled out before the ambulance could get here?”

  “Then you would have a giant mess to clean up,” Teddy said with a fake-serious expression on his face.

  Fletcher watched the boy carefully putting the robe on a hanger. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to your mom’s after school.”

  “I am,” Teddy said. “She told me to meet her here, because she’s coming to talk to you.”

  Oh, joy. “I’ve got court,” said Fletcher. As if she didn’t know that.

  “I’ll be quick,” said a voice from the doorway.

  “Hi, Mom,” Teddy said, going over to give her a brief hug.

  She brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes. “Hi, baby.” Then she turned to Fletcher. “I want to move.”

  “I don’t,” Teddy protested. “Dad.”

  Fletcher clenched his jaw to keep in the words he really wanted to say to Celia. “Teddy, go grab a snack in the break room.”