The All You Can Dream Buffet Read online

  Then she bent her head into her hands and cried some more. What had she let herself in for?

  At some point much later, Ginny woke up to Willow nosing her hand repeatedly. It was dark and still raining, though not with the force it had been earlier. The sound now was a soft patter on the roof of the Airstream.

  When Ginny moved, sitting up stiffly, Willow backed away with her tail wagging and jerked her head toward the door. “Oh, sorry, sweetie. Let me get a jacket.”

  She fetched her jacket and put it on, pulling the hood over her head. She leashed the dog and they went out in the heavy drizzle. Most of the other cars and trucks had driven on, but a couple of semis were still parked, their engines idling. On the highway, cars roared by, one after another. The heavy clouds pressed down from above, and Ginny could only keep her head down. Willow did her business, then shook the rain off her fur.

  “My turn,” Ginny said, and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a toilet in the trailer, but she might as well make use of this one while she could.

  No one was in there, so she brought Willow with her. Willow sat politely while Ginny used the toilet and then stripped off her jacket and shirt and hung them on a hook. She washed at the sink, drying off with paper towels. In the mirror, she looked gray and withered, with circles under her eyes.

  “Such an adventure,” she said aloud, feeling the weight of it in her gut. This had been a stupid idea.

  As if Willow heard her thoughts, she made a soft whine.

  “I’m only kidding,” Ginny said, slipping back into her clothes. “Once we get to Lavender’s farm it will be a lot better.”

  As she finished, a young woman came in, her long red hair braided away from her face. “Hi!” she said in an Australian accent. “Raining enough for you?”

  Ginny rolled her eyes. “Pretty crazy. Were you driving in it?”

  “Yeah.” She headed to the sink and turned the water on, soaping her hands and face, then scrubbing them vigorously. With eyes the color of a shallow lake, she peered at Ginny through the mirror. “Are you driving that Airstream?”

  “Yes! My first trip.”

  “That’s a brilliant trailer. Bambi, yeah?”

  “That’s right. I looked for a long time for the right one.”

  The girl splashed water over her face. “I’d love something like that.”

  Something real and true eased in Ginny’s throat, as if she might be able to speak without screaming. “When the time is right, you will, I bet.”

  “Right.” She dried her face and opened a little makeup bag.

  Ginny whistled for Willow to follow her out. “Take care,” she said to the girl.

  “Right, love. You, too.”

  Back in the trailer, Ginny turned on some lights over the table, put on her sweats and heavy socks, and opened her laptop, which was fully charged. There was an email from Valerie.

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  SUBJECT: My daughter has gone native

  LOCATION: back of beyond, SD

  Hi, Ginny. How’s your journey going so far? I keep thinking about you driving through the mountains at long last and wonder if that’s as thrilling as you thought it would be. Are you into the mountains yet? I can’t remember which day you were leaving, I’m sorry to say. That’s because my teenage daughter has sucked the brains right out of my head.

  We’ve been on the road six and a half days. Six days in the car with my darling girl. Six days of touring Native American sites, like Tecumseh’s grave and Sitting Bull’s birthplace and the site of Crazy Horse’s murder.

  Hannah has taped postcards of Sitting Bull and Red Cloud to her walls in the trailer. She takes hours to straighten her hair every morning, then weaves in braids and feathers. The effect is startling, I have to admit—she has her father’s cheekbones and my dark eyes, so she could easily pass for Native American. But that’s been the story of biracial people all through time, hasn’t it? They can blend in, become someone new. Not like me, blackest woman in six counties. Not like you, Freckles. Or Miss Ruby Slippers, with her big blue eyes.

  I’m rambling, sorry. I wish we were coming to the farm instead of making this tour of powwows and battlegrounds. It’s all so wretchedly depressing, and I have had enough of depressing. I need to find a new life, a fresh start, but what does an aging, widowed ballerina do for the rest of her life? Is forty-seven too late to start over? Are we over the hill, my friend? I honestly don’t know.

  Sometimes I even feel guilty for that, for wanting to start over. Young (okay, young-ish) widows do it, but maybe mothers who’ve lost children don’t. Except that I just don’t see the point in staying stuck at the moment of loss. I don’t see how it serves my daughters for me to stop living, too. I don’t see how it makes my life mean any more. My father used to say people get over unimaginable things, and as a black man from Mississippi, I guess he had more insight than most.

  The biggest reason to get unstuck and find that new life for myself is for Hannah, who is stuck back at the moment when those officials in their uniforms showed up at our door to tell us what we had suspected. She can’t move on, because none of her friends will let her. I can’t move on, because I am The Woman Who Lost Her Family in That Horrible Plane Crash. It cages us in, both of us. In San Diego, we can start fresh. Live by the ocean.

  In some ways, the trip is working. Hannah is turning herself into a Native American, but at least she isn’t trying to squeeze herself into her sisters’ clothes anymore. Now she’s not exactly being Hannah, but at least she’s not them.

  I honestly thought that after two years we might be further along this road. I thought I’d be further along. I miss them all so much. Maybe that’s not something to be avoided. Maybe it’s just going to be a piece of me forever.

  Ugh, sorry! I’m whining again, and I will have to move the bracelet on my arm to the other and start over.

  Please tell me about your adventures. I’m dying to hear.

  Love,

  Val

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  SUBJECT: re: My daughter has gone native

  LOCATION: back of beyond, Colorado

  Hi, Val. First, big hugs. I’m going to say again what I have said a dozen times: You are doing the right thing under very challenging circumstances. I’m proud of you for taking action instead of staying stuck.

  Where am I? I honestly don’t know exactly. It’s raining really, really hard. I’m exhausted from driving and still have to post a blog. I’ll write more tomorrow night.

  But, yes, I’m on the way, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying and a thousand other things I can’t pick out completely.

  Can’t you just keep driving and come to the farm? Why not?

  I don’t know how you can escape missing them—and maybe you wouldn’t want to, after all. I’m glad the trip seems to be helping with Hannah. You are a great mother, and they do grow up. I admire you so much.

  And I know this sounds canned and like I’m not really reading/responding, but, I swear, even my eyelashes are tired. More tomorrow.

  Please come to the farm with the rest of us. Please, please, please?

  Love,

  Ginny the demolished

  Email sent, Ginny uploaded a handful of photos to the blog, wrote a quick post, and shut it all down. Willow hopped up on the bed with her, taking the space by the wall as Ginny had been training her to do—a big warm comfort when she felt lonely.

  Drawing her quilt over her body and plumping up the pillows, she closed her eyes, imagining a big circle of protection around the trailer. Next to her, Willow snored comfortingly. Rain pattered down on the roof.

  And, just as Matthew had predicted, a sense of vast loneliness crashed down on her like a blanket of ice. The distance she had traveled, so many, many miles, seemed insane, and where was she? In a beautiful campground by a river, or in the mountains? No, at a rest stop on the interstat
e, with trucks running their engines.

  Back home, Matthew was tucked into bed, reading a mystery. She pictured her kitchen, the swath of counter that her sisters envied, the new range and oven, the flower vase on the windowsill filled with a selection of roses from her garden. Why had she left her roses? Matthew would never take care of them. They would die.

  She imagined a gentle hand smoothing the hair from her brow. Just before she fell asleep, she could have sworn that music began to play, and there was the distinct sound of ice clinking into a glass.

  Lavender Honey Farms

  yamhill co., oregon

  Home Shop Blog Directions Philosophy

  At the lavender farms, this stretch of June is one of our favorites. The bees are happily drugging themselves on the fields of lavender, lambs are tumbling through the grass, and we’re making cheese to take advantage of the season.

  This pair is Hester and Pilar. Pilar came to us as a rescue from a local commune. She was battered and worn out, but our resident magician, Noah, managed to get her back into happy shape, as you see. This is her first lambing season, and she’s taken to it like the champ she is. Sometimes survivors are the most sensitive of all.

  Sheep cheese is not as common in America as cow’s milk cheese, but don’t let that stop you. Here are a few of our best cheeses, available only in limited amounts:

  Rosemary manchego

  Pecorino wrapped in walnut leaves

  Malvarosa (one of my favorites!)

  Chapter 8

  Monday morning, after her tour of the perimeter, Lavender cut behind the house to follow a path through the woods behind the farm. It was a sunny morning, promising to be hot later in the day, and the bees were hungrily gathering pollen and nectar from the throats of the millions of lavender blossoms. It was a sight she loved as much as any, the bees so certain of their place and purpose. She fancied she could smell the honey from hives as she passed by.

  Her destination was the manager’s small house, which crouched at the edge of the stream that looped around the farm in almost too picturesque a manner. It ran fast this time of year, still fed by clear melting snows.

  Noah sat on the steps of the porch in his stocking feet, drinking a mug of coffee. His hair, too long as always—a rebellion against his soldier days, she thought—hadn’t yet been brushed, and his eyes were swollen with sleep. Or what passed for sleep with Noah Tso. He was known to get by on an hour or two, snatched from the maw of his nightmares.

  That’s what happened when you sent men to war over and over. It sucked something out of them. She’d been a teenager during World War II, and those men fought a long time, too. Years on end, most of them. Noah had spent three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan and wanted only a place where he didn’t have to pretend he still had the usual small talk and foolishness of everyday interactions. He just wanted to be left alone, to spend time on the land. Lavender could practically see the ghosts who followed him around, and, having known some ghosts herself, she’d taken pity on him.

  Good thing, too. He was the best manager she’d ever had and was devoted to the principles of the farm that she’d laid out twenty-five years ago, long before it was hip: organic, whole, integrated, natural.

  He ignored the women who angled for his attentions, with such aloofness that he was labeled arrogant, stuck-up, too good for himself—all those things people said when they didn’t know what to make of a body. Because he was beautiful, they wanted him to see them in return; when he didn’t, they felt embarrassed.

  “ ’Morning,” Lavender said now. “You have a minute?”

  “Always.” He wiped a hand over his face. “What’s up?”

  She sat down next to him on the step, grunting a little. Her knees were creaky, no matter how much ginger she imbibed.

  “Any more trouble along the fences?”

  “Fixed a little breach yesterday afternoon, but it could have been anything.” Noah turned his copper eyes, as penetrating as a laser, on her. “You’re being paranoid.”

  Lavender shook her head. “Nope,” she said, pushing her lower lip out. “Wade is after this land, mark my words, and once I’m gone, those nephews of mine will sell it to him so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  Noah nodded.

  “He’ll ruin it, Noah, every bit of it. He’ll just turn it into another Wade Markum Enterprise, and everything I’ve been working for all this time will be lost.”

  “You keep telling me this, but I’m not sure what you want me to do. Sell it now. Rewrite your will.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one I want.”

  “No can do,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

  “Mmm.” She took a breath. “Well, that’s what this party is about, then. One of these gals might be my heir.”

  He frowned into his mug. Took a sip. “What makes you think any of them could do it? Running a farm like this isn’t a little thing.”

  Lavender eyed a trio of hens who had wandered down the path behind her. One fat girl with wheat-colored feathers clucked under her breath, eyeing the ground. “I’ve known all three of them for years. Each one has something that might make her a good fit.” She held up her thumb. “Ruby is devoted to the organic movement, and she’s young and looking for her place in life.” She poked her index finger into the air. “Valerie and her daughter need a fresh start, and Val’s as smart as anyone I’ve ever met. She’s spent a lot of time studying wine, which takes a knowledge of the soil.”

  Noah gave her a skeptical look. “She’s the ballerina, right? City woman.”

  Lavender shrugged. “She’s a stretch but worth a try.” She stuck up her middle finger. “Ginny was raised on a farm and is so miserable where she is that I think she’d move to Mars.”

  “You do what you need to do, I guess. I’ll be here.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Fair enough.” She got to her feet. “How is the dancing platform coming along?” Her vision for the night of the Blue Moon Festival included a party like the ones she’d enjoyed in her youth, with lights strung around a platform and everyone dancing to a band.

  “It’s good. Come on over later and I’ll show it to you.”

  “Will do.”

  As Lavender was heading back toward the house, Noah called after her, “Lavender, I am sorry.”

  She only waved a hand. He thought he knew what he wanted, but she saw him better than he did himself. She hadn’t given up yet.

  Lavender found Ruby drinking a mug of tea on the porch of the cottage. Ruby didn’t see her, so Lavender caught the pensive expression before Ruby could mask it with her eternal smile. She reminded Lavender of a Russian farm girl, with her straight blond hair and curves and the round apple cheeks. Before they’d met in person, Lavender imagined that Ruby would be a whirling dervish, thin and leggy and exuberant.

  The exuberance was there, of course, the zest that brought people to her blog in such numbers. But how did a person stay so cheerful all the time?

  “Good morning,” Lavender called out now. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “I’d like to make you some breakfast if you’ll let me,” Ruby said. “It’s my turn, you know.”

  “Better be something hearty. I’m starving.”

  “Pancakes, then. How’s that? Do you have any bananas?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I also have some fresh blueberries we collected down by the creek. We can run down to McMinnville later this afternoon and get groceries if you want.”

  “I’d really like to do that. I need to stock up on a bunch of fresh food.”

  The kitchen was tiny, just about enough room to turn around three times. “I need coffee,” Lavender said. “You want some, too, or does it upset your stomach?”

  “I’m going to stick with my mint tea.” Ruby gave Lavender a wan smile. “The doctor gave me anti-nausea drugs, and I broke down and took some this morning.”

  “Sometimes medicine is a good thing.”

  They moved compan
ionably around the small space, back-to-back, side by side. Ruby assembled her ingredients and heated a griddle Lavender had dug out of the back of a cabinet, a cast-iron beauty that covered two gas burners. It had belonged to her mother and showed the depth of time.

  Ruby squeaked when she saw it. “This is so cool!” She made a kissing noise toward it. “I’ve wanted to get one for ages.”

  “My mother used it nearly every day of her life.”

  “I can imagine.” She spread oil over the heavy iron, then lovingly heated it until water skittered over the surface. As she ladled the batter into evenly sized pools, Ruby bloomed with that beneficent, glowing smile. She half lit up the room with it. “Can we go to the meadery today?”

  “You bet.”

  “And … uh, do you have cat food?”

  Lavender frowned. “Cat food?”

  “A little black cat showed up on my doorstep last night. She was being chased by a coyote, and I took her in. She slept on my tummy all night. Oh! And speaking of that…” She put her hands on her hips and gave Lavender a big grin. “Guess what? I felt the baby move last night!”

  Lavender blinked, trying to sort out the threads of that paragraph, but what she was really thinking was what a pretty thing Ruby was, all that shine to her. What the heck was wrong with that man of hers, anyway? It made no sense.

  “Congratulations! That’s a big moment, I understand.” As Lavender spoke, she sorted through the emails from Ginny. “As for the cat, I’m sure she’s one of the barn cats. There is a feral colony around, too, but they’re not inclined to sleep with humans.”

  “Feral cats? How do they live if there are coyotes?”

  “They’re quick and smart, and not all of them do.”

  Ruby blinked, her hand frozen, then said, “Oh.” She put the pancakes on two plates, turned off the burners, and carried them over to the table.