and explain to my customers why they have grit in their mouths?”
“I’ll reclean them.”
“Yes, you will. Without water. And if you can’t get it right, you’ll be sweeping floors.”
“Oui, chef,” I say, though he’s my father. I call him this at work, just like everyone else.
Georges comes over and hands me a toothpick. I use this to clean each honeycomb hole, and I have to do it carefully because the stupid things are insanely fragile, and we can’t just wash the morels out—oh no—for that would wreck their flavor. No bugs. No dirt. No grit—and no water.
I set to work. It takes a tedious two hours, then Georges spot-checks about fifty mushrooms and gives me a nod. Dad sees the nod and comes over. He checks a mushroom—one single mushroom—and no sand comes out. None. Huzzah.
“Took you long enough,” he says.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m tired, but I still have to work seven more hours and then wait another extra hour or so for Dad to take me home. During the school year, I usually drive myself to and from work. But in the summertime, I tend to bum rides with my father. I have two reasons for this—one, to save the gas money. And two, because I like being with him on the drive home at night.
Our restaurant is in Northampton, which is about forty miles from the southeast corner of Vermont, where we live. Lately it’s the only time Dad and I have alone together. Usually on these rides, he lets go of the strict chef thing and just unwinds by talking about his day—how the new fish dish went, what other dishes he wants to try, and how much he wants to try to find certain ingredients, like tiny wild “mignonette” strawberries.
Tonight though, when the time comes, I climb into the passenger seat and within five blocks my head’s already leaning on the car window.
“Something’s happened I have to talk to you about,” Dad says, waking me a little.
“What?” I ask, inwardly cringing. This must be about cleaning the morels.
“Julian has been wounded in an IED explosion.”
“Oh,” I say, thrown. So Dad’s not mad at me? Then his words sink in. “Sorry, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Who is Julian again?”
Dad frowns at me. “Estella’s nephew. The one she raised since he was a boy. He’s a Marine in Afghanistan.”
That’s right. Dad’s new wife, Estella, raised her nephew alongside her son after her sister died. I’ve met her son, Brandon, but not the nephew yet. “How wounded is he?”
“His legs are in very bad shape. He’s in critical condition.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is. They’re planning on airlifting him to a military hospital in Germany until he’s stable enough to be sent to Bethesda. When he is, I want you to go down there with Estella to be with her and lend a hand.”
I blink. “But I barely know Estella. And I don’t know Julian at all.”
Dad holds the wheel and peers down the dark road. “Estella can’t be with Julian all the time. She’ll need help and Brandon and I both have to work. Besides, it’ll be a good bonding experience for you two.”
“What about my work?”
“I’ll get your shift covered.”
Wonderful, I think to myself. “Fine,” I say with a sigh.
“Look, just as a warning, Estella is extremely upset about this.”
“Of course...”
“First they hit one roadside bomb, then apparently as Julian was trying to pull the three others in the vehicle to safety, there was a second explosion. None of the others survived.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes.” Dad looks far down the road, shakes his head and grows quiet. We both sit lost in thought and worry. When we reach the house, I see the light is still on in the kitchen. Estella is usually a very well-put-together lady—manicured and meticulously dressed, an elegant brunette with soft brown eyes and a figure Dad can’t stop staring at. Now, of course, she’s a complete mess, hunched at the kitchen table in one of Dad’s old bathrobes. Her shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes are red and bloodshot. The phone is next to the tissue box. I was thinking I might try to console her, but Dad makes a beeline for her and the two of them aren’t letting go of each other. So, I just tiptoe away.
I brush my teeth, wash my face and hands, strip down to my undershirt and panties and climb into bed. Shelby, my little red-and-white spaniel, is already there waiting for me. I scoot her over a little, close my eyes and think of Estella crying for her nephew at the kitchen table. I think of this guy, Julian, possibly fighting for his life in the belly of a plane somewhere. Then suddenly, I hear yelling.
Chapter Two
“NO!” Estella cries. “I DON’T NEED A BABYSITTER!”
Great...thanks, Dad.
He must be answering her because there’s a pause.
“THIS IS NOT A SIGHTSEEING TRIP,” Estella then yells. “I’M GOING TO BE LIVING IN THE HOSPITAL. I CAN’T BE LOOKING AFTER CAMI FOR YOU AT THE SAME TIME.”
Another pause.
“SO, WHAT WILL SHE DO, SIT THERE IN THE HOSPITAL WAITING TO SEE IF I DETONATE?”
The house is quiet. Okay, I guess Dad managed to calm her down. I text Luke, my boyfriend for the past eight months:
Dad’s asked me to fly out of town with Estella soon. Her nephew’s in the hospital.
His response comes almost at once:
If you’re leaving soon, I want to see you. Meet me on the road in ten minutes?
I smile, text him yes, and throw my clothes back on. Then I tiptoe down the hall to check on Dad and Estella. They’re upstairs in their room now. Fortunately, Estella and Dad never seem to come down before seven. I sneak back to my room, throw on my shoes, and stuff a bunch of pillows under my blanket and sheet, partly to fool them on the off chance one of them does come in, but also partly because if I am found out, at least this way they’ll know I’ve left on purpose and haven’t been kidnapped. Then I climb out the back bedroom window. I wouldn’t leave a window purposely unlocked, but the one on the far left has a broken latch, which makes getting back in much easier. For the past month or so of summer I’ve occasionally taken advantage of it. If Dad ever found out about this, he’d filet Luke and lock me in a tower. It’d be seriously terrible. But so far, we’ve gotten away with it.
Our house has a good amount of lawn. It’s a nice piece of land with forest all around it, a big old house set up on a steep little hill. The garage is a separate building at the bottom of the hill and has spare rooms for storage and Dad’s gym equipment. Just off the garage, there’s a small step-down garden with a footbridge that goes over a tiny stream. Apparently, Dad charmed some old widow out of the place back when I was a baby. I don’t blame him for wanting it.
Finally, I reach the road. Our road is like a long sloping dirt path up a mountainside. It winds past a cemetery and branches off in two different directions. I live down one branch of the road. Luke lives down the other branch. It’s late, pitch-dark as only a small back road can get, and Luke is nowhere to be found.
Fortunately, about two minutes later, I see headlights I hope are his approaching and climb into the brush alongside the curb. The road is narrow, and like I said it’s pitch-black out. The truck stops and Luke flips the light on inside. I run around the front and get in next to him.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
Luke’s