Page 67 of Bountiful
“Seriously, though. Business is good. If my cash flow keeps up I can renovate the mill kitchen and think aboutservingfood.”
“Don’t get out over your skis,” Otto grumbled. “The off-seasons’ll kill ya. Running a barishard.”
“Oh yeah?” I heard myself ask. “Do you runabar?”
“The Mountain Goat in Tuxbury,” he said. “Goin’ on fifteenyearsnow.”
“Huh.” I picked up my excellent beer and took a sip. “Two years ago I went there all the time. Never met you, though. Seemed like Zara was running the whole show—tending bar, managing the help, keeping the place orderly. Tossing out the drunks, too. You’re right—looked like a lotofwork.”
Otto chewed slowly, staring me down. Maybe he was trying to decide whether or not I’d meant to call him out on if he’d put in hours at The Mountain Goat. Under the table, Zara nudged me with her knee. But I was pretty sure it was more of a solidarity tap than a plea toshutup.
Meanwhile, Benito hid his smile behind his beer can. At least somebody found mefunny.
“This is a great meal, Mom,” Zara said, deflecting. “Is the baby stilleating?”
“She sure is. Another member of the clean-plate club. Takes after her daddy,maybe?”
Daddy. How wild that she was referringtome.
After lunchI tried to ferry some of the dishes to the kitchen with Benito and Alec, while Otto scowledatme.
“Guests don’t help,” Mrs. Rossi said sternly. “Have a glass of wineinstead?”
“Or come outside to see the orchard,” Zara suggested. “Nicole needs to run around a little and tireherselfout.”
“Sure thing,” I said, grateful to escape the claustrophobia of the Rossihouse.
The old farmhouse screen door squeaked (as a screen door should) as Zara carried Nicole outside. I followed her, trying not to admire her tanned thighs as she set Nicole onto the grass. “Let’s show Dave all the pear trees,” she said, pointing toward the first tidy row of orchard trees. I noticed that Zara hadn’t used the word “daddy.”
Nicole took off at a toddle, her chubby little feet bare in the grass. “Vermont is an awfully nice place to be a baby,” I said. “Nobody can run free like that where I grew up inDetroit.”
We followed Nicole between the row of pear trees, and it felt like entering a green tunnel. “Detroit, huh? You never told me where you grew up,”Zarasaid.
“You never let me tell you anything,”Isaid.
“That is true.” She bit her lip, lookingsheepish.
I felt like a dick for making that sound like an accusation. “The thing is, though, I probably wouldn’t have shared much, anyway. It’s not my favorite topic. Actually, my tolerance for sharing personal details would’ve only been slightly higher thanyours.”
“Fair enough.” Her smile was wry. “Then ask me anything, and I’ll answer. Goahead.”
I thought about it for a minute while we followed the baby down another row of pear trees. She could move pretty fast on those short little legs. “Did you grow up onthisfarm?”
“Not exactly.” Zara shook her head. “We spent plenty of time here. Iwantedto live here. And I did twice—for less than a year each time. Both times happened after my father left us. He did that a lot. One day he’d be at home, my mother fussing over him at the dinner table. The next day—gone. No forwardingaddress.
“My uncles always offered to share the house, but my mother wanted her independence. She kept us in successively smaller dwellings—I can’t even say houses, because the last one was a trailer—rather than move in with her brothers. I was so angry about it. Sharing a room with Benito when I was sixteen made me insane. When I was a senior in high school I actually moved in with my friend Jill for a little while, just to get out of thattrailer.”
“Jill from The Mountain Goat? The one who caught her husband with thenanny?”
Zara stared at me. “You have a killer memory. Youreallydo.”
“I told you, gorgeous. I remember everything when it comes to you. That was the night we drank tequila before we went upstairs. Don’t tell me you forgot thetequila.”
Two pink spots appeared on her cheekbones. “I remember. I’m just surprised you got Jill’s name from that crazynight.”
I shrugged. “I loved The Mountain Goat, and hearing all the locals’ gossip. Never saw your uncle’s face once, though. Hope you don’t mind that Isaidso.”
She grinned. “That was the best part ofthemeal.”
