Family Tree by Susan Wiggs Page B

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.”
    â€œReally?” Annie nearly burst with pride.
    â€œUh-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?”
    â€œTasty 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.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œI can’t believe the winner was mac and cheese,” she grumbled. “How could they pick mac and cheese, of all things?”
    â€œBacon,” Fletcher said. “Duh.”
    â€œHey.” 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?”
    â€œIt’s not weird,” he said. “It’s cool that you like something that much.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œEverything? You might need to be more specific.”
    â€œI want everything in the world to happen to me,” she said.
    â€œTsunamis? Avalanches?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œWant to come in?” she asked. “You could stay for supper.”
    He smiled and touched his stomach. “I filled up on samples at the contest.”
    â€œMe, too.” She felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. She wanted to spend more time with him, but knew that bringing