Zander began taking photos of the art heist article. “Over dinner I want to research—”
“I already know what you’re going to say.”
His lips formed a wry smile. “I was going to say that I wanted to research...” He made a challenging, finish-my-sentence gesture.
“Whether or not the stolen paintings were ever found.”
As Britt and Zander walked in companionable silence down city streets that slanted sharply toward Pike’s Place, Britt’s attention split between the sidewalk, the distant view of Puget Sound, and the ties that had knotted herself and Zander to food and to each other.
Britt’s love of food had sprouted in elementary school. She could still recall the first time she’d made cookies with her mom. She’d stood on a chair near the counter, and her mom had handed her measuring cups and spoons pre-filled with ingredients. She’d dumped them into a bowl and stirred.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d been mesmerized when the thing they’d made—with ingredients in their pantry that were boring individually—had come out of the oven as warm and gooey chocolate chip cookies. She’d realized that cooking was like a craft project you could eat. From that point on, she’d turned the full force of her creativity in that one direction.
By the time she and Zander entered ninth grade, she was already an accomplished, experienced cook. Fourteen-year-old Zander had known nothing about cooking. He appreciated food as passionately as she did, however, because he was almost always ravenously hungry.
The first time he’d come to Bradfordwood to hang out, they’d baked a lemon cake with lemon glaze. He’d been clueless in the kitchen, but when it had come time to eat the cake, he’d exhibited his prowess by consuming twice as much as she’d been able to.
After that, he’d proven himself a quick study. He’d memorized every recipe they’d worked on together using his photographic memory. To this day, recipes didn’t naturally stick in Britt’s head. She had to make a recipe at least a dozen times before she could remember the exact quantities and ingredients. Not Zander. He looked at a recipe once, and there it was, accessible in his brain forever.
Every weekend through high school, they’d met either at Frank and Carolyn’s house or at Bradfordwood to cook. Instead of a soundtrack, they had a food track from that season. It included thin crust pizza, fried chicken, cinnamon rolls, homemade ice cream, and peanut butter cookies.
After high school Zander accepted a full-ride academic scholarship to University of Washington–Tacoma and Britt had gone on to The Culinary Institute of America at Greystone. Each time she’d returned to Bradfordwood from California, Zander had made the trip to Merryweather, too. They’d cooked the sophisticated dishes she’d learned at school. The food track of that season: ricotta omelets, scallops with browned butter, pan-roasted pork chops, berry tarts.
She’d moved home from France the same summer that he’d moved home from Tacoma with his degree. They’d both, suddenly, been members of the work force. Her, as owner of Sweet Art (thanks to the hefty gift of capital her mom and dad had given her when she’d completed her apprenticeship). Him, as a computer engineer with a software design firm.
For the first time they’d had enough income to afford restaurant dinners. They’d explored all the small and large, casual and fancy eateries in the region around Merryweather. Even so, they’d never given up cooking together. The food track of that season: almond-crusted duck, red snapper, steak, soufflés.
Then one night, out of the blue, Zander had announced to a tableful of people that he’d decided to leave Washington and travel. He hadn’t discussed his decision with her privately first, which had confounded her.
In the days leading up to his departure, the prospect of a long separation between them had weighed on Britt, but it hadn’t seemed to weigh on Zander at all. Which had confounded her, too.
Then he’d gone. And she’d missed him. And missing him had stunk. She’d remained behind in their small hometown, watching photos of one glamorous destination after another appear on his private Instagram. He’d flourished without her while she’d struggled without him. If it had occurred to Zander that his absence might have left a black hole in her life, he’d never let on.
And she’d never said anything to undermine his happiness. She’d supported his Grand Tour the way a true friend should, because she’d always believed that he deserved a turn to see the world. There’d been no money for travel during his childhood with his parents or his teenage years with Frank and Carolyn. But even if that hadn’t been the case, she herself had once enjoyed two years overseas. She could hardly begrudge him the same opportunity.
They reached Place Pigalle, a diminutive restaurant perched atop other structures like a hatbox atop a stepladder. Memories of the other times she and Zander had eaten together swirled through Britt’s thoughts as the hostess led them to a linen-covered table positioned beside a window.
Britt paused to compare the merits of the available seats. She always took her time choosing and had been known, when she chose incorrectly, to leave a seat that had bad mojo.
The hostess waited with their menus. Zander, well aware of Britt’s quirks and immune to bad chair mojo, stood patiently.
She lowered into a chair and ...? Excellent mojo.
Zander took the remaining seat, and they proceeded to discuss the menu options as if they were about to commit to a deed of sale on a house.
When her French onion soup and his butter leaf salad appeared, he gave her a contented nod. He spoke volumes through that one, wordless nod. It said that he felt nostalgic about this, too. That he remembered all the foods she remembered. That he hadn’t outgrownhis affection for eating. That he was just as pleased to be sitting here with her as she was to be sitting here with him.
The browned cheese on top of her soup clung to the bowl as she drew the spoon upward. “I’m really, really curious about the fate of the paintings that were stolen from the Pascal.” She blew on her steaming bite.
“The other diners will think we’re cretins if we hunch over a screen at a fancy restaurant.” He was already reaching for his phone.
“Yep.”
“Which has never stopped us before.”
“Nope.”
He scooted closer to her, set his phone between them on the table, and typedWhatever happened to the paintings stolen from the Pascal?into Google. The first article that arose was titled “Chagall Returned.” They bent their heads over it and read as they ate.
