CHAPTER 1
Theo
“The chanterelles are a problem,” Alex says. My brother doesn’t look up from the sauce he’s reducing. He just keeps stirring with that laser focus he gets when building a dish.
Steam rises from the pan in front of him, and even from where I’m standing in the doorway I can smell whatever he’s creating. Garlic, white wine, something earthy that’s probably going to end up being the best thing on tonight’s menu.
“Defineproblem,” I say, already kicking into problem-solver mode. Cascade Foragers keeps us stocked in local ingredients year-round. Chanterelles in the fall, morels in the spring, wild huckleberries in summer. Their quality is unmatched, but Tim and his partner are about as reliable as Pacific Northwest weather.
“I called Tim at six this morning to confirm the drop,” Alex says, still focused on the sauce, one hand stirring while the other reaches toward his spice rack. He grabs something, considers it, and puts it back. “He said the chanterelles were already harvested, packed up, ready to go. But then he told mehe got a call about a matsutake spot and decided to make a detour before coming here.”
The kitchen at Harbor & Ash is already humming with Saturday morning prep energy. Line cooks breaking down fish at their stations, the sous chef working through mise en place with her ingredients organized in neat rows, the familiar clatter and rhythm of knives and pans that means tonight’s menu is taking shape.
“Okay,” I say, shifting the package I’m holding from one hip to the other. “So our mushrooms are sitting in Tim’s truck while he chases matsutakes. I take it he couldn’t give you an actual ETA?”
“Of course not. You know how those two get.” He picks up his spoon, tastes the sauce and nods. “They find one thing, then they hear about another thing, and suddenly they’re hiking three miles off trail because someone told them about some rare variety. Meanwhile I’ve got a fully booked Saturday night and a tasting menu that depends on mushrooms that are apparently on a scenic tour of the Cascades.”
He finally glances up, actually looking at me properly, and takes in the package in my hands and the fact that I’m wearing a dark blue cable knit sweater and jeans instead of my usual work clothes.
“Hold on.” He sets down his spoon, frowning. “Why are you even here? It’s Saturday.”
Saturdays belong to my seven-year-old daughter Chloe and me, and have since she was a toddler. Back when I was still figuring out how to be a single dad and terrified I was screwing everything up, I made myself a rule. Saturdays are hers, no matter what. Breakfast together, then some kind of adventure. Today it’s the local aquarium. She’s been obsessed with marine biology for months now, which means I know more about octopus intelligence and jellyfish anatomy than I ever thought possible.
“I forgot to mail this yesterday.” I hold up the box. “The linencompany sent cream instead of ivory again, so I’m swinging by the post office before I grab Chloe from her sleepover at Olivia’s. What’s your backup if the chanterelles don’t show?”
Alex sighs and sets down his spoon on the little ceramic rest Chloe made him in art class last month. It’s painted bright blue with an octopus she named Frank. She made him swear he’d use it instead of the regular ones. And to his credit, Frank has been stationed at Alex’s prep area every single day since.
“I guess I could rework the risotto with porcini.” He says it like he’s announcing a funeral. “It’ll be fine.Maybeeven good. But it won’t be?—”
“What you wanted.” I’m already running through alternatives in my head. I resist the urge to point out that his backup dishes are better than most restaurants’ signature items. Alex has always been a perfectionist, which is part of why our food is so good. It’s also why he gets that particular wounded look when something doesn’t go his way. “Alright, have Miranda call Pacific Northwest Provisions. They can probably get us hedgehog mushrooms by three if Tim doesn’t show by nine.”
“Hedgehog?” Alex perks up slightly, already reconsidering. “Actually, that could work. I mean I’d have to change some things but?—”
“There you go.” I grin at him. “Crisis averted.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” Alex says.
Ten years of running Harbor & Ash together and we’ve fallen naturally into our roles. I can cook, and Alex can handle logistics, but we’re both happier when we stick to what we enjoy. And it works. TheSeattle Timescalled us “worth the three-hour drive” last year, and we’ve had a waitlist for weekend reservations ever since.
“It’ll still be great,” I say. “You’ve never made a bad dish in your life.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Alex says, adjusting the heat under the pan. “But yeah, I can make it work as good as the original plan. Maybe better.”
“There’s that legendary Midnight modesty,” I say, shifting the box under my arm.
“Modesty is overrated when you’re this good,” Alex says, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though he’s still focused on his sauce. He’s not wrong—the man has talent that borders on ridiculous. I consider myself a pretty damn good cook, but Alex makes art. “Now get out of my kitchen before I make you julienne something.”
“Yourkitchen?” I say, already heading toward the door. “Pretty sure my name is on the lease too.”
“Details,” he glances up, waving his spoon at me dismissively. “Go mail your napkins. Tell Chloe I said hi.”
The morning air hits me as I step outside into the parking lot behind the restaurant. October in Dark River, which means that particular Pacific Northwest chill that gets into your bones if you’re not prepared for it. The sky is gray and heavy, the kind that could mean rain in ten minutes or sun breaking through by noon.
I climb into my Subaru, toss the box of napkins onto the passenger seat, and pull out of the lot. The drive to the post office takes me through downtown Dark River, which is waking up for the weekend. The coffee shop already has a line out the door, the bakery’s window display is fully stocked, and I can see the bookstore owner flipping her sign toopen. The buildings along Harbor Street are old brick with hand-painted signs, window boxes still holding onto the last of their fall blooms.
Everything’s got that weekend energy—people walking dogs, a couple of tourists taking photos of the marina, Mrs. Henderson power-walking past with her neon pink hand weights.
At the end of the street, the view opens up to the marina on one side, boats bobbing gently at their moorings, and beyond that the Sound, gray-blue and calm today. I’ve seen this view my whole life, and it still makes me slow down a little every time to appreciate it.
