Chapter 25
By the time I get home, it’s almost five. Thank God that Gavin is in the kitchen making dinner. We worked through lunch, and now I’m starving.
“How was it?” he asks, whisking a bowl of something.
“It was great,” I say, closing the front door behind me. “And long. Now I’m exhausted and hungry.” I flop dramatically onto a kitchen chair and sigh. “What have you been up to?”
“I’ve been experimenting with a new recipe.” His face lights up with an expression not much different from when he talks about Callie. “It didn’t end up taking long, so dinner should be ready soon,” he says.
Even though Mom’s not here, I can hear her voice nagging me, so instead of standing by idly like I want to do, I decide to help Gavin in the kitchen.
I scan the counter for something to do. There’s a carton of eggs, soy sauce, sugar, and onions.
I can’t tell what he’s making from the random assortment of ingredients on the counter, so I pick up a head of garlic and begin peeling it. A minute later he stops me.
“Please don’t,” he says. “No offense, but you’re really not good at this stuff.”
“I’m okay with that.” I shrug. “I mean, no one’s good at everything,” I tease. “What’re you making anyway?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says.
I consider forcing it out of him, but seeing how much he’s enjoying being in his element, I decide against it.
Instead I sit back down at the kitchen table and finish telling him about the meeting with the town council.
Not too long after, Mom and Dad come home with a trunk and two suitcases in tow.
I help them unload them from Jean’s truck.
Mom and I take a suitcase each, and Dad brings in the box.
“That’s everything?” Gavin asks once we’re inside the house.
Dad shakes his head. “We couldn’t bring everything back, so we had to decide what to keep.”
“It was easier to do than we thought. So many of our items are either out-of-date or not practical,” Mom continues. “Ball gowns and tuxedos.”
“Tennis rackets and golf clubs,” Dad adds.
“We kept the items that still held either monetary or sentimental value, and we donated the rest. This is what was left.” Although it makes sense, it’s sad to see the remnants of our old lives amount to so little.
“What are you making?” Mom asks Gavin in the kitchen.
“Something I’ve been experimenting with.
” He tries to shield her from seeing it.
Though I’m guessing she’ll figure it out—if I could tell just from the smell, Mom definitely can.
The aroma of Korean barbecue is something we’re very familiar with.
Still, Mom respects his wishes, and instead she helps Dad unpack the items in the living room.
Seeing as I’ve been banished from the kitchen, too, I join them.
As I begin going through the suitcases, I’m reminded of items I had forgotten about. Rhinestone-studded bags, fur-lined wraps, crocodile leather belts—things that would make me stick out here in all the wrong ways.
It’s then that I notice how much my style has changed in the short time I’ve been here.
I still care about my looks, but in a more subdued, practical way.
I’ve set aside my pigmented matte lipsticks and sleek ponytails for soft lip tints and beachy waves.
I replaced my patent leather stilettos and lace bodysuits with sensible slides and fitted T-shirts.
And I’ve completely abandoned my bracelets and belts since they get in the way when I’m doing chores around the house.
What am I supposed to do with all these things?
I glance over at Mom and Dad, who haven’t made much more progress than I have.
Their things have been sorted into piles like mine.
When Gavin announces dinner is ready, we decide to leave our stuff scattered across the living room and finish organizing after we eat.
At the kitchen table, Gavin makes a show of presenting to us his latest creation. But instead of the expected bulgogi, he reveals a plate of something else.
“Hamburgers?” Dad looks up questioningly.
“Something wrong with hamburgers?” Concern crosses Gavin’s face.
“From the smell, that’s not what I thought it would be,” Mom says.
“I used bulgogi marinade in the seasoning of the meat patties. That’s why it smells familiar,” Gavin explains. “They’re bulgogi burgers.”
“Yum,” I say, hearing two different but quintessentially classic cultural dishes combined into one. What’s not to like?
“I’m still playing with the recipe, so I made way too much.” Gavin sits down to join us.
“It’s better than not having enough,” Dad says.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I say as my stomach growls hungrily.
“I used your kimchi to make an aioli,” Gavin says to Mom. “Let me know what you think.”
Our eyes widen with interest, staring at the red sauce oozing out of the sides. We eagerly grab a burger each and put them on our plates. But before we can take our first bites, we hear a car door close outside our house.
“Are we expecting anyone?” Dad asks, looking around.
When the three of us shake our heads, he gets up and peeks outside. “It’s the mayor!” He startles, hiding behind the door.
“What?” Mom jolts up. “I wasn’t expecting company.” She frantically looks around the house. Items are strewn about in disarray.
Gavin and I stare at each other, confused. “Where are you going?” Gavin asks Dad, who disappears into the room.
“I’m getting my jacket on. I can’t let him see me like this.”
“Good idea. I’ll hide these secondhand plates.” Mom scrambles to stuff them into a kitchen cupboard.
“Why does any of this matter?” Gavin’s brows furrow. “We’ve lost everything, but no one here knows that.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Gavin says this. Between the two of us, he’s been the more sensible one. But in this instance I find myself agreeing with him.
“Everyone here lives like this. And besides that, what’s there to be embarrassed about? Like you said, we have everything we need. Isn’t that what’s important?” I remind them of what they chided us over when we first got here.
“We may be okay with living like this, but I’m trying to conduct business in this town. We can’t be seen living like everyone else,” Dad says. “What kind of example would I be setting?”
“And if food is what we’re trying to sell, then we can’t be seen eating like beggars,” Mom adds.
“Excuse me?” Gavin’s head jerks back. “Were you lying to me earlier when you said it looked good?”
“No, of course not. But people eat with their eyes, and with mismatched plates and off-brand silverware, they won’t give the food a fair valuation.” Mom frets.
“The mayor has so much influence. This is so not how I wanted our business to be introduced to the town.” Deep creases line Dad’s forehead and eyes.
For all their talk about perspective, my parents don’t seem to have a clear one now. But ready or not, a knock at the door comes, and with all our lights on and the obvious noise we’re making, Dad has no choice but to open the door.
“Mayor Beecham.” Dad immediately straightens his posture at the sight of him. “Dr. Blaire. What a nice surprise. Please come in.”
“Don’t mind if I do, Dale.” The mayor’s voice booms from behind the front door. Like his voice, he has a big presence.
“Sorry to barge in like this.” Then Dr. Blaire says much quieter, “Daniel, honey, they’re sitting down to dinner.”
Mom joins Dad by his side. “No, please come in.”
Gavin and I stand as well. “Hi, Dr. Blaire,” I say.
“Elena, it’s nice to see you again. And this must be your brother, Gavin. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Likewise,” Gavin says, sticking his hand out to shake hers. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Sorry for the interruption. We were hoping to catch you before you sat down to dinner,” Dr. Blaire says.
“We’re eating earlier than usual since I skipped lunch to go to Hal’s after the town council meeting,” I explain. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Ah, I see.” Dr. Blaire nods. “Well, we would have come sooner to welcome you to the town. But we wanted to let you settle in first.”
“We heard you borrowed Jean’s truck to move some things in,” Mayor Beecham says. “Figured now was a good time to visit.”
“Still getting settled, as you can see,” Dad is quick to say.
“It’s a work in progress,” Mom says self-consciously.
“What house isn’t?” Dr. Blaire says, paying no attention to the mess. “You should see the state of our home. This one is good at starting projects around the house. Not so great at finishing them.” She points to her husband, shaking her head.
“I guess we’re all works in progress.” Mayor Beecham shrugs. Everyone laughs, effectively setting Mom and Dad at ease. “Speaking of works in progress”—Mayor Beecham gestures outside—“Blaire says you have plans to grow produce and join the co-op.”
“The former tenants left the field in such good condition that we’re almost ready to plant new crops,” Dad says. “Just need to figure out what it is the town could benefit most from.” He shares a knowing look with Dr. Blaire.
“We can’t begin to thank you for lending us the tractor. It’s been a huge help,” Mom says. “Really, you must charge us for it.”
“No, no, no.” Mayor Beecham puts his hands up and waves off Mom’s notion. “In Blaire we take care of one another. I can’t in good conscience profit off of any of our residents, no matter how new they are to the area.”
“If there’s anything we can do to repay the debt, please let us know.” Mom seems touched.
“Being in Blaire, we depend on one another. So I’m sure there’ll be a day I’ll call on you for a favor.” Dr. Blaire smiles kindly.
“What’s in the cooler?” I ask, noticing the insulated bag Dr. Blaire brought in with her.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She hands the cooler to us. “It’s a test batch of the honeycomb ice cream you suggested. I think it turned out better than anyone expected, and I had to bring you some since it was your idea.”
I squeal. “I can’t wait to try it after dinner.”