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him.
He might not like her at all in that way. How could a girl tell? They needed to get to know each other better. Maybe then it would happen naturally.
“There’s a cooking competition at the Culinary Institute down in Montpelier on Saturday,” she said one day as she was finishing the boiling. “Want to come?”
“And do what?” He peered at her through the steam rising from the evaporator. “I know how to make a few things, but competitively? Probably not.”
“No, you’d watch me cook,” she said. Then she blushed. “I realize it doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs, but—”
“Sure,” he said. “Sounds great.”
On Saturday morning. Gran helped her load her ingredients into an ice chest and wished her luck. “Are you taking the pickup?” Gran asked.
“I’m getting a ride with a friend,” Annie said.
“Oh?” This was code for “You’d better explain yourself.”
“Fletcher, one of the guys who’s been working for Kyle.” Annie noted her grandmother’s furrowed brow. “He’s fine. He’s in my grade at school, and we’re friends.”
“I see.” More code, this time meaning “Don’t get in trouble.” Gran studied Annie’s face in that way she had, her dark eyes calm with wisdom. “So your friend, he’s interested in cooking?”
“I think he’s interested in me,” Annie admitted. “At least, I hope he is.” She slipped out the back door before anyone else was up, which was good, because her mom would probably give her a hard time. By the time Fletcher pulled into the driveway, she felt totally energized about the whole day.
“I love these competitions,” she told him as they headed downstate to Montpelier. “Does that make me a show-off?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Nobody likes a show-off.”
“Somebody likes you.” He kept his eyes on the road. She could see a slight smile playing about his lips, and a warm, melty feeling spread all through her. After a couple of minutes, he turned on the radio, and they talked about the music they liked. She was a fan of new alternative, like Nelly Furtado and Cake. He liked his dad’s old tunes—the Smiths, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie. She promised to put some of his favorites on her iPod.
By the time she entered the teaching kitchen at the New England Culinary Institute, Annie was feeling cocky about her entry. The theme of the competition was locally sourced cheddar cheese, and she had perfected her recipe for a cheddar, apple, and beer soup that used apples and cider from Rush Mountain.
“I’m sorry if this is weird for you,” she told Fletcher as he took a seat in the gallery behind the adjudicators. “Usually, my grandmother or my friend Pam comes along, but they couldn’t get away from the sugaring.”
“It’s not weird,” he said. Then he looked around at the eclectic group of foodies and added, “Well, it is, but in a good way. Go knock ’em dead.”
Maybe being too cocky was going to jinx her, she thought as she set out her ingredients and got to work. The student chefs were no slouches. There were dishes in flaky puff pastry, creations with truffle oil and gourmet foam, concoctions featuring foraged ingredients, fancy cuts of meat, homemade pasta. By comparison, her rustic soup seemed humble. She kept her game face on as she expertly put together apples, carrots, celery, and potatoes with beer made by Pam’s dad, and stock she had simmered to perfection the night before. Every single ingredient down to the sprig of thyme came from within a few miles of home. Whirled in a blender with local cheddar and cream, the soup was smooth and comforting. The only fancy touch was a swirl of crème fraîche on top.
The judges—a celebrity chef from Boston and two instructors—sampled each dish, then invited the spectators to do the same. Annie’s hopes rose as the pot of rich, cheddary soup disappeared, clearly an audience favorite. Fletcher gave her a 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.”
“Really?” Annie nearly burst with pride.
“Uh-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?”
“Tasty 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.”
“You’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.
“I can’t believe the winner was mac and cheese,” she grumbled. “How could they pick mac and cheese, of all things?”
“Bacon,” Fletcher said. “Duh.”
“Hey.” 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?”
“It’s not weird,” he said. “It’s cool that you like something that much.”
“I 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.
“Everything? You might need to be more specific.”
“I want everything in the world to happen to me,” she said.
“Tsunamis? Avalanches?”
“Oh, 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.
“Want to come in?” she asked. “You could stay for supper.”
He smiled and touched his stomach. “I filled up on samples at the contest.”
“Me, too.” She felt a mixture of disappointment