Family Tree (30 page)

She didn't know what was going through her head at that moment. She could see, just vaguely, the diamond ring on her finger—a conflict-free, princess-cut solitaire in rose gold. He'd sold his motorcycle in order to buy it.

Had she loved him? Yes, she had.

The way she'd loved Fletcher? Not even close. It was like the difference between a lightning bug and a lightning bolt.

But Annie hadn't known that back then. She and Martin had a dynamic, exciting partnership. They were utterly compatible. They worked
as a team, challenged each other, talked about plans for the future, made each other laugh, gave each other lovely orgasms on a regular basis. It was love. A kind of love. Now she realized it wasn't enough. She hadn't loved him
enough.

Where was that ring now? Annie wondered. She'd found it in her Patient Belongings bag. What should she do with it? Hock it?

She lingered over a picture of Melissa wearing a Céline sheath, her slender arm raising a glass of sparkling water as she gave a toast. Annie could still remember the music and the laughter that day. She remembered Melissa asking her if it was the happiest day of her life. They had been friends, she and Melissa. Annie had handed the woman a role on the show. Now she couldn't recall how she'd answered Melissa's question.

“Well,” she said, closing the album with a thud. “I have no idea what to do with this. I mean, what do you do with pictures of people you're done with?”

Mom hesitated. “You don't have to decide now. Here's something else.” She handed Annie another thick, leather-bound book. “I've always meant to organize this into a scrapbook. I thought that one day I would surprise you with it, but . . .” She hesitated again. “It's never finished.”

Annie looked at the cover. “
My Brilliant Career.
I guess it's finished now, eh?”

Mom gave her a gentle shove. “Stop it. This is a new chapter, and it's going to be even more brilliant. In fact, that's what I'll call the next part—
My Even More Brilliant Career
.”

“Right.”

“I've always been so proud of your accomplishments, Annie. And you
are
brilliant, and you've done so much in a short time.”

Annie was touched. “Well, then. I feel the same way about your career. And I don't think I ever told you that, and I should have.”

“What? My career? I have no career.”

“You have something better. Your family and your art. When you showed me your abstract paintings, I nearly fainted. I love how talented you are, and I'm going to nag you until you do something besides collect your paintings in the studio.”

“Do something,” Mom said. “Like what?”

“You tell me. Have a show. Pursue your studies. Do more with your art.”

“That's pretty far-fetched.”

“About as far-fetched as me producing a TV show straight out of college?”

Her mother opened her mouth, closed it, then gave a short laugh. “When did you get so wise? Was it that bump on the head?”

“Maybe.” Annie opened the album, which seemed to be filled with photos and clippings about her dating back to the toddler years. “Wow. I can't believe you did this.”

“It's a work in progress. I always meant to embellish the pages, or something, but I never got around to it. Oh my gosh, look how cute you were.”

There were pictures of Annie in the kitchen, sometimes with Gran, sometimes solo. She always looked utterly serious when she cooked and baked. The photos showed that this had never been a form of play for her. It had been more of a calling. A passion.

Judging by her deep satisfaction with this morning's baking, it still was.

There were clippings citing her performance in high school swimming, her appearances on the dean's list in college and write-ups of Glow, the restaurant where she'd worked. After the college years, the collection expanded to include articles from glossy national magazines—
Variety, Entertainment Weekly, Food & Wine, Good Housekeeping, People.

The headlines shouted out the growing popularity of her show:
Upstart Network Rolls Out Fall Schedule. Atlantis Productions Launches
Innovative Cooking Show. Rising Star Martin Harlow Takes Cooking to the Streets.
The Key Ingredient
Is Key to Success for Cooking Show.
Key Ingredient
Wins Third Straight Emmy.

“I won an Emmy for single-camera editing,” Annie said. “Oh, my Lord, that was amazing.”

“I know. We all got dressed up in red-carpet outfits and watched the webcast,” said her mother.

Annie studied the accompanying photo of herself holding the trophy and thought about what a big moment that had been for her. She wore a victor's smile, and a dress that had cost her more than she'd spent on her first film. Since it was a technical award, it was a Web-only broadcast. All the big food journals had covered the event.

“I burst into tears when your name was announced,” her mom said. “Such a moment. And it all started with your senior project in college.”

“I never could have predicted the impact that one video would have.”

“No one could have. But I always knew you'd make it, Annie. All that talent.”

Annie found an article from a day she remembered well. “This was my first dual interview with Martin.
TV Guide,
2007.”

The photograph showed them beaming at each other and toasting with champagne flutes. The flutes were by Lalique, the premier sponsor of the show's website.

“Look how happy we were,” Annie murmured. She and Martin were newly engaged and flushed with excitement over the series premiere. The maple syrup episode—which she was sure would be a disaster ending in cancellation—had been a ratings triumph. Landing the interview had only enhanced their sense that they were on the right path.

The interview started out with their oft-told “meet-cute” story—an eager film student, a penniless but gifted chef, combining their talent to create a new kind of show. The interviewer's questions were not exactly hard-hitting, but now Annie remembered a moment that had surprised
her. The journalist asked Martin how he had come up with the show's title—
The Key Ingredient.

“It grew organically out of the content” was his unhesitating reply, which had been printed right there in black and white. “Each dish has that one key ingredient that defines or elevates it. The story focuses on that.”

Annie recalled being totally taken aback by his response. She hadn't contradicted him during the interview. Afterward, she felt mystified rather than hurt. She had no idea why he hadn't told the truth. When they were alone, she'd asked, “Why didn't you give me credit for coming up with
The Key Ingredient
?”

“We came up with it together,” Martin had replied with a breezy wave of the hand. “That's how I remember it.”

She had let the moment pass. In all the whirlwind of the show's success, it seemed a minor point. Maybe she should have called him on it. As time went on, other seemingly minor things cropped up—he would appropriate a twist on an idea, a turn of phrase, and each time, she'd let it pass rather than make a fuss over it. They were a team, after all, she rationalized. It was their job to work together.

In light of what she had discovered later, she had to wonder if his manipulation had been deliberate. Had he meant to eclipse her, positioning himself as the driving force behind the show?

“He took things from me,” she said to her mother now. “Little pieces, here and there. Ideas. Inspiration. Credit. Nothing major, nothing I could really call him on. He simply helped himself. And I let him.”

“You were a couple,” her mother said. “You seemed happy.”

“I was. But . . .” She felt a niggling discomfort, and quickly turned the page:
Culinary Duo Makes a Splash.
The article focused on the relationship between Martin and his cohost, Melissa. “I wanted to host the show with him,” Annie said quietly. “But I was voted down.”

“I always thought it was a terrible decision.”

“And I always thought it was Leon's decision and I had to stick with it, because he was the executive producer. Now I wonder if Martin might have planted the seed.” She thought about the many screen tests they'd created together. She and Martin had rhythm, certainly a strong enough rapport to get a green light for a pilot episode. They were both knowledgeable and quick-witted. Had he worried about competing with her?

“What did they call you?” Mom asked. “Too ethnic? Too alternative?”

“Something like that.”

“They should have kept you in front of the camera. Instead, they picked that bland girl no one can remember. She wasn't bad, but she wasn't great.”

“Martin found Melissa himself. Did I ever tell you that?”

“What do you mean, he found her?”

“They met in yoga class. The casting director didn't want to give her a second look, much less a screen test. She was just another shrill, talking head on a late-night shopping show. But Martin was her advocate.” Annie's blood suddenly chilled. She had a swift, indelible image of Martin and Melissa, naked in his trailer. This was not an imagined memory. It was as real as the heavy photo albums sitting in front of her.

“What?” her mother asked, worriedly studying Annie's face.

“Martin and Melissa. They were having an affair.”

“Oh, Annie. No.”

Annie winced as a black fog filled her mind. Pain shimmered through her, and she felt a sick sense of shock and anger. “It was . . . oh God, Mom. I saw them together.”

“I didn't know,” Mom said, casting a worried look at her. “Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. That must have been horrible.”

“I walked in on them in Martin's trailer,” Annie said, the memory unfurling in her mind like a tawdry reel. “Then I walked out. And that's when the sky fell.”

“The accident, you mean.”

“It's my last memory before my big nap.”

Mom took the collection of articles from her. “Let's put this away for now.” Annie sensed something furtive in her manner.

“What?” she asked. “I think after what I just figured out, I can take it.”

Mom sighed, pulling out an issue of
People
and handing it to her. “This was published after the accident. I saved it because you look so gorgeous in the photos, and the journalist was obviously impressed by you. Then the accident happened, and she did a follow-up with Martin, heretofore known as that sneaky bastard.”

“What's it about?”

“He gives his rationale for divorcing you.”

“Because Martin would surely have a rationale for shipping his comatose wife to Vermont and divorcing her,” Annie said, more incredulous than offended. “Let me see that.”

Martin had always been a master of spin, and when he worked with a media coach—a wizard named, no kidding, Jim Dandy—the message was honed to a work of fine art. The follow-up to CJ's piece was headlined
In the Aftermath of Tragedy, a Wrenching Farewell.
Martin was portrayed as a young husband in the prime of life, cruelly robbed of his wife—and his future—unless he could bring himself to let go and move on. He declared that asking a judge to appoint a guardian ad litem for Annie, then filing for divorce, was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, but he couldn't exist in the twilight zone of a man whose wife was gone “in every way that mattered,” he explained. “She's still so beautiful, but she's not my Annie. I need to let her go and leave her in peace.”

“Ah, that poor, poor man,” Annie murmured.

“He's a rat bastard,” her mother said, “but I'm not sorry he brought you home. The idea of you trapped in L.A. was horrifying to me. If he hadn't offered, I would have insisted. Lucky for him, he volunteered to bring you home.”

“Bring me? You mean he came here? To Vermont?”

Mom nodded. “I hugged him and we cried together. I truly believed he was as devastated as I was.”

Annie nodded and stood up, holding the back of the sofa to steady herself. The morning she'd spent with CJ came back to her in dagger-sharp images. A physical ache started in her chest, so powerful that she touched her breastbone and wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like.

“Let's go check on Knox,” she said, needing a distraction.

The little boy was fast asleep in front of the TV. There was a PBS art show on, a rerun of the guy with frizzy hair painting happy little trees. She switched it off and pulled an afghan over Knox. His sweet little face was slack and smooth, his moist lips pursed. He stirred, tucking his fist under one cheek. Gazing at him, Annie felt a fresh wave of emotion. He was so beautiful. So innocent.

“Love this little guy,” her mom said, brushing her fingers over his brow. “I love them all, but he's something special, I suppose because we spend so much time alone together. Your brother might have some cockeyed ideas, but he makes pretty babies, doesn't he?”

Annie nodded. She bent down to pick up the trolls and trinkets strewn around Knox's dump truck. She came across an old key attached to a Sugar Rush key chain, the one in the shape of a maple leaf. Her hand tightened around the key chain, the edges of the maple leaf biting into her flesh.

An icy chill took her over, and she stood, staring down at the key chain. She was inundated by jumbled images and sounds. The scent of lilies.
Delivery for Annie Rush
.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, dropping the key and pressing her hands to her stomach. “Oh my God.”

“What's the matter?”

“I was pregnant.”

“What? No.” Her mother stared at her, aghast.

The entire morning came flooding back—the quarrel about the buffalo. A flower delivery.
People
magazine. Two pink lines.
I'm pregnant
.

Slowly and carefully, she walked away from Knox and sank down on a love seat across the room. Her mother sat next to her, arms circling Annie. She poured the story out in broken phrases. “Did you know?” she asked her mother.