exciting. Her entrepreneurial spirit was that strong.
In London she had stayed in her mother’s cluttered childhood home. She had met her relatives and their little children, attended the dark synagogue where women sat removed from men in a separate room. She’d sat at long tables for Friday-night dinners and listened to long rounds of song. She’d watched the men all dressed in black as they strolled together down the street. She’d played with babies who teethed on her fingers, and talked to women in the kitchen, helping them cook their heavy meals—their lentil soup with shank bones, their
“You
They were standing at the baggage claim, waiting for Emily’s suitcases, and Jess couldn’t help staring at her sister’s bare hand.
“I gave it away,” said Emily.
“Where?”
“Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.”
Even Jess looked a little shocked as she remembered the spectacular trio of white diamonds. “They take rings?”
“It’s not a ring anymore,” said Emily. “It’s the Gillian Gould Bach Research Fund.”
Now, at the reception, as Emily told Nick about her company, she nibbled a tiny lemon tart, and she was not perfectly happy. She did not have what Jess had, or what Orion and Sorel had, but she dreamed as George did once, that love was possible.
After the last guests left, after the caterers had packed up the leftovers to give away, George walked down to the garden and sank into the new hammock, a gift from Richard and Heidi. “God, I’m exhausted.”
“I’m not,” said Jess.
“Come here.” George opened his arms. “Ouch!” Of course she would dive on top of him. “Careful,” he murmured, caressing her through the silk. “You’ll rip your dress.”
“I thought McLintock’s cake was best,” she said. “What did you think?”
“I didn’t try it,” George admitted.
“Didn’t you eat anything?”
“No,” he said.
“Not even the strawberries?”
“Not one.”
“But you were drinking champagne. I saw you. And I can taste it. I can still taste the bubbles.”
“Really?”
“Well … metaphorically.”
He kissed her. “What do metaphorical bubbles taste like?”
She rested her head on his chest, and tried to describe the champagne bubbles she imagined on his lips, but she could not, so they lay together in the hammock and talked and laughed about the day in dappled light. The house was quiet. Their friends had gone. The scent of roses, wedding music, and laughter faded away. The hammock swayed under them, and George and Jess floated together, although nothing lasted. They held each other, although nothing stayed.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study where I began researching and writing this book during my fellowship year. At the Schlesinger Library, Nancy Cott encouraged me, and her superb staff helped me navigate one of the finest cookbook collections in the world. It was Nancy who introduced me to the extraordinary Barbara Wheaton, a rare scholar who spoke to me at length about cookbooks, domestic history, and the art of collecting. I will never forget our conversations. Nach Waxman of Kitchen Arts & Letters took the time to share his insights and lively enthusiasm for cookbook collecting, trading, and selling. Allen and Grita Kamin told me much about the flora and fauna of Berkeley. Eighteenth-century scholar and oenophile John Bender advised me on French and Californian wines. Each of these eloquent experts taught me and inspired me.
About The Author
Allegra Goodman’s fiction has appeared in
