Page 3 of You Know Why

“You’re going to like this one.”

Trey’s interruption is well timed. The kids are at school, and I am (mostly) writing an article for the gluten-free-food magazine I work for. It isn’t going perfectly. There are only a few ways to describe the luscious silkiness of a perfect beurre manié: luscious, silky. That’s my job, though: find ways to explain how exciting it is to successfully combine butter and cornstarch to thicken stews, or whatever meal I’m interpreting, to make the perceived difficulty easy and accessible, then take pictures of the finished dish and send the whole lot in for editing. At least we have a great kitchen, perfect for making and photographing food.

It’s not fair to say that I’m bored. Not fair to say I’ve been wondering if there is more I can do with my life. I’m happy. I love my work, my family, and my grinning-like-a-loon husband. Everyone needs taming eventually, don’t they? I have new opportunities, too.

I pull off my computer glasses and stretch. “I have a surprise right back at you, darling. But yours first.”

He comes in and sits on the black leather chair opposite my desk. Margot found it for me at an estate sale, an original Eames lounger. The owners hated it; it belonged to their father, and it wasn’t their style. I love it with a passion reserved for only the man across from me, and my kids. And my first Nikon. Probably in that order. It’s a great chair.

Trey props his big feet on the footrest. “No, that’s okay. What’s going on?”

“Sherry called a little while ago. She’s been approached about doing a TV show featuring the recipes we specialize in.”

“Sherry wants to do TV? That sounds like a lot of extra work. More power to her.”

“Um . . . not Sherry. Me.”

Trey blinks, his eyebrows hiking up. “You?”

“Yes, me. She said, ‘Brook, we all think you look good on camera. You’re made for this. We’ll call it Baking with Brooklyn, and everyone will want to watch.’ I mean, I agree. Not about me being on camera, but that people would watch. Food sensitivities are not going away, and the magazine is going gangbusters. We have singled out a niche with endless possibilities.”

“You sound like a marketing plan,” Trey says. “And you want to do this?”

“Well, it might be more fun than collating recipes all day. And I have the experience, albeit on the back end.”

“Let me guess. They mentioned Bandolier and his show?”

“Hmm. Yes.” A shadow passes over me, as it always does when Roger’s name comes up. I am thrust back in time, to France, to the river, to the great chef’s untimely death, another moment when my life changed forever.

Rest in peace and leave me alone.

I realize Trey is snapping his fingers at me. “Earth to Brook.”

“Sorry. You say Bandolier, and I immediately deep-dive into the past. Anyway, I would just need to find a way to balance the increased workload.”

“You want to do this?”

“Not sure. Being on air is very different from working behind the scenes.” Unsaid: All our hard-won privacy, gone. “Honestly, babe, don’t worry. I’m not sure I want people looking that closely into our lives. Having my name and socials out there is intrusive enough. Anyway, we have time to talk about it. There’s no rush to answer. It would take months to get off the ground anyway. Let’s do your surprise.”

The little boy is back, eyes sparkling. “You’re never going to guess.”

“Let me try, at least.”

“Trust me, it’s so good you can’t imagine.”

That smile . . .

Ten years, and he is getting more and more handsome by the day. I, on the other hand, am getting soft. All the tasting, all the sitting, all the “Sorry, I worked late, let’s grab takeout.” I’m tall enough that everyone says I carry it well, but I’ve just gone up a size in jeans, and that needs to be remedied, especially if I’m going to be on camera. Maybe he bought me a gym membership? That would be grounds for divorce, surely.

No, he’s grinning too widely, so it must be something fun.

“So good I can’t imagine, huh? You bought an elephant.”

Trey rolls his eyes. “Good grief, Brook. It’s within the bounds of reason.”

I spin my chair around and around, dropping a guess every rotation.

“You bought me a Ferrari.” Spin. “My own seventeenth-century Shakespeare folio?” Spin. “A small island?” Spin. “Oh, oh! I know! You’ve found and secretly renovated a charming witch’s cottage deep in the redwood forest where I can plant a poison garden and creep around after dark to scare the local villagers.” I put on my best Disney-witch voice, the one the kids beg for: “Here’s an apple, my pretty.”