Second Rising: A novel

By Carolyn Jane Dale

A novel in the environmental literature genre, Second Rising combines a mystery, a love story, and a fight against injustice. The narrator, Lauren, is a young chef who buys a restaurant in the town of Quicksilver in the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest. She soon becomes entangled in the community’s fight to pre

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cairn Shadow Press LLC
• Release date: Feb 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734135213

Carolyn Jane Dale

Carolyn Dale has worked as a journalist, editor, and university professor and is now writing fiction and essays. Second Rising is her first novel. She lives in Bellingham, Wash., and taught writing and editing courses for nearly 30 years at Western Washington University, where she is an emeritus associate professor in the Journalism Department. She enjoys gardening, cooking, traveling, and hiking and snowshoeing on nearby Mount Baker.

Book preview

Part 1

Today I went out hunting in the woods, and shot

a white hind;

the arrow rebounded,

giving me such a wound in the thigh

that I’ve given up hope of being cured.

The hind complained and spoke to me, cursed

me, swore

that I’d never be healed

except by a girl;

I don’t know where she might be found.

—Marie de France

Guiguemar

Chapter 1

I AM ON THE MOUNTAINSIDE IN THE WOODS, cutting a clump of chanterelle mushrooms, when I hear someone behind me. I’ve been alone, enjoying the damp, early golden-brown of fall, and now I turn to see a man darkly silhouetted against the low afternoon sun angling through the undergrowth.

As I get up, brushing bits of the forest floor from my jeans, he apologizes for startling me. I recognize the voice, and once I can see his face clearly, I realize it’s the geologist who’s new to town. He’s had breakfast occasionally at Lavender’s, the café I own, but we haven’t chatted much since I’m in the kitchen rather than out front with customers. His usual order—ham and eggs, biscuits, and tea, not coffee— arrives before his name.

Still, I surprise myself when I say hello in a friendly way. Since I’ve lived around here longer, surely that gives me some claim to this territory. And he works for the Baron, our nickname for the technology mogul who has bought vast swathes of the nearby mountain ridges and foothills. With all the rumors of his desires for development, he’s not too popular.

Grant—his name arrives—glances at my plastic pail half full of mushrooms, delicate golden trumpets with soil clinging to their freshly cut stems.

Will you be serving those chanterelles at the café soon?

Probably tomorrow, starting at lunch. I’ll try some at home tonight, first.

I’ll bet the cooking is even better at your house. He grins.

Great, a flirtatious geologist, and no one but me to appreciate his humor. He looks like a creation the forest has sprung on me, with his reddish hair, brown jacket, canvas backpack, worn jeans and boots. Except for the notepad and pen he’s holding. I nod toward these and ask if he is at work, making notes on our local rocks.

Actually on rivulets and thermals. I’m mapping where cold water is flowing near hot steam vents, or thermals. The confluence has creative possibilities.

Creativity doesn’t merge smoothly with geology in my mind, and I hug my arms against the damp chill. I worry that these searches might lead him to our precious local secret, a natural hot springs pool nearby. Maybe he’s even looking for it; no signs point the way, and the several paths leading to it stay narrow and lightly trodden, as we locals approach from different directions.

What kinds of creative possibilities? I ask.

Geothermal energy is the main one. You probably know a plant has been proposed for lower down on the south side of Mount Baker, opposite from where we are now.

But surely not up here.

No, not here.

We both glance at the forest of cedar, fir, and hemlock, and gaze beyond toward the steep ridges across the valley, which loom tall with gray granite and ice-ribbed glaciers.

Geologists look at rocks and dirt, and extracting minerals, inert stuff, right? I ask.

And at living organisms. Dirt has billions of microscopic creatures that are alive, along with the minerals. And so do even the deepest, hottest thermal vents, even under the ocean.

My question must have touched a nerve, for he adds that I could serve my bucket of chanterelles along with soil that’s still on their stems. A cup of it has billions of microscopic archaea, bacteria, fungi, algae, protozoa—you could add those to the ingredients list on your menu.

Though I laugh, I say I’ll stick to my usual cleaning routines and health department guidelines. The comment gets me thinking, though, about my work, and how cooking relies on chemical processes that lurk well below an ingredient’s surface. Soon he says it’s been nice talking, and that he’ll get on his way to the hot springs pool.

You’re just going to have a quick look, maybe take its temperature? Dismay has edged into my tone.

Yeah, I’ll do some readings; they won’t take long.

I say I’ll see him again soon—meaning at the café—and watch as he leaves on the faint trail. He is taller than I am, but not by much. He looks like a logger, thickly built and strong, big-boned.

I return to my task with a sigh because I’ve planned to have a nice, long soak after becoming chilled. It’s Tuesday, my day off from the café, a time when almost no one else goes to the pool. Usually, I can enjoy it in solitude. I stoop to cut more mushrooms, but the pleasure has seeped from the work. Still, I push deeper into the woods through brush—mainly mountain blueberries still redly unripe in deep shade—and search out more stumps and rotted logs where the mulch of ages juts up into telltale crowns over fungal caps.

Enough time passes that my fingers grow numb, and when I nick my thumb with the sharp knife—and don’t feel it—it’s past time to stop. The day is waning, and it’s wise to warm up before the long walk home. The geologist should be done, and I start up the path, the heavy pail knocking against my leg. Even if Grant is still at work, cold and fatigue are affecting my mood, and I just might assert my claim to the pool.

Soon, the faint trail becomes muddy, and the air stinks of sulfur. At first, it’s repellent, like dead animals or rotted plants. Closer, the smell is sharper, more clearly mineral in nature. Two streams, one scalding hot and the other icy cold, join to fill the pool. Over the years, the rocky, sandy basin has been scooped and deepened to accommodate six or eight people.

Steam rises from numerous small vents among rocks nearby, and today’s cold draws mist from the mountain air. There’s no breeze, so the fog rolls about and obscures visibility. The pool glows an eerie turquoise, almost fluorescent in places. As I get closer, I can see a person in the clearing, and I curse softly. My pail clunking down on the rocks draws Grant’s attention.

Hi again, Lauren. I smile thinly but don’t speak, and he adds, I’ll be on my way. Uh… go ahead and get ready, if you want. The temperature seems just right; mineral content is good, lots of lead, some lithium. It should be therapeutic. That grin, again.

The pool is clothing optional, and in practical terms, that means we locals go in naked. Our etiquette also requires downcast eyes and minimal interaction beyond a brief greeting to any others. Then it’s silence, as we look steadfastly elsewhere and deny their existence. Most townspeople happily meditate or zone out while they soak, so it works.

But I don’t know if this newcomer knows the rules, so as I step aside under some low-hanging cedar fronds, I keep an eye on him. I really do need to warm up before my walk down the mountainside in the dusk, for hypothermia can quickly bring on mental confusion and disorientation that are more dangerous than this affable geologist who is going to be departing the scene soon, anyway.

I twist my long hair into a knot high on my head and clip it with a plastic grabber. Then I wait while he makes more notations. Out of curiosity, I join him by the stream of cold water that flows in to temper the heat of the pool.

That rivulet was a glacier, probably no more than an hour ago, Grant says. It may have been ice for ten or twenty thousand years before that.

I stoop to cup some in my palm. Hello, water, and welcome back. After a moment, I ask, Do you think it has anything in it from back then, like spores, or pollen, or bacteria? I enjoy thinking about the earliest sources of our food, the tiny ancient seeds and cellular beginnings. Who knows what might have survived the ice ages and sneaked into our own time?

That’s possible, though I’m looking more at minerals. I could take samples back and check under a microscope, if you’re curious.

It’s a nice offer, but I don’t ask him to do that work. The faint sun shines weakly through clouds and is about to pass behind the ridge nearby, giving us early evening in midafternoon. I look longingly at the hot pool, and Grant, following my glance, kneels at the edge. As he dips a hand in the glowing emerald, it trails iridescence. We watch the glimmer as he sweeps the surface and asks, Plant, animal, or mineral?

It’s called bioluminescence. And if it’s ‘bio,’ then it’s something alive.

Yes, and since this is fresh water on land, it’s from fungi or bacteria. Have you ever seen wet wood glowing, like an old stump or tree trunk? he asks. I’ll bet you have.

We both shift slightly to gaze into the dark woods beyond the clearing. Back there, I think I see a bit of a glow, Grant says. That means an enzyme is working on the wood, interacting with calcium and magnesium. It’s called luciferin.

What, like Lucifer? That’s the old term for matches. It’s also the name of the fallen angel, or the devil, which brings a medieval quality to mind.

So, is that living, or not? he asks. The closer I look at some of these processes, the harder it is to answer.

I wonder too, sometimes, like when I use yeast to make bread dough. It looks lifeless at first, but then I feed it water and sugar. And after it eats, it exhales air that makes the dough rise.

And what do you call that?

I call it alchemy. As I laugh, he glances at me and smiles.

Well, modern science is calling, and I’d better get back. He picks up his backpack and swings it over a shoulder in a fluid motion. Enjoy your soak, if you’re going in. With that, he gives a wave and leaves, his reddish hair and brown clothing blending quickly into the woods.

I’ve replied, Have a nice rest of your day, and my standard repartee from the café sounds artificial as it lingers in the misty air.

Back under the cedar branches, I undress quickly. The hand towel I stuffed into my jacket pocket doesn’t provide much cover as I step gingerly across cold, hard rocks. I call myself curvaceous, as I’ve accepted that I won’t be willow-wand slim in this lifetime.

I lower my legs carefully into the heat, and at first my feet sting with pain. Sometimes, the cool stream has been dammed up too much, and you can parboil your poor feet. As I slide in up to my neck, the heat, though intense, is bearable. Someone has set up just the right stack of stones on the ledge where the cold water flows in.

I sigh and my eyelids drop as I start to forget about work, the past week, the coming winter, and even the guy who I trust has left the scene. After a few minutes of trying for oblivion, I crack my eyelids and watch steam swirl around the fringed edges of cedar limbs. I admire the thick coats of moss on every rock leading back into the woods. The ferns here are so huge they must be redreaming the Pleistocene Era, or whatever. The geologist would know the eras, and I could ask him sometime.

The woods seem empty with Grant gone, and I feel oddly vulnerable. This is backward; I should feel safer, alone. I never am afraid in the forest unless I catch signs of a bear or mountain lion. Sometimes our minds have to work at finding reasons for the feelings that arise on their own from places like the heart, or belly, or tingly toes.

Tree limbs arching overhead drop bits of leaf, frond, and bark through the steam. The forest is never still. I sift the water to hold a few dead bits and examine them. Except now I realize they could hold living things. A branch cracks in the distance, and a crow scolds, raucously and repeatedly. Farther away, a marmot shrieks an eerie whistling cry. These are reactions to intruders, and I grow aware of the forest watching me. It feels highly aware of me. And if so much around me is living—even the dirt and the invisible critters that make the water glow so beautifully—why wouldn’t it be?

I hoist up out of the pool and perch on the rock ledge to cool and waft dry. Is it possible for the forest’s awareness to connect with my own when we sense each other’s presence this way? These moments arrive so rarely; yet surely they are what keep me coming back to the woods and the mountain ridge. I’ve read recently that trees send out not just aromas, but also chemicals that cause humans to feel good as we breathe them in, walking by. I wish I could keep this sense of connection as I head back to town, but daily life pulls me quickly toward practical concerns as I return to my clothes and start to dress.

I’m putting on my boots when I hear voices. Some teenagers— girls followed by boys—emerge on the path coming up from the lake to the south. I recall the long, steep hike from the parking area a few miles below. They greet me merrily and start pulling beverage containers from their backpacks.

It’s time for me to leave. The walk home will go quickly, downhill most of the way. As I reach viewpoints along the trail, I pause to admire our valley’s long sweeps of farmland, the green now broken by yellow and dun swaths of wheat and cornfields already harvested. It’s magnificent land, and I rely on its natural vegetables and fruit for my locavore, farm-to-table niche in the restaurant business. That’s what draws in the big-city tourists and sports enthusiasts to Lavender’s on their way to or from the mountain.

Our town of Quicksilver counts only a few hundred souls and is much smaller than during its heyday as an 1880s mining town. But many more people live in the surrounding river valley, where they raise cattle or sheep, grow berries and wine grapes, do logging or fine woodwork, and practice a range of other crafts. We have artists and writers, even some software designers who work remotely.

I didn’t ask Grant about his employer, the technology mogul who owns a large chalet and former ski area on one of Mount Baker’s ridges. The Baron, as we call him, has kept his intentions secret while buying vast tracts of forestland from departing lumber companies. Rumors abound that he will build housing developments or resurrect work at the deserted, old gold and silver mines. No one really knows what the Baron is up to, and this geologist on his staff was certainly roaming far afield today.

The pail of mushrooms feels a lot heavier during the last mile toward my house in town, and I’ve been switching it from one hand to the other. As I walk, I imagine how I’ll drink a glass of wine, cook an omelet with the chanterelles, and put up my feet for a short evening before bedtime. Then I’ll be up at four a.m. for work.

My workday starts in the dark early morning as I pour grains of yeast, dull as sand, into a bowl of warm water. I sprinkle in sugar, dip my fingers as though into a baptismal font, and stir. During the café’s busy seasons, I start bread by mixing instant yeast right into the flour. But this is our slow season, and I want to watch the yeast at work while I linger over questions from the conversation at the hot pool. Soon the concoction will froth and bubble as though creating new life. But that would be an illusion. Or is it? Grant’s question echoes in my mind.

I turn on a single light over the stove, and it casts an intense, narrow beam, soft as moonlight at the edges, as I move about my second task, which is to brew a pot of coffee. Once I’ve enjoyed a few strong sips, it will be time to add flour and salt to the yeast mixture. If I’m making a lot of bread, I use the big machine with the dough hook. But today it’s just one batch, and I fall into my ritual of kneading by hand while I glance over my shoulder to catch the first gleams of sunlight beyond the mountain’s sharp-edged peak.

This is my favorite time of year, with huckleberries and mountain blueberries ripening, with fog rolling in off the ocean to the west and hanging about the river chasms like unsolved mysteries. But the sun now rises later each day, and in the winter I’ll finish kneading and have the dough rising in an oiled bowl before the literal first crack of dawn. The sky holds that hushed lack of color—not really gray, maybe slightly green—before it turns even the faintest blue. And this morning, I can make out the mountain’s own rising column of cloud from the steam it is venting.

Mount Baker is a dormant volcano, which means it could erupt anytime. Apparently we’d have a few days’ warning, like the locals had before Mount St. Helens blew. East Coast tourists who come through town and stop at the café sometimes ask how we can stand to live here, knowing the mountain will pour smoke, ash, and lava all over us—that is, if the massive, overdue earthquake doesn’t get us first.

But the local crowd regards these risks differently. The skiers, mountaineers, rock climbers, and hikers coming from Seattle, Bellevue, and Vancouver, Canada, simply love the snow, forests, and craggy ridges. They don’t stay long enough to become acquainted with what really goes on beneath the surface.

I never intended to stay here long myself, running this roadside café. I bought the place—already noted as a chic restaurant featuring local foods—just before the nation’s economy imploded into financial crisis and recession. Until then, my career as a chef was launching on a successful trajectory in the San Francisco Bay Area. I had carefully planned the next step of owning my own place where I could develop my signature cuisine. But such are dreams before they crash into reality—or reality itself crashes.

Now people often describe Lavender’s as charming. One time, a reviewer said it was cozy, and I hate that word; it’s just a half star above homey. And during the area’s slow economic recovery, I ended up cooking more comfort food for townspeople than haute cuisine for recreationists. That’s what they call themselves now, as things pick up and the wealthy techies pass by and stop in, again. Soon, one of them will discover me and my talent, and I’ll grab my opportunity to head out once more on a bright, upwardly winding path. Would I become an executive chef, running an exclusive corporate dining room on the top of a tower in Seattle, Bellevue, or Redmond? I like to picture this as I work the dough.

To knead bread, I dig the heels of my hands hard into the dough and push away to stretch it. Then a quarter turn to regroup it, and then a turn again, dig in the heels, and stretch it in the exact opposite direction. Long fibers need to develop, so it’s important not to make crosswise stretches that could confuse the dough into not rising. The rhythm becomes quick and steady, and it’s satisfying to look over my shoulder and see the sun emerging beyond Mount Baker’s column of steam. Part of me believes my morning ritual draws up the sun. Push, turn; push, turn; pretty soon I’m working up a sweat, and sunlight is gleaming in a clear sky only lightly hazed by fall.

Beams reach like searchlights into the front of the house and glint off silverware and water glasses. The empty wooden chairs gleam in warm stripes, and the curtains look translucent in places. It is morning. I am alone, and it is my morning; I’ve coaxed the sun up through my unfailing ritual of yeast, water, and wheat flour. Now the day’s momentum will take care of itself. I know this is a peculiar belief.

The back door opens and Cherie comes in. She pulls off her wool beret and shakes her dark, tight curls. She’s my assistant, though by now I call her my accomplice. She was a cook here before I bought the place, and I am grateful that she has stayed. She even bought a share of the business when things were particularly grim the first winter after the financial crash. She can turn out a mean jambalaya or blackened fish or chicken—just about anything that needs a touch of her native Louisiana.

Remember, I told you I’d be late today because of that parent meeting at the high school.

I ask how it went, and Cherie seems pleased. She, her husband, and son are one of the few African American families in town, and middle school was a tough, lonely time for her boy, Jason.

He’s cool with his course schedule and glad there are more black kids. They’re all elbow bumps and happy. It’s at least double the population from middle school.

And are any of the black kids girls?

Oh, yes. He met several in the first week or two of classes. What’ve we got going here? Whoa—look at those chanterelles! Good foraging, Lauren.

Yes, it was an interesting afternoon. Cherie gives me a questioning glance, but we’ll be too busy to gossip for a while. I’m thinking of a pasta with them, for lunch. And the soup is tomato bisque with herbed croutons.

Cherie nods and heads into the dining room, where she’ll erase yesterday’s menu on the little blackboard and write today’s specials.

The salt and pepper shakers need refilling. She sounds accusing as she returns with a tray full of dispensers. She quickly uncaps them and starts topping them off. Sister, we need to add that waitperson, prep cook, whatever you want to call them.

I know, I know. I figure that with school starting, pretty soon the young people will know their schedules.

You’re waiting for someone to just show up, aren’t you? The right person will walk through that door.

Sort of. I am a terrible procrastinator, and I’d like to get better about that someday. Trying to divine the hand of fate in my daily routines does slow things down.

Cherie picks up the breakfast work—eggs and hash browns and such—while I attend to today’s soup. The pot-au-feu, the stockpot, warms steadily on the back burner. It accepts whatever is at hand and steeps it into—voilà—just the right blend of flavors, complex and savory. I am a bit vain about my soups.

On the wooden cutting board are handfuls of herbs from the kitchen garden out back: oregano, marjoram, savory, and thyme. There’s also mint, so strong it smells like toothpaste, and I set it aside. How I’d miss these herbs if I cooked up on the twentieth floor of some urban building. The soil from a pulled root, a curled leaf, filters into tiny crinkles in the skin between my thumb and palm. I’ve absorbed so much dirt over the years that I almost feel the earth in the garden claiming that I belong to it.

I chop the herbs and add some to the stockpot; the rest go into a hot pan with melted butter and olive oil. After a minute, I quickly stir in cubed, leftover bread. Next, the croutons will bake slowly in the warming oven until they’re golden and crisp, ready to float in bowls of soup.

The doorbell tinkles, and the front door admits a flood of sunlight along with the first customer. It’s Arnold, an older gentleman who runs the local gem and rock shop. He calls out a greeting, and Cherie feints offering a menu, which he gestures away.

We’ll serve mainly locals today, as it’s midweek and we’re in the lull between seasons. The hikers and mountain bikers are back at school or work, and everyone else is waiting for snow to fall. Our location is just right for stopping to eat a meal, either on the way up to the ski area and national park or on the way back home. During peak seasons we stay open for dinner. In the summer we serve meals out on the deck, in the midst of scenery that looks as if it were cut-and-pasted from a postcard of Switzerland.

I’m daydreaming again as I punch down the bread dough, knead it briefly, and cut it to fit buttered pans. During the second rising, the dough recovers from being flattened. It grows gently and softly into the shape of its container and mounds above it. What is it about the yeasty, damp, promising scent? Everyone loves the aroma of fresh bread; it’s as appealing as coffee or cinnamon.

As I snap out a dish towel to cover the bread pans, I catch sight of Agnes Crossfield coming in. I wave from behind the wooden lattice draped with plastic grapevines that screens the kitchen. She owns a farm nearby, and her fields and greenhouse supply vegetables for the restaurant, even during the winter. We’ve worked closely together since she inherited the place several years ago, and so far, we’ve kept each other afloat. I fill a mug of coffee and take it to the booth where she has sat down and heaped papers and file folders onto the table.

When Agnes arrived to claim her inheritance after her grandparents died, she was hit with a legal dispute over the farm’s boundary line. The century-old deed states the property line follows a stream on its east side. But that stream jumped its course years ago, and now it flows farther west. Hundreds of acres of land lie in-between the two streambeds, land that Agnes believes belongs to her.

The owner of the adjoining land to the east, however, argues that he owns it. And unfortunately, that is Greg Berwyn, the tech mogul we call the Baron. Now that I think of it, Agnes may have come up with the nickname for him.

Agnes greets me as I bring the coffee and asks if I have a minute to sit down. She looks preoccupied.

I’ve just learned that my corn this year was not completely organic, as I’ve believed all along. It turns out it may have been tainted by pollen from genetically modified plants. And that GMO corn was grown right next to my land!

My hands go still as I envision the golden mounds of corn that Agnes provided for the café and for stores and markets, proudly asserting it was local, natural, and non-GMO. The crop represents a big chunk of her earnings for the year, and I can see how serious this threat is, when she’s already struggling with the boundary dispute.

Oh, Agnes. How can that be? Are you sure? Maybe it’s not as bad as you’re thinking—maybe not the whole crop.

The food Agnes grows isn’t labeled organic yet because her land is in its final year toward certification. And we have believed it’s just a matter of time. But if her current crops and seeds show artificial genetic modifications, that schedule is thrown off along with her hopes and dreams.

Agnes has fluffy, red curling hair, and she favors light layers of clothes that float about, usually topped with a silky scarf or crocheted shawl, or both. But today her pearl gray outfit hangs drably. She pulls a letter from the stack before her, and I can tell by the thick paper and embossed letterhead that the business is serious.

This is from an attorney representing the Baron. They had agricultural experts come onto my land and take some ears and pollen samples from my corn. Did they ever ask permission or tell me that? No! But listen to this: ‘The results of testing and analysis show an intermixing with pollen from a strain of genetically modified corn, which is patented.’

Patented pollen! And where would that come from?

Apparently it’s from the corn the Baron had planted on the land he owns right next to my field.

Just like that—I snap my fingers in the air—your corn is contaminated by GMO pollen? How—by wind, or by bees?

Yes, both. Those people were supposed to plant a buffer strip in-between so this wouldn’t happen. And they should have put natural plants in it. That preserves the variety of insect life, too, and it’s standard practice … Agnes’s voice fades away. She sips coffee and stares bleakly toward the window.

After several moments, she adds, Trying to take hundreds of acres of disputed land isn’t enough. Now they want to run me off entirely.

No, they can’t do that.

Yeah, they might. They’re threatening to sue me for patent infringement, and the damages are huge. Big agribusiness has done this to farmers in other parts of the country, the ones who hold out against buying the patented seeds and the herbicides each year. The courts award large fines, and the farmers often end up bankrupt. Then either the agribusiness company or some farmer who’s more compliant gets the land.

But it’s not right! The Baron’s workers were the ones who planted right next to your field—it’s as if they set this up. Of course the pollen will naturally drift into something planted nearby.

That doesn’t matter. Or, it hasn’t in past court cases. But Will is meeting me here, and we’ll start working on a response. He says not to worry too much, yet.

Will is Per Willander, the lawyer representing Agnes in the boundary dispute. I wonder how much he knows about plant genetics and patent laws. Maybe they can hire an expert in these areas, but where will the money for that come from?

I can’t imagine running the café without Agnes supplying the fresh vegetables, as we coordinate efforts to provide just what’s needed for seasonal menus. Business has been thriving because this clientele is keen on dishes that are fresh, local, and natural. I could buy more from other growers of natural and organic food, but demand is competitive, and I dread having to get in line and patch together a new, workable system. This morning, I don’t want to think about it. Agnes and I have supported each other’s businesses through the past several years, and right now, protecting that bond—and our friendship—is most important.

Let me know how I can help, if there’s something I can do, I urge her. We have to fight this.

What am I going to do, threaten the ag extension workers with my shotgun when they show up again to take pollen samples?

I smile, picturing Agnes waving a long barrel around at someone, with her chiffon scarves and billowing sleeves floating this way and that.

It gets worse, Agnes adds. The corn they planted on two special sections is supposed to provide the ‘mother seed’ for their hybrid corn, which is resistant to pests and fungus and so on. So, it wasn’t just any old GMO corn, it held the ‘promise for their future.’ Their language is like some vast, poisonous cloud spraying legalistic terminology all over me.

I don’t know what to say, and I’m glad to see Agnes’s attorney rushing through the door, briefcase in one hand and yellow legal pads in the other. He sees us, and I step away so he can slide into the booth across from her. We say hello, and Will says he’s famished. He wants his usual—Denver omelet—but with hashbrowns as well as toast.

Per Willander is based in Bellingham, a town about an hour away, and he drives up often to meet with Agnes. Quite often, in fact, and it’s obvious that he’s growing fond of her. Local wags, though, have nicknamed him Won’t Land Her. He seems a bit pumped up with his expertise, but since his motives are good, he rides a wave of support. He must think he’s in the city and has to introduce himself, for anytime he gives his full name, he adds, Call me Will—just plain Will. I wonder if he’s heard his nickname.

Agnes is like others who arrived suddenly in our midst, people whose families owned land here and who drifted back, tossed by currents of the financial crisis. She arrived at her grandparents’ farm a full generation after her parents chose urban life, and she didn’t mesh right away with the practicality of country life. She pronounces her name with the ‘g’ soft, as in French: ‘Awn-yes.’ After she gently but repeatedly corrected our mispronunciations, someone started calling her ‘Ah-yes,’ mimicking her frequent puzzlement at our local ways.

So, it was a punning fest when Per ‘Will-Land-Her’—or ‘Won’t’— and ‘Ah-yes’ began showing up at the café for coffee several mornings a week. Such a routine is an open declaration of a relationship in our town, as both must realize. But they keep to their professional rationale for the meetings. They sit with yellow legal pads and discuss pressing issues, making notations with red and green pens. Occasionally, she’s heard to sigh, Ah, yes, and customers grin and catch one another’s eye.

Back in the kitchen, I clip Will’s order on the wheel, and when Cherie gives me a concerned look, I shake my head and say we’ll need to talk later. We may have misrepresented the corn we served here— unintentionally, of course. I wonder how many of the café’s customers might become upset. We need more facts; maybe only a few rows of corn at the edge of her field were affected.

By now the bread, in its second rising, swells above the pans, forming beautiful golden domes. I slide the pans into the quick-hot oven, with nary a jostle that could prompt the light, airy dough to fall.

I want this morning to get back to normal, and it almost does by the time a coffee klatch of half a dozen older men arrives. They describe themselves as antigovernment conspirators and back-to-the-land patriots. We don’t argue with their God-given right to their usual booth, as long as they stick to the slow, late-morning hours. Typically, they lean over the chosen table and order only three cups of coffee during their lengthy confabs. Cherie claims she has stopped them from carving their initials into the tabletop, but I don’t quite believe her.

By then, Agnes and Will have finished and left, and the café has hit the lull before lunch. I’m heading toward a stool at the counter, carrying a misshapen scone for a snack, when in comes the geologist. I duck quickly back behind the lattice, and I feel my cheeks flushing. But there’s no reason to treat Grant any differently than usual, just because we ran into each other in the woods yesterday.

In my dim kitchen cave, the pasta is up next, or lunchtime will arrive before I’m ready. Grant sits at the counter—considerate not to take up a four-top—and Cherie pours hot water for his tea and takes his order. Of course he wants the special: pasta with chanterelles.

Tell him it will take a little longer. I puff out my cheeks and sigh. It’s only eleven twenty; we don’t start lunch for another ten minutes.

"What is wrong with you this morning?"

Later—it’s complicated.

I’ve cleaned and chopped the mushrooms, and hot water is always on, so the remaining question is which sauce to make. Now I’m doubting the herbs and seasonings I’ve planned. But with butter, cream, sage, black pepper and white wine, something good will come together.

Grant has had time to finish his meal when Cherie returns and says, That geologist is asking for you. Wonder what he wants?

Drying my hands on a dish towel, I step out. There’s warmth in his eyes and his smile as he greets me and praises the meal. His cheeks are tinged slightly red, like his hair.

I’m wondering if you might be willing to go to a party with me Saturday night. It’s a dinner at the Lodge. Greg Berwyn—the Baron, as you call him—is flying in with a number of guests. Seven o’clock?

The Lodge, the Baron?

It’s catered. The food should be good. As I hesitate, he adds, You could enjoy someone else’s cooking for an evening.

I have catered there myself, a few times. This sounds defensive, and I add, Back before it was sold. When the Baron began buying properties around here, one of the first was a ski area, smaller and lower on the mountain than the main one. The Baron uses the Lodge occasionally as a local headquarters, and he houses guests in the cluster of small cabins built behind it on the ridge. I still marvel over my memories of the Lodge’s huge kitchen with its banks of appliances. But on Saturday evening, I wouldn’t be cooking; I’d be a guest.

What do they wear—I mean the women—at these dinners?

Umm, black, usually. Dresses.

Long, or short?

I, uh… both?

At once? I smile and ask if I can think about it, check my calendar. Grant agrees and jots his phone number on a napkin. As he leaves, I stand still, mentally ransacking my closet. I won’t have time to go shopping before Saturday. And I work that day until three in the afternoon. This is not a good idea. I’ll probably be so tired I risk falling asleep by dessert and nodding off with my cheek in a bowl of gelato.

I walk back to the kitchen, head drooping, shoulders slumping. But what if this is my chance, my route upward and away? I could make contacts, promote myself and my expertise. I do have a black dress, and it’s not that old. Its hemline swoops up and down and has a gauzy layer, so it can pass a range of expectations for length. And I would love to get dressed up; it’s been so long. And to eat fine food, and listen to the talk … I wouldn’t have to say much. My old ambition must be surging, for I stir the soup so vigorously the velvety tomato bisque paints red peaks up the sides of the pot.

Cherie asks if Grant has said something to upset me, and as I tell her about the invitation, she struggles to locate the problem.

You just don’t know what you want, she concludes. It could be a good opportunity for you, but you’ll have to hang with the Baron and that crowd—people you dish dirt on all the time. The zillionaires who blew the economy, the folks who helicopter in their own food rather than coming down to mingle with the likes of us.

Yes, I think that about covers it.

Cherie sighs. Think about the specialties you’ll miss, though—all the things you could taste, ideas you could recreate here. Not that any chef they’d hire would be better than you are.

As she slides biscuits from the warming oven onto serving plates, she continues. What about this guy, the geologist? Do you like him? He seems nice enough, or we would have noticed by now.

I barely know him. I meant to say I hardly know him, but the word bare arrives on my tongue. I realize I’m not going to tell about our encounter at the hot springs, even though he was gone before I submerged in the water.

Instead, we need to talk about Agnes’s dilemmas, which affect us so closely. After the lunch crowd leaves, Cherie and I find some time to discuss the threats to our friend’s farmland as we clean and set up for the next day. Cherie agrees we need more information before letting customers know we may have served some corn that could have been genetically modified. There’s still a chance all the ears we served were natural, and I’m not sure how we’ll resolve the question.

And finally, Cherie convinces me that I must go to the Lodge on Saturday so I can see the Baron in person. Maybe I can assess his character a bit, meet his colleagues and friends, and listen in on their conversations. I must glean any helpful scraps of information and insight that I can, as if our very livelihood depends on it.

As if! I repeat, and she looks at me ironically.

Besides, I think you might like that geologist. And why not? You need to add some spice to your life. It’s been way too quiet for too long.

She’s right. The glamour of eating fine food plus the intrigue of seeing the Baron and his minions up close add to my slight attraction to Grant, which runs like a pleasant stream through this complex mix of dangers and difficulties.

Chapter 2

BY LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I am annoyed with myself for accepting Grant’s invitation. I’ve had to paint my toenails, as my only dressy shoes are open-toed sandals that consist of little black straps attached to high heels. Once I zip up my dress, I can’t bend over without holding my breath, evidence of this season’s wonderful desserts, such as apple galette, apple crisp, baked apples—and that’s not counting blackberries.

But I enjoy piling up my hair, making loops around a central topknot, so it looks like what it is: a mass escaping control and trailing ringlets around my face. A long strand in back reaches between my shoulder blades. I can refashion this later, if needed, before a restroom mirror, by retwisting and sticking hairpins back in.

Dread cuts into these moments of fun, though. I will be way out of my element. I used to be cool about handling parties like this one. Is it just the passage of time that makes this evening feel so different?

I’ve told Grant that I’ll drive myself to the Lodge. This way, it feels less like a date; plus, at any time I can flee back down the nighttime mountain road. I leave home in time to arrive about ten minutes late, and as I slow through several hairpin turns on the highway, I distract myself from the steep drop-offs by wondering where Grant lives. I imagine him in a tent on some mountain ridge, surrounded by a stockpile of pickaxes and hammers and mounds of split rocks.

Soon I find a place to park my humble, trusty Honda among giant SUVs in the front lot. Two helicopters stand in their own area a short distance away, a sure sign the Baron is at home. I decide to leave my coat in the car for a smoother getaway, and after a short, chilly walk, I swing open one of the Lodge’s heavy wooden doors. Inside, a young woman greets me and shuffles through a pretty little basket for my nametag. A fire burning real wood in the two-story stone fireplace feels warm and welcoming. Rows of candles flicker on low side tables.

I glance about to see what still looks familiar and what has been remodeled since I last catered here. I’ll have to restrain myself from darting into the kitchen. I recall it’s the size of a gymnasium and filled with stainless-steel appliances, apparently built for giants. I’m quite sure that I’ve met the Baron in years past, when he was merely a corporate CEO coming through town with friends to ski in the winter or hike in the summer. He probably ate at Lavender’s before he rose to have a phalanx of personal chefs.

A young man offers a tray filled with glimmering glasses, and I take one with pale-yellow wine like an opal that catches glints from the fire. I murmur, Thanks, and he nods, his eyes scanning other new arrivals. It seems I’m early. I should feel more at ease because this place once served us, the neighbors on the slopes below, rather than only the visiting gentry.

Soon, several women join me near the fire. They are glamorous and friendly and happily sip their wine. One says she’s an art dealer, another does something with software, and the third works in international finance. Their black dresses end just at the knee and fit closer to the body than my own. I tell them I’m into French cuisine and stay scant on details. I make note of the repartee they share; if I don’t sit with any of them at dinner, maybe I can toss out a few leftover phrases.

I’m relieved when Grant appears, and he hovers pleasantly, giving some reassuring attention. He thanks me for coming, and I can see he’d be a lot more comfortable with a mug of beer in a group of guys. Some of the women watch Grant, and not just from the corner of their eye but even by pivoting their elegant heads just enough to tip off other women, like me. I study him from the back as we move toward the dining room, watching his gestures, the movement of shoulders, hips. He still looks like a young logger to me. But maybe that is exotic for this group.

The banquet room is set with round tables for eight, and as we drift in, he takes my hand so we approach one together. His palm is dry and warm, slightly rough. I squeeze a little, unable to restrain my dough-kneader’s assessment. He toys