Good Riddance(39)

Speaking of pretty, Kathi herself: fair-skinned, blue-eyed, dark hair threaded with gray, in a bob with bangs. She was wearing a midcalf skirt, boots, a black turtleneck, and a lacy scarf. When I admired it, she said “Don’t look too closely! I made it years ago, and it was the last thing I ever knit.”

She served something I thought went out of style before I was born: chicken à la king over rice. Sure enough, the recipe was her mother’s, which made all five of us nod in sympathetic appreciation. The green peas, Kathi told us, were her own addition. On the side, steamed carrots, attributed to the helpful peeling by my father, who’d arrived early.

I asked in the manner of a friendly, interested guest what everyone did.

“You mean for the meal?” Alissa asked.

“No. In life. Jobwise.”

Alissa said she was going back to school, working toward a degree in accounting at Fairleigh Dickinson. Denny, she continued, was an accountant already, a CPA, with a master’s degree. They’d met at a firm where she’d been interning but didn’t start dating until that rotation ended.

“HR has eyes in the back of its head,” said Denny.

“Some people think being a CPA isn’t glamorous,” Kathi added. “But they love their work, and some of Denny’s clients—is this violating any confidence?—are theater people and actors.”

Proud sister? Check. Generosity of spirit? Check.

My father said, “I had the same guy do my taxes my whole professional life. Then he passed, and I left Pickering.”

Kathi gestured toward her brother with an open hand.

Denny said, “Might be too close for comfort,” then asked where I worked.

“I’m studying to be a chocolatier.”

“Are there jobs in that?” he asked.

I said I hoped so, but it might end up being nothing more than a hobby.

“Is that true?” my dad asked. “Because there aren’t jobs in that field? Or because you’re disenchanted?”

“It’s too early in the semester to think about placement.” And then to the table at large, “He worries too much about me. Sometimes I think it’s the real reason he moved here.”

“You know that’s not true! I’ve always wanted to live in New York!”

I waited a beat, then asked, “Even if he’s exaggerating, even if I had nothing to do with it, how many here think I won the dad lottery?”

Kathi’s hand shot up. She waved her arm strenuously, impersonating a teacher’s pet to excellent comic effect.

What had I prepared myself for? Not this woman. I must’ve been expecting her to possess a number of unattractive qualities based on my old piano teacher who was sour in demeanor and ever scolding due to my lack of talent and insufficient practice. My father asked what I was thinking; what was that dark cloud that had passed over my face?

I pointed to the giant piano as if that had been the trigger. “Remember Miss Gagnon?”

“Oh, God,” he said.

“She was my piano teacher—very scary,” I explained. “And her house smelled funny. I dreaded my lessons.”

“I hate to hear that,” Kathi said.

I asked her if her adult students practiced as much as they were supposed to.

“Either they practice, or they’re sad they haven’t practiced more. Don’t forget: no parents pushing them to take the lessons or stick with them when they want to drop out. They really want to be here.”

“Do you make them have recitals?”

“No recitals. A few, sometimes four or five of them, get together here once a month, very informal, wine and cheese, and whoever wants to play plays. It doesn’t feel like a performance, more like ‘Oh, I loved that piece. Can I learn it, too?’”

“It sounds so . . . pleasant,” I said.

“Did we do this to you?” my father asked. “Because I don’t ever remember forcing you to practice, let alone take lessons.”

“It’s not as if I had any talent, but she could’ve been a whole lot nicer. We never talked during my lessons! No conversation ever.”

“She wasn’t what you’d call an affable woman,” my father said.

“It has to be social,” Kathi said. “People don’t learn well when they’re anxious.”

“Maybe it’s time to take it up again,” my father said.

My lack of enthusiasm must have been plainly visible, inspiring Kathi to say, “Her chocolate lessons probably keep her busy enough.”

I was grateful for that, since it ushered in the topic of what I had in the oven, a flourless molten-chocolate cake. I said I’d better check on the dessert. Kathi asked, “Can I whip the cream?”

Was I being too proud by saying, “I do it by hand. Won’t take long. I kind of enjoy it.”

“She’s a professional,” my father said. “Almost certified.”

I didn’t contradict him. I would be mailed a piece of paper that could pass for a certificate, though merely issued by the educational packager I’d paid for my online course.

And, truly, the cake was delicious—hot, melty, semisweet. I complimented Kathi on her oven, that it heated evenly at the correct temperature. Rare! Alissa asked if I’d consider making a wedding cake.