Free Family Tree by Susan Wiggs Page B

it to seem as if my dad had never existed.” Annie paused, surprised at how easily the words came when she talked to him, a virtual stranger. “I guess for me and Kyle, it’s a good thing he did exist. The name change was a good thing, too. My dad’s last name is ridiculous—Lickenfelt.”
    He slapped his knee. “So you were Annie Lickenfelt? I guess you don’t miss that.”
    â€œGod, no.”
    â€œSo how often do you see him? Do you get to go to Costa Rica?”
    â€œI only went down there once. The beaches are just like you see in postcards, and I learned to surf.”
    â€œThat’s cool.”
    She nodded. “It’s harder than it looks, but once you get up on a wave, you never want to stop. There was tropical fruit growing wild everywhere, and I thought the seafood tasted like candy. The local fishermen would bring it right in from the surf. And there were birds and monkeys like you wouldn’t believe. And one day, we went zip-lining in a chocolate forest. Cacao, technically.”
    â€œWhy’d you only go once?”
    â€œMy dad comes back to Vermont twice a year to see his parents over in Milton, so I visit him then. The airfare and travel time to get from here to Dominical are insane. Four flights from Burlington. Plus, I’m not a big fan of Dad’s girlfriend, Imelda. She’s mean as a snake.”
    â€œYeah, but I’d put up with snakes if it meant surfing in Costa Rica.”
    â€œThere are alligators, too. Big ones. They hang out at the river estuaries, so surfers have to watch out for them.”
    â€œI bet I’d still like surfing.”
    â€œYou don’t talk like you’re from around here,” she said.
    â€œI’ve lived in a lot of places.”
    She waited for him to specify, but he didn’t. Next time, she thought again, hoping this year’s sugar season was a long one.
    â€œYou don’t sound like you’re from around here either,” he said.
    â€œOh, I sure as tootin’ can if I’ve a mind to,” she said in her broadest Vermonter’s accent.
    He laughed. “Why don’t you want to?”
    â€œI’m going into broadcasting. One of the first rules is that you can’tsound like you’re from any particular place. Regional accents limit you.”
    â€œWhat do you want to broadcast?”
    Annie tended to guard her dream from people, not wanting to hear it was going to be hard or it couldn’t be done, or you had to know the right people or you’d never break in. Yet she instinctively trusted that Fletcher wouldn’t say any of those things.
    â€œA cooking show,” she said.
    â€œCooking? For real?” He didn’t seem to think it was funny or weird.
    â€œFor real,” she said.
    â€œCool.”
    She went to the pie safe and offered him an iced maple pecan cookie. “We made these last night.”
    He took a bite and clutched his chest. “Man, that’s good. You’re gonna do great with your show. If everybody knew how to make something like this, it would probably bring about world peace.”
    She laughed. “See, this is what I love. Making food that makes someone happy.”
    â€œOh.” He crammed the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “This is me being more than happy. This is me being . . . oh, man.”
    She laughed again. “Maple is everyone’s favorite. It’s one of those things most people never get tired of. Ever try sugar on snow?”
    â€œNope.”
    She scooped up a ladle of hot syrup from the finishing pan, stepped outside and poured a thin stream over a mound of clean snow. “See? It hardens into the world’s purest candy.”
    He broke off a piece and sampled it. “It’s really good.”
    â€œWhen I’m feeling fancy, I make snowflakes and spiderwebs with it.”
    â€œArtistic, like your mom.”
    She couldn’t stop smiling. How was it