From Scratch (18 page)

I’m perched on a bar stool talking with Tim about the band’s early days and how they got started when Nick reappears a long while later. His whole demeanor has changed—his jaw now clenched, his shoulders tense as a pulled wire. I wonder if he and Margaret had an argument in the parking lot.

Nick spots me and walks over to the bar, setting a copy of
Resolution
in front of me. My brow furrows. The album isn’t released for a few more days.

“Earlier you mentioned you were excited about hearing the whole record,” Nick says with an edge in his voice. “Now you can.”

“Wow. Thank you.” I pick up the album. The cover shows the band smiling as they lounge on a grungy old sofa in someone’s garage. Maybe it’s a nod to their humble beginnings. The track listing on the back is comprised of fifteen songs, only a few of which I recognize. “You know, I’m tempted to slip out of here right now to listen to it.”

That makes Nick crack a smile. “Too bad Big Blue only has a tape deck,” he says.

I open the plastic case to scan the various lyrics, but only the glossy cover photo is there and not the CD booklet. “Where are the liner notes?”

Tim clears his throat. “The early advanced copies don’t have them, but be sure to check them out. The liner notes are often the best part of a record.” He looks at Nick. A message passes between them, even more encoded than the one before. “I’m going to hit the road. I’ll see you at the launch party, Lillie.” Tim squeezes my shoulder and leaves without a word to Nick.

What’s up with them?

Nick settles onto Tim’s vacant stool and motions to the bartender for a beer.

“Balloons, huh?” he says after he’s squeezed an orange wedge into the glass and taken a few sips. “Not exactly original, but I’ll grant you points for getting them into my room without waking me up.”

“You always did sleep like the dead,” I say, smiling. “Cute riddle. The containers of creamed corn were a nice touch.”

A smirk finds its way to his mouth. “I thought so. It’s your move, Turner.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. We lapse into comfortable silence. It’s been awhile since I’ve been content to sit still and enjoy the moment. Around us, Otto’s Corner is a swirl of laughter and elevated voices and muffled music. Even though the kitchen is concealed behind a wall with only a small window opening, a thin layer of smoke from the charcoal grill hangs above our heads.

“Why Chicago, Lillie?”

I swivel on the bar stool to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Of all the cities you could have chosen, you decided on that one. Why?”

For a second I can only stare at him until all my pretenses fall away. “Desperation is a powerful motivator, Nick. I was a mess when I got to the airport and not thinking rationally. I asked the agent behind the ticket counter when the next available flight was departing. She said a plane destined for Midway was in the process of boarding, and if I hurried, I’d catch it in time. I made it to the gate right before the doors closed.”

His expression turns puzzled, as though he was expecting some kind of compelling reason rather than a decision made out of hopelessness. “You never considered coming home?”

“I didn’t think there was a home to come back to.” The words seem to echo through the room, despite the noise.

He nods as though he understands, even if I’m not sure I do.

“What was it like?” he asks.

“It was terrifying at first,” I say, recalling how I stumbled off the plane and into a cab, begging the driver to take me somewhere,
anywhere
. I ended up at a cheap motel outside downtown Chicago. For days I lay on the lumpy mattress balled up under the scratchy covers. Eventually, though, I got up, put one foot in front of the other, and learned to laugh again.

“It was also exhilarating,” I continue. “Freeing. Being in a place where no one knows your name and your past is a mystery. Like my slate had been wiped clean. Since I had almost no money, I rented this run-down, shoebox-size apartment around the corner from a delicatessen that’d been around since the 1960s. They make the best cannoli, the cream filling is so light and fluffy it melts in your mouth. The day I received my acceptance letter to Northwestern, I quit my receptionist job at the dentist’s office where I’d been working and proceeded to eat a half dozen by myself in celebration.”

“Did you re-create them?” he asks.

Nick must read the confusion on my face because he clarifies, “The cannoli. You know, put your own spin on them?”

My stomach tightens. The girl Nick knew would have done something like that. I remember all the times we’d be out somewhere and I would discover a dish I adored. I barely had time to finish it before I’d rush to my father’s kitchen to make my own version. I thought I outgrew that part of myself, but maybe it’s still inside me somewhere, buried beneath ugly memories and wishes that didn’t come true.

I shake my head. “No. I haven’t really cooked anything more complicated than scrambled eggs in years. Not since . . .” I don’t have to say the rest. The implication is clear.

“What about the Upper Crust? You’ve been preparing for that, right?”

I shrug. “Not really. Mostly I’ve been winging it.”

He frowns, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the pint glass.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He hesitates. “I guess I’m surprised. It’s not like you to wing something as big as a baking competition.”

“Things change, Nick.”

“Maybe. But not something like that. Not something that’s so fundamental to everything you are.”

How do you know?
I want to ask him, along with a thousand other things on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t. I can’t.

Silence settles between us. I peel off the Fat Tire label on my beer bottle. If I keep my hands busy, keep my focus on anything but him, maybe he won’t notice that his words have chipped away at something locked inside me.

My eyes drift over to him. “Where’d this come from?” I touch the scar between his ring and pinkie fingers.

Nick glances down and grimaces. He clenches his hand and hides it under the bar top. “I had an unfortunate encounter with Wes’s jaw.”

I squint at him. “What?”

“The memorable impression Tim was talking about earlier, the one regarding the football tournament?” He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is low, serious. “I arrived drunk to the event. Blackout drunk, Lillie. That’s when I nailed Karl in the head with the spiral and did some other idiotic shit I’m not proud of. I caused quite a scene in front of my father and several other important people who sit on the charity’s board of directors. At some point, Wes attempted to shove me in his Jeep to take me home, but I wasn’t ready to go yet, so I punched him. Shattered a few bones in my hand. The scar is a result of the operation.”

My mind is spinning, his words whipping around like they’re in a food processor. Best friends for more than two decades, all that shared history, and Nick
punched
Wes?

“Why?” I say, still not believing it.

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” I say, placing a hand on his forearm.

Nick rubs the back of his neck. “I guess you could say I checked out.”

“On what?”

“Everything. Me.
Life.
” There’s pain in his eyes, a kind so helpless I have no name for it. He’s quiet for a moment, his attention focused on the foam residue ringing the inside of his glass. Then he shakes his head, as if dislodging a memory, and says, “I was in a bad place for a long time, Lillie. That day was the wake-up call I needed, though, and got me to admit to my parents that I was unhappy with my surgical residency. Things improved after that.”

“When did this happen?”

“About six months after you left,” Nick says. “Margaret was the only person who stuck around and didn’t coddle me.”

“She seems to care about you a great deal.”

His shoulders sag as he says, “She’s been a good friend to me when I didn’t deserve one and helped me through one of the darkest points in my life.”

My heart lodges in my throat. I wish so much it’d been me who supported him, but I’m part of the reason he was in that dark place at all.

“She’ll also tear down anyone she considers a threat,” Nick continues. He takes a sip of beer and sighs. “Listen, Lillie, I know Margaret hasn’t been kind to you, and I’m sorry for that. It’s me she’s angry at but is taking it out on you.”

I nod, even though I’m not sure if what he said is entirely accurate. “Still, I’m glad Margaret was there for you in that way,” I say, shocked at the truth in my words.

“I wasn’t the only one who was hurting, Lillie. You said good-bye to everything when you left.” Nick leans in close to me, his gaze roaming over my face. “I’ve often wondered who was there for
you
while you healed. Who held you up.”

My breath catches as a feeling so overwhelming and huge surges through me. Because I alone patched myself back together, by circumstance and necessity.

Maybe that’s why the wound won’t fully heal—I did such a poor job of it.

NINETEEN

MY FATHER IS
reading the newspaper at the kitchen table when I walk downstairs the next morning. His hand is cupped around a mug of coffee that doesn’t seem strong enough for how exhausted he appears.

“Morning, baby girl,” my father says as light cuts across his face. The sun is just waking up, kissing the tops of the trees and seeping through the windows in soft streaks. It reminds me of the hollandaise sauce I spent an entire summer perfecting, the way it would ooze between layers of roasted asparagus, a smooth and creamy pale yellow. “Happy Halloween. What time did you get home last night?”

“Way too late. Otto’s is regrettably doing karaoke now. Wes sang Richard Marx’s ‘Should’ve Known Better’ three times in a row. We finally got kicked out when round four began.” I pour myself a steaming cup of chicory coffee and grab the seat beside him.

Chuckling, my father gives the newspaper a few shakes and folds it closed. “I’m glad to see you got rid of all that corn business. It was stinkin’ up everything.”

“Thank you very little for that, by the way. You didn’t have to let Nick in the house to prank me.” I tuck my knees under an oversized hoodie I’ve had since college that smells faintly of campfire and rain.

“Don’t go blaming me for that. You brought that trouble on yourself,” he says, then finishes his coffee with a giant gulp. He places an elbow on the table. I can’t help but notice how knobby it is, or the way his chest and shoulder bones show through his shirt.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, adding the decline in my father’s appearance to the list of things I plan on discussing with his doctor.

“My left hand’s been bothering me a bit and my knee still aches, but otherwise no worse than usual.” Standing, he moves to the sink and turns on the faucet.

Joining him, I say, “I told Wes I’d volunteer at Mustang Spook Fest this morning, but I’ll meet you here at the house this afternoon to drive you to your appointment.” When I was hugging everyone good-bye last night, Wes somehow convinced Annabelle and me to assist with SMU’s Halloween carnival for kids and families from around the Dallas community. We’re in charge of the creepy crawler games tent, hosted by the football program.

“Sounds good.” He squirts some dish soap into the running water and hands me a dish towel. “Now help your old man tidy up.”

I collect the dishes stacked on the counter and place them in the sink. Our arms bump against each other as my father cleans and I dry. I remember how Nick and I used to complain about the lack of a dishwasher, but secretly I loved the monotony of washing things by hand and the quiet comfort it afforded.

When the last plate is put away, my father stretches his back and says, “I need to set up the Halloween decorations on the front porch and run by the Spoons before the crowd gets unmanageable, but I’ll be back in time for you to take me. Okeydokey?”

“Dad, you shouldn’t be lifting heavy stuff by yourself,” I say, looking at how the outline of his spine sticks out like a zipper. “I think I should stay here with you.”

He coughs and pats my shoulder. “Nonsense, baby girl. I’m perfectly capable of hanging a few bats and spiderwebs on my own. Go help Wesley. I’ll see you at home in a few hours. That’s an order.”

“Will you promise to call me if you need anything?”

My father coughs again and mumbles something about how that won’t be necessary before darting out of the kitchen. I sigh. His stubbornness continues to grow worse—thank goodness his appointment is today.

I dig in the attic for my Alice in Wonderland outfit. Wes, Annabelle, and I agreed to dress up in a theme using costumes we already have. After a quick shower, I change and drive to SMU. The parking garages are filled to capacity and cars line the surrounding streets. I get lucky and find an available spot in Snider Plaza, an old-time shopping center nestled across from the law school. Big Blue barely manages to squeeze into the space. I hop out of the cab and head for Bishop Boulevard in the heart of the campus.

A familiar storefront catches my eye. I stop short and check my watch. I’m running fifteen minutes late already, but I don’t care. Annabelle and Wes will have to deal with it.

A bell rings as the door opens. I step inside, inhaling the smells of marshmallow fluff and waffle cones. I’ve visited Mr. Vincent’s Fountain Shop hundreds of times, and there’s still something whimsical about it. The way it seems to whisk you away to a Willy Wonka–esque edible wonderland. Advertisements from the 1950s hang on walls covered in fruit wallpaper. In the center of the store, bulk candy is bursting out of cupcake-shaped bins. The patterned tin tile ceiling reflects soda-lined shelves filled with nostalgic favorites like Nesbitt’s Orange Soda and Dad’s Root Beer.

My fingers dance across the glass bottles as I stroll to the fountain counter at the back. I halt in front of a display of Cheerwine. I pick up one of the bottles and rub my thumb across the label. Memories rise and expand as they reach the surface of my mind: Nick challenging Wes to a Cheerwine chugging contest the day Wes made the varsity football team, the two of them burping and laughing so hard burgundy liquid shot out of their noses. Annabelle and me in my bathroom the night before the homecoming dance, using a liter of Cheerwine to dye my hair strawberry blond because it was cheaper than buying the real thing at the drugstore. Nick and me sitting on blue vinyl stools, slurping Cheerwine floats on our first official date, tongues and lips stained red. I remember how after Nick kissed me good night on the front porch, I snuck into my house through my bedroom window so my father wouldn’t catch me with fruit punch–colored lips and think I spent the whole night getting frisky with Nick in the backseat of his vintage Mercedes.

“Can I help you, sweetheart?”

Mr. Vincent emerges through a pair of swinging doors. He slides behind the counter, adjusting a soda jerk hat, his thinning, silver hair barely visible underneath. He’s worn the same uniform since forever—yellow bow tie, starched white, button-down shirt, black jacket with red polka dots. A banana split in clothing form.

“Um . . .” I bite my lip. “No. That’s okay.”

He smiles. Wrinkles fold around his eyes. “Never been to a soda shop before?”

I shake my head. “The opposite, actually. I used to come here all the time as a kid.”

Mr. Vincent drums his fingers against a stainless steel malt mixing cup. A crease appears between his eyebrows. “I remember you now. You’re Jack Turner’s daughter. Lillie, right?”

“The one and only,” I say, now full-on grinning.

“How’s your father doing these days?” Mr. Vincent pulls out a frosted mug from the freezer. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

I shrug. “Causing trouble as usual.”

“That sounds like Jack. Why don’t you give me that bottle you’ve got in your hand. I’ll make you a float, my treat.” He picks up an ice cream scoop and dips it in a bucket of steaming water.

“Thank you, but I can’t stay. I’m supposed to be at Mustang Spook Fest right now, manning the fuzzy caterpillar toss.”

“In that case, I’ll make you one for the road.” He winks at me, puts the mug back into the freezer, and grabs a Styrofoam to-go cup next to the register.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. I laugh. “I guess there’s no harm in eating dessert first.” I walk to the counter and hand him the Cheerwine.

While Mr. Vincent prepares my float, I wander around the store, taking in its years of history that mingle with my own. It’s amazing the power of memories. The way they touch a sacred place deep inside each of us. How certain ones seem to linger forever, leaving a lasting impression, the full impact of which is often not realized until later.

When I pass by the section of grape-flavored sodas, I swear I can see the giggling childhood version of myself perched on my father’s shoulders, reaching for a Fitz’s Grape Pop on the top shelf. Like a sort of psychic imprint. For a moment, I’m frozen, seized by the scene in front of me.

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach, and I have the sudden urge to hug my father, to tell him how much I love him even when he drives me crazy. I fish my cell out of my dress pocket and call him at the house, and when he doesn’t answer, at the diner. The phone rings and rings. He’s probably still putting up Halloween decorations or dealing with the breakfast rush, but the panic continues to build. I’m nervous about his doctor’s appointment, I tell myself. It’s nothing.

Mr. Vincent rests a hand on my shoulder, and I jump. “Here’s your float, sweetheart.”

I force a smile as I thank him, take the Styrofoam cup in his hand, and sip a little. The cool, sweet treat does nothing to quell the sense of foreboding surging through me.

WES SHOVES AN
entire brownie into his mouth. Crumbs tumble down his Mad Hatter jacket.

“You know it’s acceptable to take two bites,” I say, dropping a prize into a grinning ballerina’s oversized pillowcase. She twirls in an unsteady pirouette, then dances over to where a new game of bobbing for eyeballs is about to begin. The uneasy feeling in my stomach has dimmed, but it’s there nonetheless. If only my father would pick up the phone.

“Not enough time, Jelly Bean,” he says, licking his thumb. “It’s my turn to be the creature in the green lagoon.” By “green lagoon” he means the dunk tank set up outside the game tent. Someone in the football program came up with the brilliant idea to fill the tank with green slime instead of water. All players and coaches are required to participate.

Annabelle wrinkles her nose, the perfect addition to her Queen of Hearts ensemble. “You better shower after.”

“You know I’m going to do the exact opposite because you said that,” Wes says, stealing the crown out of her wig, then darting away with such speed that it knocks the top hat off his head. The card reading “10/6” floats to the grass.

“You know what happens when the queen loses her temper,” she yells after him, heart wand waving in the air. “Off with your head!”

I roll my eyes. Since last night at Otto’s Corner, Annabelle and Wes have been tight-lipped about the current status of their relationship, and I haven’t asked. I get the impression they’re afraid to jinx what forward progress they’ve made by talking about it. Maybe there’s this unspoken fear, this possibility it could all erode again.

After Wes disappears out of sight, Annabelle straightens her dress and looks at me. “Have you returned Sullivan Grace’s calls yet?”

“What do you think?” I say as I rearrange the cups on the fuzzy caterpillar toss board. The pushy woman has already left numerous messages in the hour I’ve been here. Something about how my presence is needed at an Upper Crust run-through. If only my father could be as persistent.

“You know she won’t stop bothering you until you do,” Annabelle says as a gap-toothed boy dressed as Superman zooms past us, cape billowing behind him, lollipop in hand.

My phone vibrates and Sullivan Grace’s number lights up the screen. “Speak of the devil,” I say. “Can you handle this for a bit? I’ll be right back.”

I walk out of the tent onto the majestic, tree-lined Bishop Boulevard. All around me are children in costumes and face paint lugging bags bursting with candy, jumping in bounce houses, shielding their eyes as they listen to ghost stories. It appears every family within a one-hundred-mile radius decided to partake in Mustang Spook Fest.

“Hello, Ms. Hasell,” I answer, plugging my ear as I cut through a group of kids waiting to enter the haunted house put on by the various fraternities on campus.

“There you are,” she says. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Behavior like this simply won’t suit, Lillie. What did I teach you about manners?”

I sigh, imagining her in Junior League headquarters, sipping tea and eating a scone. “I’ve been a little busy volunteering at—”

“Never mind about that,” she continues. “Now, pay attention. You need to arrive at the Ritz Carlton ballroom promptly at . . .”

She prattles on about the logistics of the Upper Crust run-through as though she hasn’t explained the same instructions in the many voice messages I’ve already received. Contestants are to use the time as an opportunity to familiarize themselves with the setup and smooth out any kinks before the big event.
D Magazine
will be in attendance, after all.

“Lillie, dear, are you taking notes?”

No.
“Yes, Ms. Hasell,” I say with exaggerated cheer as I stroll through the fake cemetery built on the lawn area in SMU’s south quad. Plastic skeletons dangle from trees. Cobwebs with hundreds of tiny spiders cover painted foam gravestones.

“I’d also like to remind you that, as stated in the competition guidelines, no late recipe modifications will be permitted,” she says. “The judges will be observing to ensure all contestants are acting in accordance with the rules.”

Translation:
Your father will force-feed tofu down your throat if you show up with that deconstructed strudel nonsense.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

She rambles on for another few minutes. I tune her out. After I disconnect the call, I make my way back to Annabelle and Wes but stop when my cell vibrates again. I swear I’m going to strangle Sullivan Grace with her precious heirloom pearls.