From Scratch (9 page)

“Lillie, would you—”

“Can we not talk about Nick and the floozy anymore?”

Annabelle shakes her head, muttering something under her breath.

I don’t care what Nick does anymore. I’ve moved on. I have a happy life in Chicago.

So why does my heart feel like it’s been pulverized in a garbage disposal?

NINE

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
I’m sitting at the desk in my childhood room trapped on a conference call with Thomas Brandon and the rest of the strategy team.

Kingsbury Enterprises lost a portion of its funding allocated toward the second phase of the product launch, and the company is asking White, Ogden, and Morris to provide Dom Pérignon champagne consulting services on a sparkling cider budget.

As Thomas Brandon outlines the situation, I try hard to be an active participant in the discussion, to offer my opinion and give out-of-the-box solutions. It’s what I excel at, why I’m often assigned to the more complicated, high-dollar projects. But today I’m struggling to even follow the conversation.

“Lillie, where are you on compiling those sales forecasts?” Thomas Brandon’s nasally voice pierces my ear. “And I still haven’t received the market analyses I requested.”

I should have completed everything yesterday after Annabelle dropped me off rather than starting an hour ago, but I haven’t been able to focus on anything except Junior League and what transpired on the porch. I can still feel Nick’s stubble on my cheek, his calloused thumb below my ear. I
wanted
him to kiss me, touch me. Worse, I never even considered Drew. Guilt twists in my chest. But that was a momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing like that will happen again.

Besides, Nick is with Margaret now.

Images of them kissing, the smug look on Margaret’s face, the way Nick called her Mags, flash through my mind, but I quickly blot them out.

“Lillie, the items?” Thomas Brandon barks out.

Before I can reply, Ben cuts in, “If she’s unable to handle it, I’d be happy to do it.” His tone is snide, but I’m sure to Thomas Brandon he sounds helpful, a real go-getter.

I remind myself that Ben is an audible breather with sardine-smelling breath. “Everything will be in your inbox by the close of business today, Mr. Brandon,” I say, twirling a lock of hair and peering at the split ends.

Thomas Brandon fires off status questions to the other team members, but after about three minutes, the conversation reverts back to the topics of cost and scheduling, and I find myself once again not paying attention. I spin my engagement ring like a top on the desk, watching it go around and around in a sparkly blur, until finally the conference call ends.

As I put my phone away, I hear the front door open and my father’s heavy footsteps, followed by kitchen cabinets banging shut and rummaging in the fridge. He was gone when I woke up, and I wonder if he worked the early shift again.

I walk down the short hallway that connects my childhood room to my father’s, brushing my fingertips along the floral wallpaper adorned with my school photos and tacky watercolor prints of Texas Hill Country, listening to the floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs.

“Morning, baby girl,” my father says when I enter the living room, his eyes glued to one of those lifestyle food shows on the television. “A little birdie told me you’ve agreed to participate in the Upper Crust.”

He’s settled on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, a remote in one hand and a half-eaten jelly Danish in the other. I notice some of the raspberry filling has stuck to his cookie duster—my father’s nickname for a mustache. His hair is a little mussed. He’s wearing his usual uniform of a plaid button-down and faded jeans. Taking up space on the cushion next to him is a box of grocery-store-brand doughnuts.

I lean on the arm of the couch. “Let me guess. You spoke with Sullivan Grace.”

“Sure did. I knew you’d come around.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” I say as my father polishes off the jelly Danish. “Not exactly a balanced diet, Dad.”

“Nonsense. Sugar and trans fats, the breakfast of champions.” He rubs his stomach. “Frosted, glazed, or powdered?” he says, offering the box to me.

“None of the above.” I place the doughnuts on the side table, next to a glass of milk using a fishing magazine for a coaster, and flop down beside him. “I fixed myself some toast earlier.”

“Fair enough.”

“Were you at the diner?”

“For a bit,” he says. “Then out running errands.”

“Maybe you should cut back on your hours,” I say, studying him, taking in his droopy mustache, baggy eyes, creased skin. “You’re looking really run down.”

“Don’t I know it? Why else do you think you’re taking over the Spoons?” He smiles and the grooves around his mouth deepen. “Doc says me and my bum knee need a nap and one of those therapeutic massager chairs.”

I nudge his side. “Maybe one will show up under the Christmas tree this year. But don’t get any ideas. You know I’m only here temporarily.”

“We’ll see about that, baby girl.” He pats my shoulder. “We’ll see.”

He turns up the volume on the television and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I snuggle up next to him and rest my head on his chest, the outline of his bones sharp against my cheek. We watch in comfortable silence as the show’s host travels around New England, eating his way through local mom-and-pop joints.

Even with the television blasting, the room feels quiet, relaxed. Nothing like Chicago, where my office phone rings nonstop and the incessant sound of honking seeps through the windows at all hours. And though I would never admit this to my father, I miss Dallas and the way I can be in the middle of downtown and smell fresh air. Five years in Chicago and I still haven’t gotten used to the stink of exhaust that permeates the streets, or how in summer the wind off the lake blows the odor of dead fish, or the scent of garbage that piles up during an epic snowstorm.

At one point during the show, the host is at a deli in Boston, attempting an extra large bite of a meatball sub, but instead of a mouthful of Italian deliciousness, he gets nothing but sourdough bread and marinara sauce because all of the meatballs have fallen out the sides and rolled down his shirt. My father laughs as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, but soon his laughing morphs into a loud and mucousy coughing fit.

Worry clenches my stomach. I rub his back until the coughing subsides. My father takes a deep breath and gulps down the rest of the milk. Then he relaxes into the couch cushions and puts an arm back around me, as if nothing happened.

“Are you all right?” I keep my voice calm. “That sounded really bad.”

He peers down at me and smooths the hair away from my forehead. “I know it does, baby girl. And yes, before you ask, I’ve been to the doctor. He’s treating it.”

“When was your last appointment? And when is your next one?” Given my father’s aversion to showing weakness, it’s probably been months since he visited the doctor and instead he’s “treating” his cough with Robitussin and Mucinex.

“You’ve got no faith in me,” he says with a frown. “I see Doc every few weeks. He checks me out, adjusts my meds. But at my age a cough can be a pesky nag that never goes away—a bit like you.” He winks and smiles.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m coming to your next appointment. If I’m being cast as a nag, I want to nag effectively.”

He chuckles and says, “All right, all right. Next one is on Halloween.”

The rooster clock on the wall crows. My father sighs and kisses the top of my head. “Well, I’d better quit lollygagging around.” He groans as he stands up and stretches his back. “You should think about visiting the Spoons sometime today. Freshen up on how we do things around there and get some practice time in. You only have a few weeks until the Upper Crust, and I won’t have no goddamn
apple turnover
winning again.”

Leave it to my father to act like I should be training for this charity event as though it’s some kind of Olympic sport. Too bad my plan of attack is to show up and wing it. I almost tell him this just to see him get all bent out of shape. Instead I grab the box of doughnuts and follow him into the kitchen.

“I need to do some work for my actual job. You know, the one in Chicago that I get paid for? I’m being slated to be a partner.” Then I remember the binders and stacks of papers I stole from the diner that are still a disorganized mess and say, “But maybe I’ll drop by after I finish up.”

He takes the doughnut box from my hand and places it on the counter. “I bought extra cobbler ingredients for you to use.”

“Dad, I’m not competing with that recipe. I’m going to prepare something of my own.”

He turns to face me so abruptly his shoulder knocks into mine, and I stumble a bit. “You ain’t doin’ no such thing.”

“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, but what I really want to know is how he can pretend that my mother didn’t throw away our family, how he can pretend she didn’t throw
me
away.

My father grumbles something under his breath before he clears his throat and says, “Because it’s a darn good recipe, and we’re in this to win, baby girl. That’s all there is to it.”

I sigh. My head is starting to ache.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” my father says, rifling around in his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you.” He drops a set of tarnished gold keys in my hand that belong to my old Ford truck.

“When did you get it back?” I say, puzzled, remembering how I abandoned the clunker in an airport economy parking lot the day I boarded a plane to Chicago.

“That’s not important. You didn’t honestly think I’d let you ditch that dinosaur, did you? Big Blue’s a part of our family.”

I shrug, closing my fingers around the keys and squeezing so hard the teeth bite into the soft flesh of my palm. “I suppose not.”

“Think of this as your homecoming gift,” he says with a wink. “She’s got a rebuilt engine, new tires, and a clean bill of health. Picked her up from the shop this morning.”

“Thanks for rescuing her for me. It saves me from spending a fortune on the rental. I’ll call to make arrangements for it to be picked up.”

My father’s mustache twitches, and a funny expression flits over his face.

“What?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “You’ve been cooped up in this house since yesterday afternoon, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, you might want to take a gander out front before you do anything else.” He opens the cabinet under the sink and removes the trash bin. “And you might want to consider bringing this with you.”

I look dumbly at him, then at the trash bin, then back at him. “Okay. Why?”

“Does that prank you and Annabelle pulled on Wes that one summer ring any bells?”

“No . . .”

Then it clicks.

No. No freaking way.

“Dad, you can’t be serious right now,” I exclaim as I frantically look outside. He couldn’t possibly be implying what I think he is.

Only my father doesn’t need to say anything more because I finally spot it. My eyes bulge out and my mouth drops open as I absorb that my rental has been hazed worse than a pledge during initiation week. The car has been covered in so many rolls of cling wrap I can’t discern the black paint underneath. Hundreds of fudge cookies are glued to the plastic, melting in the sun. Colored balls like the ones in the pit I used to jump into at the local family entertainment center are bursting out of the sunroof—the only part of the car still exposed.

Wes better run, at lightning speed and far, far away, because when I find him I’m going to rake him over a hot bed of coals.

TEN

I PARK MY
truck on the street and stare at the building adorned with gaudy neon letters and blue awnings that was once a sanctuary for me.

Every Blue Plate Special and candid photograph on the wall holds reminders of a childhood that has drifted away. Turner’s Greasy Spoons is where we congregated—Nick, Wes, Annabelle, and me—on Friday nights after the Highland Park High School football game. It’s where Nick tried, and failed, to teach me to drive a stick shift; where my father caught Wes and Annabelle making out in the stockroom after-hours; where the four of us ran around the vinyl booths and laminate tables as children, playing tag and hide-and-seek.

Ghosts of me. Ghosts of them.

I sigh and climb out of the truck, my legs sticking to the cracked leather seat.

Despite the odd afternoon hour, the diner is bustling with activity, though I notice it’s mostly an older crowd taking advantage of the early bird dinner menu. At a booth near the windows, a group of ladies with silver hair play spades, cackling louder than necessary, probably a result of the hearing aids they all wear.

I catch a glimpse of Wes sitting at the counter devouring a double portion of cowboy casserole, today’s Blue Plate Special, that’s like a shepherd’s pie but with Tater Tots instead of mashed potatoes and a down-home country flair. It’s another recipe inspired by one of my high school newspaper columns that paid homage to the potato, the king of root vegetables.

“Don’t you work?” I say, flicking Wes’s ear.

Swatting my hand away, he looks at me, then over his shoulder toward the front windows, then back to me. “Fueling up before practice,” he says through a mouthful of food, the words garbled. “Homecoming game’s coming up.”

Through the kitchen window, my father grins and waves. He’s sporting an apron with dancing clams on it, though it obviously failed to perform its most basic function because the right side of his Rangers T-shirt is splattered with yellow splotches. There’s a faint lipstick mark on his cheek, and I wonder when Sullivan Grace stopped by for her daily diner visit.

On the prep counter in front of him is a four-quart storage bin filled to the brim with ground spices. I watch as he leans the container on a corner edge and measures out a palmful before dumping the spices onto some hamburger meat browning on the stove. Standing next to him, Ernie sautés onion and garlic in a cast-iron skillet.

I hop onto the stainless steel counter and steal the forkful of casserole hovering inches from Wes’s awaiting mouth.

“If you value your life, you’ll surrender the utensil,” he says at the same time my father shouts, “Baby girl, get off of there. People gotta eat.”

I roll my eyes, jump off the counter, and hand the fork back to Wes. He swallows the bite without chewing and moves the plate away from my reach.

A moment later, another plate of cowboy casserole, fresh from the oven, the cheese still bubbling, appears in the kitchen window. The vivid scents of cumin and chili powder hit my nose. My stomach grumbles. Ernie gives me a knowing smile and nods, touching his forehead as if tipping a hat.

Grabbing the steaming dish and some silverware, I take a seat on the stool next to Wes. We eat in silence, which is fine by me because the casserole is so delicious I’m shoveling it down as though I haven’t eaten in a week.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Wes’s shoulders are slouched and there’s an uncomfortable expression on his face. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened at the bookstore, if he regrets the way he acted, his harsh words. Then I remember Annabelle’s confession, that he was the one betrayed, and I wonder how much Wes is hurting, how lost and angry he must feel.

The silence stretches so long that when Wes finally speaks, I nearly fling my fork across the counter in surprise. “It’s nice to see you driving Big Blue again.” The mischief in his voice is unmistakable. “It suits you. Better than that ridiculous thing you were driving.”

“It’s funny you should mention that.” I glance at him sideways. “An interesting thing happened last night.”

“Really? What’s that?” Wes says, tossing a wadded-up napkin on his empty plate, looking everywhere but at me.

“Yeah. Apparently the Keebler Elves have a vendetta against me.” I spin on the stool to face him. “They covered my rental car in Saran Wrap and used spray adhesive to stick E.L. Fudge cookies all over it. You can imagine the mess I discovered this morning, especially since the chocolate centers had melted.”

Wes twists his lips, as though he’s suppressing a smile. “That’s rough, Jelly Bean.”

I sigh, long and overdramatic. “It took me four hours, two garbage bags, a vacuum cleaner, and a trip to the auto detailing place to get the car looking like new again.”

A laugh bursts from his mouth, the sound like the pop of a can of crescent rolls. “I hope you catch those little guys. I hear they’re fast.”

“Actually, I was thinking you could help me.” I put my elbows on the counter and rest my chin in my hands. “That’s a pretty extreme prank, if you ask me. Almost like it was payback for something. I mean, those elves spend their days baking cookies in a tree. Can you think of why they may have done this?”

“Nope,” Wes says with a toothy grin. “But whatever you did, it must have really pissed them off.”

“Hmm. Do you remember that teeny-tiny, completely harmless joke involving a tub of Vaseline and some cereal?”

“You mean when you and Annabelle mutilated my Jeep?”

“Oh please. We didn’t ruin anything. It was those cute little gnomes, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. You offended them with your pathetic attempts at making Rice Krispy treats for Annabelle’s birthday,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as I remember how protective Wes had been over that car. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. If I remember correctly, you were out for blood after that.”

“Jelly Bean, you pulled pranks on everyone around here, not just me. Any one of those people could have done it. Like Mr. Oswald over there,” Wes says, pointing to a frail, elderly man with a big nose and even bigger ears fighting with a packet of sugar. “He’s held a grudge against you for years after you TP’d his house by mistake.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure it was him. You should warn him I plan on getting revenge,” I say as my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see Drew’s name lighting up the screen. I cringe, but before I can silence it, Wes says, “How’s the boyfriend?”

“Fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I shove the phone back into my pocket.

Of course Wes notices my tone, and of course he won’t let it go. “Just fine?”

“He’s great,” I say. “Better than great actually.”

“Very convincing, Pinocchio,” he says, tapping the tip of my nose. There’s a curious twinkle in his eyes. “Your cheeks are doing that flushed thing they do when you get uncomfortable. I’ve got a hunch there’s something else going on.”

My stomach sinks as I realize he may already know about my engagement to Drew if Nick tattled on me, but as I study Wes’s face, searching for a sign, something about his expression tells me he is still in the dark. Nick hasn’t mentioned it. And why would he? I no longer register anywhere on his importance radar.

“So did you two finally move in together or what?” Wes asks.

“It’s possible,” I say. It’s been two months since Drew bowed out of the lease on his apartment and was added to mine. We’ve even discussed adopting a puppy from a rescue shelter, but with my demanding work schedule I barely have time to feed myself let alone care for an animal. It’s why I have plants.

“I’m happy for you, Jelly Bean. It’s about time you found someone who could tolerate your cup habit,” he says with a smile, referring to my tendency to leave near-empty glasses scattered around for days rather than putting them directly into the dishwasher when I’m done with them.

“Hey!” I punch his shoulder. “I’ve gotten better about that.” Kind of.

“I’m joking,” he says, ducking out of the way before I can hit him again.

“If you two are done being Chatty Cathys, you might want to think about making yourselves useful. I need an extra set of hands around here,” my father calls from the kitchen.

“No can do, boss.” Wes rises from the stool and tosses some cash on the counter. “I’ve got a hot date with some future NFLers and a football field.” He turns to me, squeezes my arm, and says, “It’s all you, Jelly Bean.” He starts to leave, but pauses. He meets my gaze and looks at me like he wants to say something else but can’t find the right words, so we stand there for a moment in silence. Finally, he says, “Annabelle wanted to get engaged.” His voice sounds bitter, almost angry, so different from the Wes who was laughing minutes ago. “She’s wanted to for a few years, actually.”

“And you didn’t.” It’s a statement, though it should be a question.

“I
couldn’t
,” he clarifies. “I wanted to give her that. Hell, I wanted it for myself, but I . . . couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he sighs and says, “I’ve seen how marriage can destroy a family. I’ve seen two people who once promised to love each other for the rest of their lives now only communicate through lawyers and email. I’ve seen parents force their child to take sides and then get upset when the kid chooses the wrong one—or worse, when he refuses to pick at all.”

I recall Wes telling me a story about one Thanksgiving during college when he and Annabelle went to dinner at his mother’s house. His father called right as they arrived, and when Wes explained where he was and how he couldn’t talk, his father fired off a string of passive-aggressive comments about being disappointed in Wes for his choice of company. To aggravate matters further, all throughout the meal, Wes’s mother made equally biting remarks to Wes about his decision to spend Christmas in Tennessee with his father’s side of the family. Wes ended up walking out.

“I’ve seen the worst, Jelly Bean, and I won’t repeat their mistakes,” he continues. “I guess Annabelle thought that gave her permission to do what she did.”

I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “Wes, you know it wasn’t like that for her. It’s obvious you both still care. Why don’t you talk to her?”

“Because . . .” He trails off, shaking his head. “Because.”

Growing up, I knew he carried the burden of his parents’ divorce on his shoulders, but until now, I never realized how much it had affected him—how it still affects him—and how his relationship with Annabelle has suffered because of it.

“I guess love makes you chickenshit sometimes, huh?” Wes says, ripping me from my thoughts.

I shrug and give him a small smile. I want to tell him that love can also make you brave. That it has the power to heal as well as destroy. That you can build a world of dreams around it.

But I can’t say any of that.

I HUG WES
good-bye with the promise to see him later at the Tipsy Teakettle for trivia night and step into the empty hallway that connects the two bathrooms, where more of my framed newspaper columns stare back at me.

I take out my phone and dial Drew’s office number. He picks up on the third ring.

“There you are,” he says, warm and sincere. “I called you a bit ago.”

A rush of guilt surges through me. About the way I purposely screened his call. About seeing Nick again, how his presence has me twisted into tiny knots. About how I’ve kept that part of my past a secret from Drew.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “I was chatting with an old friend.”

“How are things going there?” There’s a creaking sound, and I picture Drew leaning back in his desk chair, gazing out his office window that overlooks Lake Shore Drive. “I haven’t heard back from you.”

Drew’s tone is concerned, not at all angry, and the guilt flares up full force again. We usually email or talk at least once throughout the day, exchanging take-out dinner ideas, stories about annoying coworkers, and gripes about the stresses of our jobs. But since returning to Dallas, I haven’t been able to find the right words to respond to his messages. How am I supposed to explain Wes and Annabelle and all they’ve been through, all that we’ve been through together? How am I supposed to explain Nick and everything we meant to each other before we meant nothing at all?

How do I explain any of that?

Instead I say, “Everything’s about as expected. My father’s up to his old tricks as usual.” I tell him of my plan to manage the diner’s back-of-house operations from Chicago.

“That’s a great solution,” Drew says. “Is your father okay with it?”

“I’m not giving him an option,” I say. “Kingsbury Enterprises has asked for me personally to lead the next phase of their product launch, and Thomas Brandon has guaranteed my promotion if it’s successful.”

“That’s fantastic, babe,” he says. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s a huge opportunity for me. For us.”

As I fill him in on the details, the casual, easy way we are with one another slips back into place.

“So listen,” Drew says after I’m finished. “Since your dad will still be in recovery mode, maybe we can spend Thanksgiving in Dallas this year.”