How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (16 page)

A woman with wavy, honey-colored hair sashays over and interrupts my mini fantasy.

“Jack, we need to get things going.” She slides her gaze toward me, and then back to Jack.

Jack studies his silver watch. His eyes focus on the lady. She’s wearing an emerald green dress with a deep V-neck. A bit of black lace is peeping through on the sides of the fabric. At her waist is a black braided belt, followed by knee-high ebony boots to match. Is she going for the sexy Santa’s helper look? Seems a bit odd for a retirement residence.

“Sherry, this is Lauren. She’s the granddaughter of Sandra Hauser.” Jack motions towards me.

What role does she play here at the retirement community and in Jack’s life?

“Nice to meet you, Lauren. Are you staying for lunch?” There’s a hesitation in her voice, as though she doesn’t want me to stay. I’m picking up on some vibes, but I’m not sure what.

“Yes, I am,” I say confidently. I beam at Jack as if we’re sharing an inside joke. He isn’t picking up on my frequency, and I roll my eyes at his delay.

His eyebrows wrinkle and his lips frown. “Lauren helped make the pecan pies.”

Finally he tuned into the waves I’m sending out.

“Oh great.” Sherry nods and marches toward the kitchen.

“I need to get things set up,” Jack says as he stands up.

“Can I help?” I need to get a better feel for this Sherry situation. I’m sensing some tension and I’m not sure where it’s coming from.

“Sure, but you have to wear a hairnet.” Jack says and strides into the kitchen.

I frown and push through the double doors behind him. Jack nods in the direction of the hairnet resting on the counter next to a stack of dishes. He exits the kitchen with a load of plates in his arms.
Really?
I snatch the hairnet from the counter and purse my lips.

When he comes back in through the door, I fling the hairnet at his head. “Oops, I’m sorry. I was trying to get it on.”

“No problem. Let me help you.” Jack picks up the hairnet and charges toward me.

I back up slowly. “That’s okay. I can figure it out.” I keep going and hit a counter with my back.

“Lauren, I’m a professional.” He strides closer to me.

He can’t be serious. His eyes are flickering about and his lips are formed into tight lines—like a pressure cooker’s lid about to blow—as though he’s trying not to smile or laugh. He has very full lips. Lips that want to be tugged on.
Lauren.

“Jack, I can do it myself.” I reach for the hairnet.

He grabs my hand and pulls me in close. His clean, woodsy scent brings fantasies of an intimate mountain cabin,
alone with Jack
.

“Are you sure you can handle it on your own?” he asks.

We are standing within-inches-of-a-kiss close. The only thing that separates us is our clothing and setting. I’m drifting away. Far away. His gaze is luring me to walk farther with the sounds of leaves rustling beneath me. I imagine us alone in a cabin or some lake house surrounded by nature, just the two of us. It’s all so clear, even if it’s a midday fantasy. I know the moment we kiss, I’ll fall into that forest full of leaves. But, this time we aren’t alone. The place is buzzing with people and their hearing aids. And Sherry.

“Yes.” I take the hairnet from him and try to control my breathing.

“Okay, then.” He grabs more dishes and brings them out to the dining room.

I scowl at the hairnet. There’s no way I’m putting this on my head. My wrist is the perfect solution. I tie the hairnet around it and pick up some dishes to bring out to the dining room. Jack does a double take of me and says nothing. Sherry is setting up the plates and silverware. Jack rushes over and leads me back into the kitchen. He’s holding onto my wrist with the hairnet on it.

“Lauren, I love your fashion statement, but this is supposed to go on your head.” He turns my wrist up to show me.

“Jack, I said I’d put it on, but I didn’t specify where. Besides Sherry isn’t wearing one.”

“Suit yourself.” Jack takes the last of the dishes from the counter. He exits the kitchen.

Surely he isn’t mad that I won’t wear the silly hairnet. I slide my fingers over my new bracelet. It’s kind of cool in a Madonna circa 1980s fashion sense way. It doesn’t matter, I’m not here for him or his mixed messages.

I push the doors open. The dining room is filling up with residents as they mosey their way toward the tables. There has to be at least two hundred tables each lined with white tablecloths and topped with brown, orange, or yellow doilies. On top of the doilies are small vases with a fall mixture of Gerber daisies. It’s very festive. At the back of the dining room are several tables of silver chafers, the hot food section is separated between tables of bread, fruit and cheese platters. The scent of the turkey carving section is filling up the room. I cut through the decorated tables and head toward the elevator. I need to get my grandmother. I press the number two and play with the spider-webby hairnet.
Walking in the spiderwebs
… The elevator stops and I step out onto the carpeted grey floor.

Patsy Cline is crying about falling to pieces from inside my grandmother’s apartment. I tap on the door. With the music and Jack missing as her doorman, will she be able to hear it? The door swings open. I take a step back, impressed by my grandmother’s strength.

“Happy Thanksgiving, darling.” She kisses me lightly on each of my cheeks.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Grandmother. Would you like to go and eat a little something with the other residents before we go home?” I step into her apartment.

“Yes, darling.” She turns off her stereo. “How are you and Jack getting along?”

“What?” I crinkle my eyebrows.

“You and Jack, darling. Please tell me all those years of listening to music with the headphones on have not damaged your hearing.” She picks up her purse and links her other arm in mine.

“No, Grandmother. My hearing is good. I just didn’t understand what you meant.”

“How are things going with you and
Jack
?” She pokes my side.

I jump from her prodding. “Fine. I’m glad he is taking good care of you.”

“Taking care of me… I don’t need any taking care of, darling.” She shakes her head and locks her apartment door.

We exit the elevator and stroll toward the dining room. I guide my grandmother over to a table with a few seats unoccupied. This place filled up quickly. I scoot out a chair for her.

“Would you like to sit here, Grandmother?”

“Sure, darling.” She doesn’t even inspect the table or its other occupants. Her focus is elsewhere, as though she’s searching for something…
or someone
.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Hauser. It’s so nice your granddaughter could join us,” Sherry says and brushes my grandmother’s arm.

My grandmother smiles at her and turns away.

“Grandmother, Sherry was wishing you a happy Thanksgiving.” My grandmother’s manners embarrass me a little. Maybe this is part of the dementia. Maybe my parents were right, maybe she is really changing.

“What, dear?” My grandmother stares at me slack-jawed.

Sherry smiles and moves on to greet some other residents. Across the room, Jack is helping a lady with a walker into a seat. He squints in our direction with bewilderment. Why is he surprised?

He makes his way to our table and beams. “I’m so glad you decided to stay.”

Now I’m confused. “I said we would.”

“Yes, you did.” He’s gripping the chair in front of my grandmother’s chair. Jack kneads the vinyl fabric in the same way he massaged my shoulders. “Can I fix a plate for you, Mrs. Hauser?”

“Oh, Jack, that would be lovely. Please take Lauren with you. She knows exactly what I like.” My grandmother glows at him.

He offers his hand and I accept it. The buffet isn’t far from my grandmother’s table. We maneuver in between the tables as if we’re trying to figure our way through a maze. Jack releases my hand and grabs a plate from the white-clothed table.

Dementia must be the reason my grandmother thinks I know what she likes to eat better than the guy who knows her sleeping schedule. Though, he isn’t displaying the signs of someone who knows my grandmother’s appetite. The plate is overflowing.

“Is there anything here you think your grandmother would want extra of? I have an inside connection.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?” This time I bat my eyelashes intentionally.

“Maybe.” He brushes his wrist against my hairnet bracelet, sending a pulsating shiver all the way up my arm.

“My grandmother is eighty-nine years old. There is no way she can eat all of that,” I say. It’s reminiscent of an advertisement for how not to load one’s plate.

Nodding his head in agreement, he stares down at my wrist. “Your bracelet keeps diverting my attention.”

“You seem easily distracted.” I brush his arm—his biceps to be exact. “I’ll make a note not to wear anything shiny around you.”

“Ah, so you do want to see me again.” Jack elbows me.

“What?” I raise an eyebrow at him. My lips purse to the side.

“One can only assume you intend on seeing me again if you are making notes about future outfits in my presence.” With his free hand he squeezes my waist.

“Hey, what was that for?” I pinch him back and let my hand linger longer than necessary. I retract my hand as I realize we have an audience.

“Just in case you were off in la la land, I wanted to bring you back to the present. I’m not one for hesitations.”

My face is hot and it’s not because of the numerous eyes that are scrutinizing our playful flirtation in the middle of the dining room. Jack has leveled up his intent and is being direct.

But I have a direct flight back to my life in Maryland on Sunday morning. I trot back to the table, almost like I’m a turkey. Heaven knows the aroma is tugging on my stomach, but I know if I come to the dinner table with any amount of fullness, Megan will have an absolute meltdown. She is very particular about everyone and their portions on Thanksgiving.

I pull out the chair next to my grandmother and the now full table is silent. Are these people friends of my grandmother’s? Jack slides into the seat next to me. My grandmother peers over at Jack and me.

“Jack, thank you for helping my granddaughter. She’s a very special girl. It’s quite something that she is still single.”

My mouth is in my lap. I quickly retract it.

“Still single? I thought your pl—”

“Geraldine, it appears your lipstick needs some tending to, perhaps a visit to the ladies could render that.” My grandmother glares at Geraldine.

Geraldine shoots up from her seat like a teenager and darts off in the direction of the restrooms.

Jack pats my leg and whispers in my ear. “It’s all part of getting older.”

My thigh is on fire. He leaves his hand there, massaging it with his thumb. Is he referring to my grandmother’s age or mine? Why is my grandmother being so rude? I didn’t notice any lipstick situation with Geraldine.

“I’m merely repaying a favor. Lauren helped me bake the pecan pies last night,” Jack says. His fingers move a little higher on my thigh. My muscles flex and I crane my neck back.

I wish we were alone to see how far those fingers would go. Everyone at the table is staring at me. I smile politely. Being center stage is awkward.

“Oh, that’s nice,” my grandmother says casually as if Jack is talking about the weather.

One of the women at the end of the table winks in my grandmother’s direction. My grandmother doesn’t acknowledge this. Instead, she cuts their eye contact. There’s no way she missed it. The lady pushes the food around on her plate and grins. Is this a symptom or maybe a side effect of some medication my grandmother might be taking? I crinkle my eyebrows.

“Where’d the pecans come from?” the lady asks as she casts her direction to Jack.

“Ethel.” My grandmother glares at her.

“Sandra, only a question, I’m not trying to hog your time with your granddaughter and…Jack.” She plays with her food again. This time her lips are pursed together.

My grandmother is squinting at Ethel and her chin is almost touching her chest as though she’s trying to silence her. I’ve seen this face before. Megan and I used to see that expression when we were giggling in church.

“We actually met at Tibor’s Pecan Farm,” Jack says. He’s obviously unaware of the situation happening at the other end of the table.

“Oh, those are some mighty fine pecans, best in Texas,” a man sitting next to Geraldine’s empty spot says. He winks at my grandmother.

Is my grandmother blushing? Is she interested in this man across the table? I know my grandfather has been dead for twenty years, but still.

“Pecan pie is something else. What recipe did you use?” Geraldine asks as she pulls out her chair, this time her face is a little flushed.

My grandmother is shaking her head. The man next to Geraldine is grinning.

“A very special one. Is everyone ready to try it?” Jack asks.

“Lauren, please help Jack with the pie. He can’t manage it by himself,” my grandmother says. I’m pretty sure Jack can handle the pie on his own, but I’m not one to argue with my grandmother and I wouldn’t mind getting away from the table and whatever is going on there. Jack and I stand up at the same time and stroll in pursuit of pie. Pie we made together.

The pie display is beautiful. Each table has three rows of pie slices ready for tasting. Whole pies sit on pedestals behind the dishes with the sliced pieces. Pumpkins, apples, and pecans are scattered over the tables creating a Sandra Lee-worthy tablescape. I want to try each pie, one by one. I don’t think my grandmother would approve. I also don’t want to seem like an overeater in front of Jack, or Sherry for that matter.

“Am I missing an inside joke? There seem to be some ulterior conversations happening at the table.” I toss my head back. This time my hair is able to sway behind me. No frizz-nest hair wreckage today.

“Oh, seniors are something else, you would be surprised the amount of drama that takes place here. I try and tune it out.” Jack grabs one of the uncut pecan pies and a server from the back of the table.

“I wish I was able to tune it out but it’s my grandmother and I’m concerned about her mind.” I grab some plates and forks from a cup.