From Scratch (8 page)

The feeling is mutual.

I muster up a weak smile and a hello. It’s the best I can do.

The floozy doesn’t reciprocate. “Why are
you
here?” Her words come out like a hiss. “Shouldn’t you be in Chicago proving you’re more than where you came from?”

Oh, the nerve of this harpy.

Maybe it’s how she still can’t be cordial, even after all this time. Maybe it’s the way she’s always flaunted her status and smug superiority, merely tolerating those deemed beneath her. Or maybe it’s the hard glint in her gray eyes that shows she’s still bitter that someone like me, with my misfit upbringing and grease stains, beat someone like her, prom queen, cheerleading captain, president of Kappa Kappa Gamma. That even though she was never in the running in the first place, despite her old southern money and family ties, in her warped, jealous, pretentious mind, I stole the one person she wanted most—Nick.

Whatever the reason, I feel like goading her.

I stand. “Haven’t you heard?” I say with a smile so phony it would make Sullivan Grace proud. “The committee was filling me in on my duties regarding this year’s Upper Crust competition. You see, I’ve agreed to participate. I figure it’s the least I can do since I’ll be in town for a while.”

Margaret narrows her eyes, her lips pursed. “A while?”

“For several weeks, at least. Isn’t that fantastic?” I say, my smile growing bigger. “And if my father gets his way, I’ll be back here permanently.”

I don’t wait to see my words register on her face. With a surge of adrenaline and something close to conviction, I lift my chin, walk out of the room, and descend the grand staircase, wondering what in the name of tangerine marmalade I just got myself into.

EIGHT

OUTSIDE AND AWAY
from the commotion of the meeting, the covered porch is calm and quiet except for the faint rumbling coming from behind me, disturbing the solitude.

I turn to find Nick conked out in a rocking chair in front of the open windows. His head is slumped against his shoulder, lips parted. A small snore escapes each time he inhales. Figures. I should have recognized that sound. A baseball cap is draped over his knee, and his disheveled hair moves gently in the wind. The way his body sags in the chair reminds me of a rumpled dish towel. I notice the purple crescents underneath his eyes are more pronounced than they were at the Prickly Pear, as is the stubble lining his jaw. Another late night at the hospital, I gather.

For a second, I think he’s here to see me, to make peace after our confrontation yesterday, but then decide it must be simply coincidence. He’s made it clear he blames me for the destruction of our relationship. Perhaps he’s running errands for his mother and dozed off, or maybe he’s picking someone up. Whatever the reason, in his relaxed, unruly state, he appears out of place napping on Junior League’s covered porch in the middle of the day.

Minutes pass while I wait for Annabelle to materialize from the meeting. Nothing. I sigh. I guess I’m going to be here awhile longer, so I may as well make myself comfortable.

Biting my lip, I consider my options. There’s the obvious choice of the empty rocking chair next to Nick, though I’d rather not. The sunny grass near the flower beds seems inviting, but it’s probably wet and swarming with gnats. Maybe I should go back inside, but another run-in with the floozy may end in disaster. Or I could wait in the car . . .

What the heck is wrong with me?

With a calm, collected manner, I pull my shoulders back and claim the chair next to Nick. Rocking slowly back and forth, a breeze tickling my arms, I take in my surroundings. Birds cut across the sky and swoop down to the glinting bronze fountain, splashing in the water before soaring up again. On the other side of the wrought-iron fence, two women push strollers as they jog down the sidewalk. Peeking over the trees, I see the historical neon sign of the Inwood Theatre in the distance.

Next to me, Nick stirs. His eyes flutter open but quickly close. Within seconds, his breathing is deep and steady again. He looks so peaceful, the way his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. I can’t remember the last time I saw him like this—vulnerable and without life’s expectations weighing him down. I wonder if he still listens to the rain forest setting on the sound machine to lull him to sleep after a grueling hospital shift. When I moved to Chicago, it took six months of restless nights before I could sleep soundly without that annoying machine.

Nick stirs again, shifting his body toward mine. The movement pulls up his T-shirt to expose a flat stomach and a thin line of hair that vanishes into black boxer briefs. My skin prickles, and I have an overwhelming, crazy urge to touch him there, to feel his hard muscles beneath my fingers. The way I used to, only back then my mouth followed everywhere my hands would explore. Warmth spreads through me as I remember the low, smooth rumble of his voice when my lips skimmed across his skin. The hiss that escaped from between his teeth when my tongue slid along the places he craved most.

I shake my head, erasing the memories like an Etch A Sketch, and concentrate on something other than my twitching fingers and the heat pooling in my belly—a garbage truck lumbering down a neighborhood street, dogs barking, the daytime traffic hum.

When I look back, Nick is awake and staring at me with puffy eyes. There’s an intensity in them, holding mine captive. A thrum of electricity courses through my veins as his gaze rakes over my face, the length of my body. His eyes flick to my bare finger, where my diamond ring should be. If he’s surprised it’s not there, he does nothing to indicate it. The air around us feels charged with energy.

“Chicago doesn’t have this,” I blurt. My mouth has taken on a life of its own. “The openness. The humidity that sticks to your skin. Cheerwine floats at Mr. Vincent’s Fountain Shop.”

“What does it have?” His voice is raspy from sleep, and a shiver travels down my spine at the sound of it.

Swallowing, I say, “Snow. Lake Michigan. The best Italian beef sandwich you’ll ever have.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to decipher something in them. He clears his throat and says, “The Upper Crust is right around the corner. You better start practicing now. It may be a competition for charity, but it draws the attendance of some culinary heavy hitters.”

“How’d you even know about the Upper Crust?”

A smile pulls up the corners of his mouth. “Jack hasn’t shut up about it, among other things.”

An ache expands in my chest that fills my empty spaces. Even after everything, how can Nick stay close with my father and discard me? Growing up, Nick practically lived at the diner or at my father’s house. He had a designated seat at our kitchen table and his own list of chores. That changed, of course, when Nick started medical school. But still, their relationship remains intact.

“Are you making peach cobbler?” Nick asks.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” I say, focusing on the way the sun haloes the trees, how the leaves shimmer in the golden glow.

He studies me, his mouth set in a line. “Is it because it was hers?”

I suck in a breath at his words—the same ones I said to him that day in my father’s kitchen a lifetime ago, when I still had my innocence and I believed cooking was a special potion that could fix anything.

Silence stretches between us.

The wind picks up, whipping my hair. “Ouch,” I say as something catches in my eye. I blink rapidly, but the object won’t budge.

“Let me see.” Nick groans when he sits up. The wooden boards creak under his feet as he comes to crouch down in front of me. His knees brush against mine. He’s close enough that I can smell his scent—cedar wood and soap and hints of citrus. I hate how good he smells. “Tilt your head back and look up.”

I do as he says. He holds my chin in one hand, and with the other, inspects my eye. His calloused fingers feel rough against my skin. Goose bumps pop up on my arms.

“There,” he says. Instantly I feel relief. “Is that better?”

Blinking, I nod and wipe the tears from my eye.

“Jack told me about the diner,” he says.

I shake my head. “Nick, don’t.”

“Why?”

“That’s not who I am anymore.”

Almost instinctively, he tucks a flyaway hair behind my ear, lingering on the spot where my jaw meets my neck. So simple, so natural, as if he touches me every day. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say, clenching my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. The electricity is thrashing through me like a live wire.

Nick leans in closer. His eyes are a sky I could fall into, an ocean I could drown in. Images of him peering down at me while he moved over me, inside me, flood my vision. His gaze drops to my mouth, and all at once it’s like the missing years between us are gone and I forget why this isn’t right or can’t be real. My mind has become a haze of
kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting, wanting. I hear the rustle of his clothes, feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek, his warm breath on my skin.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers in my ear.

“What?” I ask, completely disoriented. My voice sounds strangled. My heart beats in my throat, so fast it hurts.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, louder and with an edge to it.

The fog in my head clears and I jerk back, my chest heaving. What am I doing? “You don’t know me anymore, Nick.”

He looks at me long and steady. “Whose fault is that?”

Not this again.

“These past five years are irrelevant,” I say as anger builds inside me. “Even when I was here, I was never enough. You’re the one who turned me into a stranger. You’re the one who locked me out. Or have you forgotten that?”

“I remember,” he says, his voice hard, controlled. His eyes are bright with anger of his own. “But you didn’t exactly try that hard to fight your way back in.” Raking a hand through his hair, he stands and steps away from me. A muscle twitches in his jaw and his body is coiled tight. Finally he sighs and says, “Listen, Lillie—”

The mahogany door swings open. Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes saunters onto the porch. She looks from me to Nick then back to me. Her gray eyes narrow and harden, as if she’s summoning voodoo magic to curse me dead. The floozy struts toward us, her hips swaying seductively. From the corner of my eye, I see Nick notices it, too. Sidling up next to him, Margaret flashes a smile that speaks of something more and hooks her arm through his, her red-lacquered nails digging possessively into his skin.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” she says in a tone too intimate for friendship, gazing at Nick through long, sultry lashes. “I hope I didn’t make us late for tonight.”

Late for tonight?

It hits me just as Margaret leans in and presses her glossed lips against his.

As if they’re alone on the porch and I’m invisible in this rocking chair, she deepens the kiss, her hand tangling into Nick’s hair. I swear I hear her moan. The anger drains out of me. My stomach rolls. I’m going to be sick. Still, I can’t force my eyes anywhere else, but thankfully Nick breaks away before I lose my breakfast. He considers me warily. Margaret smirks in smug satisfaction, like after all those years of biding her time she finally won the trophy. Only this isn’t a game.

“We should probably go,” she says to Nick, then with a cool, patronizing stare, says to me, “We’ve got dinner reservations downtown and tickets to the show later.”

“Mags,” Nick says, his voice low and serious.

The use of a nickname knocks the air from my lungs. Nick never called her Mags or Maggie or any other endearing form of her given name. It was always Margaret.

“What?” the floozy says, all innocent. She places a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

It’s a surprisingly tender gesture for someone as vindictive as Margaret. A vision of what their life together must be like crystallizes in my mind. I imagine Baylor Medical fundraising events, Margaret on Nick’s arm in a sparkling dress that costs more than my monthly salary. I imagine Nick and his father yucking it up with their fellow surgeons, while Margaret gossips with Charlotte and the other wives, secure in the knowledge that she will someday be one of them. I imagine five-course tasting menus crafted by Dean Fearing, Junior League charity auctions and society parties, season tickets to the symphony, and Saturday evening dinners at the club.

Aspects of Nick’s world I never had any place in.

I avert my gaze, crossing my arms and pressing them tight against me like a shield. The sound of heels click-clacking on the grand staircase gets my attention. Seconds later, Annabelle flies onto the porch like a crazed banshee, her usually sleek black hair flailing in every direction.

“There you are. I’ve been search—” She skids to a stop and glances around, first at me, then at Nick, then at Margaret. “Oh shit.”

“I’d love to stay and chat, but we’re already running behind,” the floozy says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and adjusting her five-thousand-dollar purse. “I’ll see you next week for lunch, Annabelle.”

They’re having lunch together? First Nick and now my best friend?

By the triumphant grin on Margaret’s face, she knows how much her words have affected me. I want to slap her. Correction, I want to ruin her.

I open my mouth to wipe the smile off her face, but Annabelle interrupts. “Lillie, we’re leaving. Now.” She grabs my wrist, pulls me to my feet, and drags me away. “I’ll explain later,” she whispers.

When Annabelle pushes me through the wrought-iron gate, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Margaret is yapping to someone on her cell phone, appearing completely unfazed by what transpired on the porch, but Nick is watching me, his brow furrowed as if he’s making sense of something, working it all out.

I wait until we’re driving down Lovers Lane before bursting out with it. “How long, Annabelle?”

She shifts gears, the car jerking forward, and keeps her eyes straight ahead. “How long what?”

She knows
exactly
what I’m referring to. Why is she avoiding it?

“All of it. How long have you been keeping your friendship with her a secret from me?”

Annabelle fidgets in her seat. “We’re not friends per se. More like casual acquaintances. We’re collaborating on a project.”

“For Junior League?”

“No, professionally. The event planning side of my company is working with her PR firm.”

“Oh,” I say, then take a deep breath, gathering courage to ask what I really want to know. “And Nick? How long have they been involved?”

“Awhile,” she hedges. “It’s complicated.”

“It appeared pretty black and white to me.”

“There’s a history there. It started after you left. Margaret introduced—”

I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. It’s none of my business.”