The Memory of Lemon (12 page)

“Except you can't be by yourself for fifteen minutes.”

“I'm by myself now. It's lonely, I'll admit it. But the only one I want is you.”

I took this all in. Luke, alone. Sounding sad, bordering on pathetic. Something was off. “This isn't like you, Luke. What's really going on? Was your strained ACL worse than what the doctors thought? Are you having symptoms from that concussion you had a few years ago?”

“Ha,” he said, mirthlessly. “I do feel a little beat up, Claire. Every year, it takes a little longer to recover from the season. But I'll be fine, come time for training camp.”

“So what is it, then?”

“I know I totally screwed us up. We had a great thing going. And this might not be something that I can fix.”

“You can't fix it, Luke. So let's just part as friends and go on with our lives.”

“I'm just not ready to do that yet, Claire.” He sighed. “It's ironic, isn't it? And predictable, I guess. And I hate to be predictable. But you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. I love you,” he whispered, and then he ended the call.

Neely

After Pie Night and Luke's unexpectedly lovelorn phone conversation, I was ready for an easy day at the bakery. But that didn't mean I was going to get one.

“The phone's been ringing,” said Norb as I walked in. “Who calls at six in the morning?”

“People who are desperate for cupcakes,” I said, and Norb rolled his eyes.

When I checked the phone messages, I found we had several new pie orders.

“I was wrong, Norb,” I shouted to him in the back. “People are desperate for pie.”

It seemed that cake and cookie people were happy to order online, but pie aficionados did their ordering the old-fashioned
way. I was going to have to teach Jett about pastry. We were going to need the extra help.

I sidled up to the La Marzocco, part Italian coffee machine, part seer. What message would I get in the foam of my latte today?

I ground the dark-roast beans and tamped them down. I streamed the water over the grounds and then poured the ebony brew into my cup. I foamed the milk and used a long-handled spoon to guide the froth over the espresso in what I hoped was a triangular slice of pie.

Voilà! Pie. I couldn't believe it. Was this a sign that I could have what I wanted?

Be careful what you wish for,
I reminded myself. A month prior, I'd been worried about business. But according to Maggie's chart, our foot traffic had gone way up since we'd introduced pies, turnovers, and tarts. And that didn't even include everyone at Pie Night. Our sales were up, too. But we were all running ragged. I guess it was a good thing that my social life was stuck in neutral for the moment.

No point in checking my text messages. I was still blocking Luke. There wouldn't be any texts from Ben. Maybe I would get a letter from him later in the day.

I summarized my love letter to Roshonda when she came for her caramel macchiato, and she tut-tutted. “That sounds a bit tepid, don't you think? You sound like his pen pal.”

“Well, I am. Sort of.”

“Well, don't you want to be a sexy pen pal? Don't you want drool marks on your letters after he reads them?”

“Ben doesn't drool.”

“He's a man, Neely. He drools.”

Roshonda looked me up and down. “And I hope you don't mind my sayin' so, but you gotta get your sexy back. This isn't cuttin' it.”

“I'm at work.”

“I mean when you get home. You can't write sexy if you don't feel sexy. Were you wearing your old robe and bunny slippers when you wrote that letter?”

“Yes,” I admitted.
What are you supposed to wear late at night, at home, by yourself?

“My favorite outfit!” Maggie joined in. “Perfect for mindless snacking and TV watching after Mom and Emily go to bed.” She sighed. Maggie's domestic situation was not enviable. Patsy was a big help to her, but living with your mother was nobody's idea of the good life.

“Well, you've got a professional man interested in you,” Roshonda said, turning to Maggie. “What's the holdup?”

“The Professor is a nice guy, and he's been good to Emily and me, but I just don't want to start anything with him,” Maggie said. “It would be awkward if it didn't work out.”

“Well, it's lonely and boring if you keep doing what you've been doing. Seems to me that ‘awkward' would be an improvement.”

Roshonda had a point. Maggie looked suitably chastened.

Roshonda turned to me. “Did you at least spritz some of your Chanel No. 5 on that letter?”

“No, I didn't think of that.”

Roshonda let out a big sigh and shrugged her shoulders.
“Girls, you need a refresher course in romance. I'll be in later for lesson number two.”

“We're still stuck on lesson one, Getting Our Sexy Back,” muttered Maggie.

“Well, work on it. Do some visualization. Imagine yourselves as magnetic, charming, irresistible women,” said Roshonda on her way out the door. “That's your homework.”

I looked at Maggie. No makeup. Circles under her eyes. Day two hair.

She looked at me. Robin's egg blue buttercream tinting my fingernails yet again. A smear of chocolate pie filling on my pastry chef jacket. Disobedient ponytail.

“Homework,” we murmured.

Right on schedule, the Professor came in. He barely nodded to me, but went straight for Maggie. She looked a little flustered, small wonder.

“Do some visualization on him, too, while you're at it,” I whispered to her when the Professor was occupied with his breakfast cupcake and coffee. “He's solid, reliable, well educated, and kind, and he adores you. Find the sexy in that. If he asks you for a date again, say yes this time!” Considering that her bad-boy ex-husband was chronically late with child support, barely saw little Emily, and was just an all-around jerk, that should be easy. But the Professor still had some spiffing up to do in the looks department. His new buzz cut was so much better than his tired comb-over. But there were still those baggy, old-man pants and rumpled shirt.

I vowed to drop a subtle hint later that would encourage the Professor to trade the dad pants for slimmer jeans. Maybe just
this one tweak would be the tipping point that would get Maggie to see him in the way he deserved.

I readied the little cakes, buttercream frostings, mousses, and fillings to take next door for my morning wedding cake appointment.

I walked up to my own front door to make sure the entry looked welcoming. I noticed that Gran's old-fashioned plants were flowering. The bridal wreath hedges that lined the sidewalk bloomed white. Her flowering dogwood in the tiny front yard matched the pink tulips I had planted in the black iron urns on either side of the porch. On the shady side of the house, lilies of the valley were releasing their wonderful scent.

My heart lifted, and I wasn't even in the bakery workroom.

My wedding cake baker goose, guarding my porch, held a clutch of pink tulips under his concrete wing. Who put those there? Maybe, I hoped, Ben?

Despite having a wedding cake tasting in just fifteen minutes, I grabbed the bouquet and found the enclosed letter. Yes!

I let myself in the front door and quickly went through the shotgun-style house to the kitchen in the back. I filled a vase with water and plunged in the tulips. I took a quick peek at the letter, but only to make sure it was from Ben. I wanted to take my time to savor every word later.

With a lighter heart, I arranged the buttercreams, mousses, and fillings on the artist's palette I'd had specially made, and I put the little cakes on a tiered stand. While the water heated for French press coffee and tea, I did one last tidy-up in the front parlor.

We wouldn't need the white marble Victorian fireplace on
today, so I lit a small votive candleholder in the hearth instead. A little flame or candlelight seemed to make the French gray plaster walls more elegant, as did the gilded frames around my favorite paintings. I liked to think these tastings were all about the cake, but it was also about the ambience.

Everything was ready, so I checked my Excel spreadsheet again.

Cathy Barnett and Dan Loeffler. She was a retired teacher, and he owned his own insurance business. Second marriage for both.

When I opened my door to them, they were laughing like two naughty children.

“We have to get a goose like that,” Cathy said. “We'd be the talk of the old folks' home.”

“They already talk about us,” Dan teased, and we all laughed.

Cathy, a petite blonde, and Dan, a tall and athletic-looking man, sat close together on the settee. He held her hand and she beamed at him.

I poured them each a coffee as we got started.

“How did you two meet?” I asked them.

“In kindergarten,” Dan said. “Cathy was the cutest girl.”

“And Dan was the smartest boy,” Cathy said.

“We dated in high school, but we lost touch when Dan went away to college. We both married other people,” added Cathy. “And had families.”

“But there was always something missing,” Dan said.

They looked at each other, then at me.

“After both of our spouses died, we saw each other again at our high school reunion,” said Dan. “And that was that.”

“I could watch paint dry with Dan and it would be interesting,” Cathy said.

He squeezed her hand.

I took a moment to center myself and allow my intuition to kick in.

The flavor that came to me was a luscious Suncrest peach that I once had in California. This heirloom variety needed time to ripen on the tree to achieve its peak flavor. Unlike other peaches that were picked unripe so they would ship more easily, Suncrest peaches had to be eaten right away. But they were worth it—fragrant, luscious, juice-dripping-down-your-chin perfection.

The problem was that I didn't have any peach mousse or filling. But I quickly improvised.

“You're getting married in August, when peaches are in season,” I said. “Taste our browned butter yellow cake with a little apricot and some vanilla-almond buttercream, and see what you think.”

As they each took a small bite of what I hoped would be their signature cake flavors, I was drawn back into the taste of the peach. It was juicy and sweet, but as I got close to the center of the peach, there was an off flavor of rot. In my mind's eye, I could see a darkened area close to the center that would soon cause the peach to wither. I knew what that meant.

I didn't know whose life would be blighted, but these golden days were few. They wouldn't have much time together.

I wanted to cry. Here these two lovely people had found each other again and were so ready to be happy together. What if Ben and I had waited too long?

Luke had always dodged the issue of children. “We've got all
the time in the world for kids, Neely,” was his usual response. “Let's have our fun now.”

I was in my midthirties. I could feel my biological clock starting to tick, louder and louder. What if this divorce dragged on for years? What if waiting kept Ben and me from having children? He would be a great dad. I could picture a tiny baby nestled in his arms, how tender and protective he would be.

I offered Cathy and Dan more cupcakes, then took one for myself and piled on the sweet buttercream, willing the sugar to do its calming work.

When I got back to the bakery, I simply said to Maggie, “Peach and almond.”

Perhaps all that had softened me up for Ben's first letter. I read it in the back workroom. And promptly allowed myself to quietly sob.

Dear Neely,

If you're reading this, then the florist delivery guy did his job. I had to explain what I meant by “Put them in the goose” to the lady who took my order. If the tulips are fresh and this letter isn't soggy, I'll be sort of happy.

I miss you.

It's hard for me to talk about my feelings, but here goes.

We have known each other for a long time, and it always seems that we get to that dividing line between friendship and love, and then something happens and we never step over.

I would be good to you, you know that.

I want to make you happy. I want us to be happy together. I want us to be happy together for a long, long time.

I hope this is the way you feel, too.

But if you don't feel this way, have second thoughts, or think I'm rushing you, tell me.

Take care,

Ben

Neely

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

I was filing for divorce from Luke.

It was May 15, exactly six months since I had closed on Gran's house and officially established residency in Ohio. My appointment with my attorney was later that morning.

I sprang out of bed, dressed quickly, and tucked Ben's letter, folded into a manageable square, in my bra. Maybe that sounded weird, but I wanted it close to my heart. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't see any geometric outline through my rhubarb-colored T-shirt, so it was all good.

When I arrived at the bakery at dawn, Norb was baking sugar cookies shaped like spring flower baskets that Jett would decorate for a special order when she came in that afternoon.

“Everything's coming up roses, Norb,” I said.

“If you say so.” Norb was a man of few words, a person who liked routine. Lining trays with parchment paper, arranging these nonspreading cookies so they were exactly one inch apart, sliding the tray into the oven with the same smooth motion. Over and over and over again. Watching his calm efficiency, it was easy to forget that Norb had enough built-in domestic drama from his wife, Bonnie, for two men. Baking dozens of sugar cookies probably helped keep him sane.

I made myself a Cuban coffee: dark-roast beans and hot milk with just a hint of sweetness. I didn't want to tempt fate with a message in the latte foam. What if it forecast a bad day?

I checked our orders, the spreadsheet, the phone messages. A slow day for a change.

Maggie could deal with all of it when she came in, so I decided to visit Gran. She was most lucid in the morning. At Mount Saint Mary's, relatives could visit at any time if they knew the security code to get in the memory care wing.

“I'll be back in a little bit, Norb. Going to see Gran.”

“Without treats?”

Good point. I opened one of our robin's egg blue bakery boxes. I picked up a dozen still-warm, orange-frosted cinnamon rolls with tissuelike bakery paper, nestling them together in the box. Maybe the flavors would nudge Gran's memory to the “orange day” she recalled a few months back, or to any day, for that matter. Anything to light up her face from the frozen mask it had become.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I could see the flickering candlelight in the stained glass windows of Bernadette's grotto, where I had come in the past winter to soothe my weary soul.

I walked toward the nursing facility's entrance.

The male and female concrete geese, guarding the door, had molted April's yellow slickers and umbrellas for May's new look. Their outfits channeled Marie Antoinette Meets Mozart, complete with white wigs made out of cotton batting and pastel brocade clothing. Each goose held a bouquet of silk flowers under one wing.

Fortified with a little humor, I punched in the security code and entered the memory care wing. Gran was in her wheelchair, pulled up to a table. Her name tag proclaimed she was Dorothy M. O'Neil, and I hoped she knew that today. Her hair was brushed and she had on a pale pink blouse and navy pants that were a little too big. I made a note to tell Aunt Helen that Gran needed new clothes in a smaller size. I brought a chair over, opened the box of bakery goodies, and let Gran smell the orange-frosted cinnamon rolls. Her eyes lit up.

“Brand-new day,” she said.

“And it's going to be a good one.” I tore off a piece of cinnamon roll and fed it to her.

“Jack,” she said, opening her eyes wide as she looked at me.

“You mean Dad?”

“Jack. Brand-new day.” She sat up a little straighter.

“I remember that, Gran. You made these rolls for him when I was a little girl. He seemed so happy.” I gave Gran another piece of cinnamon roll.

“Happy.”

“Dad has been writing to me, Gran. He's in Kansas City. He says maybe he can come home soon.”

“Home.”

“I miss him, Gran, but I'm mad at him, too. He left us. Not just me and Mom, but you, too. And Aunt Helen.”

“Us.”

“I was fifteen years old. You were still working.”

“Emmert's.”

“Yes, you worked at Emmert's Insurance.” I offered another piece of cinnamon roll. Gran opened her mouth for more roll.

She looked at me blankly and kept chewing.

I gave her a sip of orange juice. “If he did come back, all of us would be on edge, especially Mom. There would be drama. I've got enough drama right now just trying to get divorced.”

“I should have,” Gran said.

“Should have what?”

“Divorced George. He was a bastard.”

“He died before I was born. But Helen, Mom, Dad, you—nobody seems to have a good word to say about him.”

“He drank.”

“Dad has a drinking problem, too. Did you know that?”

“My daddy drove a taxi,” Gran said unexpectedly, her gaze drifting over to slender Sister Agnes in her trademark pale blue velour pantsuit as she eased her walker toward Olive Amici's room.

I first met Sister Agnes when I took her story-writing day camp session at Mount Saint Mary's the summer before sixth grade. During the past few months, I had learned a lot more about her life.

But I was still surprised when I suddenly got the twin flavors of apple jelly and peanut butter.

I closed my eyes. That combination reminded me of Maggie's
mother, Patsy, but I let that thought go so the story would build on its own.

I could see the front seat of an old-fashioned black taxicab. A little pad of June 1942 calendar cards that read
Mooney's Taxi
was stuck in the sun visor. The taxi was waiting in front of the old brick convent with its mansard roof. In the front seat, with the driver, was Gran, who looked to be a young teenager. She had a lot of papers in her school bag, but a happy, I'm-finished-with-that air to her, so it must have been the last day of convent school.

“I made all A's,” the young Gran proudly announced to her father.

“We'll stop at the Friendly Café for lemon meringue pie after we take this poor girl to St. Joseph's,” he replied. “Remember, sweetie, we must be kind.”

“I know, Dad.”

He reached over and took his daughter's hand. They both knew, without saying, that having to be taken to St. Joseph's was the worst thing that could happen to a promising young woman.

But why was I seeing this? As I started to ask, the scene shifted, out of the taxi window, across the brick drive, and up three stories and through an open window into what must have been an infirmary room, judging from the metal hospital bed.

I saw a peanut butter and apple jelly sandwich with several visible bites gone from the soft white bread. The lunch tray must have been sitting on the little table for hours, as the bread was dry.

A tall young woman rose from her sitting position on the narrow bed. She smoothed the creases from her thin cotton dress that was now shorter in front and longer in the back. She gave up trying to fasten
the belt. She took it off and put it with the length of dimity fabric and her few other personal items in the carpetbag.

She looked at her reflection in the window of the little room. Her wavy blond hair was parted on the side and swept back from her face with hair combs. Gone were the dark circles under her eyes. Her cheeks were plumper.

Sister Michael Mary, the head of the convent, urged her to sew while she was away. “It's best to keep busy, my child.”

Sister also reminded her that if all went well, the young woman would be back to start her novitiate in the fall. Sister assured her that she would be welcomed back. What happened couldn't have been her fault. The terrible incident had made her lose her memory.

The nuns at St. Joseph's would take care of her, just like they took care of all the girls who came to them.

And they would find a good home for the baby.

I looked up again at Sister Agnes and smiled, a little sadly.

Gran's moment of clarity and my vision had come and gone.

But it made me think again of Patsy.
The dimity dress on her doll.
Could she possibly be Sister Agnes's child?

Gran chewed her roll and reached out for another sip of orange juice.

“Blue hands,” she said.

I looked at my fingernails. Sure enough, there was a faint trace of robin's egg blue in my cuticles.

“I know. Maybe I should wear gloves when I work with buttercream. But back to Dad. Maybe he still has a drinking problem. And if he came back, he'd make it our problem again.”

Gran's eyes glazed over. She slumped to the side of her chair. Maybe I had upset her, the last thing I wanted to do.

“Well, Gran, maybe I shouldn't be mad at him. Maybe he did the best he could. Maybe I should be more understanding.”

“Orange.”

“Orange you going to feed me more cinnamon roll?” I smiled and offered Gran another bite.

When Gran had eaten all she wanted, I kissed her, left the remaining rolls at the nurses' station, and headed to Rainbow Cake.

There, the morning rush was making Maggie look a little frazzled, so I quickly put on my apron and started helping customers.

When the crowd died down, Roshonda came in, eager for news and her standard macchiato with caramel syrup. “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her well-manicured hand. I plunked her coffee mug on the table. She gave me a look. “
The letter
. Let me read it before you send it this time.”

“I don't have anything to show you just yet.”

“Girl, do you want this man or not?”

“I'm serious, Ro. I'm going to write Ben after I see my attorney this morning.”

“What's he going to do?”

“File my divorce petition. It's been six months to the day.”

“Well, at least you're getting somewhere.” She took a sip of her coffee and did that little shiver she does when she's pleased. “And I know you have Ben's letter in your bra.”

“What?” I looked down at my chest.

“I knew it!” she said, laughing. “The women in your family always store their valuables there. Your gran put that little muslin bag with rolled-up cash in her bra when we went to Gatlinburg, and your aunt Helen put her whole checkbook in her bra when we went to look at Notre Dame for college.”

“No wonder I didn't get a scholarship,” I murmured.

“Well, spill.”

“I'm not going to show you the letter, but he says he wants us to finally cross over the line from friendship into love.”

“And?”

“He doesn't want anything coming out of the blue to wreck things at the last minute.”

“Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice—oh, yeah, he was fooled twice,” Roshonda said, sipping her coffee. “Two really bad dates with you, when the same man screwed things up. Ben must hate Luke Davis.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You don't hate Luke. He's too damn sexy to hate. The charm just wore off,” Roshonda said. Her smug look was replaced by a frown. “But Ben could hate him. Luke is every decent, trustworthy guy's nightmare. The smooth-talking, good-looking, successful guy who can steal your girlfriend right out from under you. Except there's been no ‘under' yet with Ben”—she raised her eyebrows meaningfully—“and technically, you're still Luke's wife.”

“Give me back that free coffee.”

“You know I'm on your side. But you have really dug yourself a hole here, girl.”

I glared at Roshonda and said with a bit of an edge, “Ben says he wants us to be forever.”

Roshonda sighed. “Now, that's romantic.” She checked a text message on her phone, hurriedly rose from the table, and grabbed my arm. “When you write the letter this time, it has to be good.
Good
.” She squeezed my arm for emphasis. “You call me! We'll talk!” And she did that sexy-woman power walk out the door,
across the street, and straight to her office. As I watched her from our display window, two cars slowed down, all the better for their drivers to get a look at a sleek, tall, Kerry Washington lookalike in a pale blue sheath and killer heels.

I wondered whom she was seeing. Was the handsome guy she had been dating in March still on the scene?

Roshonda was a love-'em-and-leave-'em type. She was picky. She was immune to charm. A guy couldn't use the same old tired lines on her. He had to work hard. And she never introduced us to a guy, never even told us his name, unless she was serious about him and pretty sure she'd let him stick around.

But the Roshonda of the past few weeks was normal Roshonda times ten. I had never seen her like that before. She practically exuded sexiness and power. Who was the mystery man?

Speaking of mystery men, there was a guy in an SUV with dark tinted windows parked across the street. He had been there at least since I had returned from my visit with Gran two hours before. Who waited for somebody that long in Millcreek Valley? Hmm.