The Memory of Lemon (9 page)

Little Abigail wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, rose from the rocking chair near the fire, and went out to look at the river.

In the moonlight, it glimmered like a pale silk ribbon.

Oh, the river took you in,
Little Abigail thought.
It told you things you wanted to believe. It held you here.

Yes, once, the river had been the way forward. The way to safety. The flowing, living thing that could also take her back to her people, anytime she wanted to go.

Now, it was a line she could not cross.

JULY 1878

QUEEN CITY, OHIO

Lizzie had no desire to go back there, ever again. She really didn't know those people like her mother, Little Abigail, had.

Her two-week visit had seemed like an eternity.

Lizzie had gone downriver to Queen City on a steamboat and then up the canal on a smaller boat to Lockton. Her older cousin, Sadie, who lived in the O'Neil farmhouse, had been welcoming. But Lizzie felt hemmed in, like she couldn't breathe. The giant
brick hulk of the mattress factory blocked the light and turned the lane in front of the farm into a wind tunnel. The noise from the paper mill and the lock operating day and night and the steam-powered canal boats kept her from sleeping. The stench from the fetid canal made her eyes water.

Sitting in the little canal boat once again, headed for the Plum Street dock in Queen City, Lizzie smoothed her fitted jacket and the long, narrow skirt in sensible navy serge. Her white collar, she noted proudly, was immaculate. Her navy straw bonnet, trimmed with a blue-and-white-striped ribbon, hid her ash brown hair, parted in the middle and gathered into a low knot. She wore white gloves to hide her freckled and work-roughened hands, definitely not the hands of a lady.

Sadie's hands had looked much the same. But she was married and didn't have to concern herself with her looks. Sadie had two children still at home and an elderly father who drank too much. Old Uncle Dennis had been Little Abigail's brother, the one who lost a little boy to cholera.

Every time Lizzie heard the cork come out of the bottle, she cringed. Sadie just shrugged, as in,
That's the way things are
.

And the questions!

Why hadn't Lizzie married? How old was she now—almost thirty? What did she do all day in that cabin? My goodness!

And they had trotted in every available bachelor: the butcher, the baker, and the mattress maker.

Lizzie knew they meant well.

But she had no desire to marry. What she had seen of men—her silent, compliant father, Jacob, and the hard-drinking Ballou men who worked the tobacco fields—had left her underwhelmed. Since
her father and Little Abigail had died, Lizzie owned the double cabin and the garden, the tobacco barn and fields. A husband would only mean more work and less of her own authority, although her mother had certainly managed to keep the upper hand.

If Lizzie yearned for company, it was of the feminine variety. She had formed a strong bond with Miss Albert, the schoolteacher, who lived in town during the school year, but spent her summers and weekends with Lizzie.

Miss Albert was teaching one of the Ballou boys to read, since his parents were lax about making their children go to school.

If you don't have family, who will get your property when you pass?
Cousin Sadie had asked, perhaps with a hint about her own children.

Lizzie and Miss Albert had become fond of the youngest Ballou boy. He was the first one Lizzie thought of when Sadie had asked her that question. The boy was kind and thoughtful, loved music—or at least tolerated her fiddle playing—and caught on fast. He had brought his little cousin to listen. Maybe she would learn how to play the fiddle.

If Lizzie ever had a son, she hoped he would be like Harry Ballou. Maybe when it was time, she'd make out her will in his favor. But she had plenty of years ahead of her.

When the canal boat docked at Plum Street, Lizzie grabbed her satchel and walked down the gangplank to the busy thoroughfare. Sadie had been kind enough to pack a lunch and Lizzie thought she'd make her way to the levee until it was time for the steamboat to depart.

On a bench as far away as she could get from the noise and commotion, the wagons hauling freight to and from the boats,
Lizzie took out the flask of lemonade and took a sip. Her O'Neil relatives seemed to drink that by the gallon. Lizzie preferred her spicebush tea, warm or cold. But the lemonade tasted good on this hot, hazy day.

From her vantage point, the gray river looked like a mother cat resting on her side, with the boats like mewling kittens getting what nourishment they could.

The river was like that.

And Lizzie couldn't wait to get back
home.

MAY

Strawberry and Rhubarb

Neely

“Have you heard from Ben?” Maggie asked as soon as I walked into the bakery.

“No.”

She gave my arm a friendly pat, then went back to filling an order.

What was there to say? Despite the early morning sunshine, I felt cold and dreary. And alone.

Norb was baking butter cookies. Their sweet, mellow aroma began to buoy my low spirits. Maybe coffee would help as well.

I approached my good buddy, the La Marzocco espresso machine, with a little trepidation. What would the message in the latte foam suggest this morning?

Maybe if I varied my routine slightly, I'd get a more promising reply from the supernatural breakfast beverage realm. I made a
Cuban coffee that had an extra shot of espresso and a tiny sprinkle of sugar for a brew that was not quite bitter, not quite sweet. I steamed some milk until it was frothy, and then guided the white foam onto the dark surface. I was going for a simple “we are all one” circle, but ended up creating a comet with an angry tail.

Sigh
.

After that strained ride home from Augusta—a trip that was big on traditional and bluegrass music, but short on conversation—I wasn't the only one who had noticed that Ben was barely speaking to me.

“You two need to kiss and make up,” Ro had hissed at me in the backseat, at odds with the Everly Brothers' melodic harmony. “I can't have my best friends on the outs. And I thought getting you two back together was a good idea! Don't prove me wrong.”

I had explained the stalemate to Ro, and that made her even angrier. “Can't your lawyer do something about that?” she asked. “You need an attack dog attorney, not a teacup poodle. Are you going to let Charlie Wheeler grab your lawyer by the throat and shake him to death while you stand by and watch?”

No.

I went to see Jonathan Billings, Esquire, yet again, in the Fairview offices of Voorhees, Allen, and Billings. So far my teacup poodle's advice had been to be patient. Professional athletes were all swagger and no substance in litigation, he assured me. High-asset divorces always took a long time. “Let him get used to the idea,” Jonathan suggested. “Go slowly.” It would all work out. Blah. Blah. Blah.

At least that had taken up some of the countless hours that week waiting to hear from Ben.

After our disastrous Saturday night date and the rather curt good-bye at the end of our Augusta trip the next day, Ben hadn't responded to my text or voice mail messages. Okay, I thought, maybe he needed some time to process this new complication in our potential relationship. Maybe it was because he worried that Luke had somehow bugged my phone. Maybe it was because I was too much trouble and Ben was finally sick of it. But I needed to know. I hoped I'd hear from him soon, just as I had hoped every day that week.

Once again, I texted him a simple “
?
”.

The Cuban coffee was starting to warm and soften that cold, hard place in the pit of my stomach, the physical symptom that something was definitely wrong. I was caught in a relationship triangle, with points that led to Luke, Ben, and Gran. I felt every sharp, bitter point.

I was starting to understand why I was drawn to the balm of sweet things. I had always thought of myself as a can-do, upbeat person who'd overcome a childhood trauma. That was the persona I thought I showed to the world, the story I told myself. But when I took a quick inventory of my daily thoughts, which I alone created, I found a lot of fearful what-ifs. I didn't want to be a brittle type A masquerading as a breezy B. One quick and temporary fix, a little sugar, seemed to smooth out those bitter jabs I kept giving myself.

I took another sip of coffee and tried to think dispassionately. When I filed for divorce in two weeks, I'd face Luke again, he of the prenup that I had been too much in love to worry about. And his attorney, Charlie Wheeler. He of the “it's not personal, it's business” mantra that never rang true. I had been incredibly
naive to imagine that Luke would grant me a divorce, just like that.

“I can be different,” he had told me months before. “I can change.” Once again, he had tried to work his old, sexy magic. But my heart had finally caught up with my body, which had physically moved away from him, and my head, which knew Luke had to be the person he was, not the person I wanted him to be. That spring night when Luke had come back to try to persuade me, I had finally tasted the truth. The comfort of sweet cinnamon had held my metaphorical hand as I left my old life behind and started over.

But just because our marriage was over for me didn't mean it was over for Luke. He probably wouldn't let me go without a fight. That was how he was hardwired. He would stand there in the pocket, like the quarterback he was, and coolly figure out a way to outsmart his opponent.

Me.

He would try and try, throw a Hail Mary pass if he had to, until the game was over.

This wasn't disaster thinking on my part. It was being rational.

And while Luke was busy playing the game, I might end up losing Ben.
Whoops
.
Bad thought
. I took another sip of sweetened coffee.

And then there was Gran, slowly slipping away in the memory care wing at Mount Saint Mary's. Pneumonia, a choking spell, or any number of things could take her before my divorce was final and all this tumult I had created could end up being for nothing.
Jeez.
Out, damned thoughts.

I sipped more coffee. Sugar obviously wasn't working today.
No matter which way I turned, I seemed stuck in a maze of my own thoughts.

It was time for the second, surefire way I had to alleviate stress—going to my dessert-lover's happy place. There was no point in ruminating and wringing my hands. I had two hours before we'd open our doors, so I finished the little upside-down Bundt cakes topped with mosaic jewels of rhubarb and strawberry. I loved rhubarb, that hardy, underappreciated garden survivor that leafed out just as the worst of winter melted away. Not everyone was a fan, especially of the bitter, mushy, overcooked version. Yet sometimes a little bitterness could bring out the best in other flavors. Bitter rhubarb made sunny-day strawberry face the realities of life—and taste all the better for it. As I brushed the cakes with a deep pink glaze made from sweet strawberry and bottled rhubarb bitters, I hoped I would change rhubarb doubters. Certainly, the little Bundt cakes looked as irresistible as anything I had ever seen in a French patisserie. The glaze would set to a dull sheen while I worked on the new display for May.

I looked forward to this changing of the bakery guard. Our customers seemed to respond as well; our foot traffic and corresponding sales rose at the beginning of each month. For May, I hung the rosy pink canvas curtain as a backdrop for our strawberry and rhubarb theme. Out came the spring green platters, cupcake wrappers, plates, and napkins as a color contrast to our goodies.

I still had to work on strawberry-rhubarb hand pies—small turnovers of puff pastry—and tartlets. For Lydia's wedding, I needed signature tartlet shapes that would equal my creativity with cakes. With the puff pastry and pâte brisée doughs chilling
in our walk-in refrigerator, I had a date with a rolling pin later on this morning. I wanted to wow Lydia and her mother at our meeting that afternoon.

I knew Lydia probably had her grandmother's lard crust in mind, but pâte brisée held up better. Nothing worse than a pie or tart with a soggy bottom.

By the time Rainbow Cake opened, the little jeweled Bundt cakes sent out their sweet beacon from narrow rectangular platters, pink-frosted cupcakes sprouted tiny stalks of rhubarb made from marzipan, and bags of pale pink meringue polka dots, sandwiched together with strawberry rhubarb jam, were ready to go. Irresistible.

And just in time. The first customer in the door was the Professor, a regular since we'd opened. A human genome researcher currently on sabbatical from Queen City University, John Staufregan had a crush on Maggie and had helped find her daughter, four-year-old Emily, when Maggie's ex forgot to pick her up at preschool. Although Maggie had finally warmed to the Professor, he hadn't exactly captured her heart. But he definitely looked better. He had taken Maggie's throwaway comment about another patron—“I bet you'd look good with a haircut like that”—and exchanged his tired, forty-something comb-over for a buzz cut. It had shaved at least ten years off his appearance.

Maggie brought his breakfast cupcake and coffee, then stood back, arms crossed, and really looked at him. “I like it,” she said appraisingly.

He blushed like a pimply boy whose voice had just changed. “Well, it saves time getting ready in the morning, that's for sure,”
he said, brushing his palm over the top of his head. “I still can't quite get used to it.”

“Well, you get our approval,” I said, holding both thumbs up.

“You definitely do,” agreed Maggie.

The rosy rhubarb-colored T-shirt she wore today made her eyes look even bluer. I could swear they twinkled, but maybe it was an optical illusion. I didn't notice that my eyes looked any greener and I was wearing the same thing.

As the last of the morning rush dissipated, I was behind the counter checking our inventory on cinnamon rolls. We were almost out—good. There was nothing more disheartening to a bakery owner than display cases full of cinnamon rolls by late afternoon. Butter and sugar cookies could hold for several days; cinnamon rolls and Danish pastry could not.

Maggie went over to refill the Professor's coffee.

“Do you ever like to go to the movies or out to dinner or anything?” he muttered into his cup as Maggie's hand on the coffeepot hovered above it.

Look her in the eye. Smile!
I tried to telepathically coach from the sidelines.

Maggie's eyes widened. She filled his coffee cup briskly, suddenly all business. “I'm so busy with the bakery and my daughter that I just don't go out much,” she said with a shrug that didn't fool me for a second. “Don't really feel like it. Too tired.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Just a thought.”

“Can I get you anything else?” Maggie asked, as if she didn't know him at all.

He gave her a defeated smile. “No.”

After a minute or so, he left his full mug untouched and walked out, shoulders slumped.

“Why did you do that? What harm would it do to go out with him just once?” I asked Maggie. “You've known him for months now.”

“He caught me off guard,” she confessed as she cleared away his coffee mug. “I've said no to so many jerks that it just came out that way. It's my standard answer.”

“Well, you have to fix this the next time he comes in,” I said.

Maggie sighed.

Oh, Lord, I needed to go to my happy place again.

Back in my inner sanctum, the peaceful workroom with the milk chocolate walls and cool marble counters, I had to clear my head and come up with some tarts for the “hillbilly” wedding. I let the chilled pastry dough rest at room temperature and took the various fillings I had made out of the refrigerator. I rummaged through the plastic bins for the pastry cutters I wanted to use. I sprinkled a little flour on the counter and found my vintage tartlet pans. I centered myself, bypassing the knot in my stomach for the calm deep inside me.

I glanced once again at my sketches, then rolled out the pastry. With a few deft turns, the pale dough flecked with tiny shards of butter obeyed my commands. I cut out rounds to line the pans, then spooned in the fillings. I moved the pastry scraps to the side of the marble countertop and rolled out a second batch.

I rimmed the golden custard tartlets with tiny circles of dough for a scalloped effect. The berry tartlets got a lattice design that made them look like patterns on a vintage quilt. The bourbon chocolate tartlet was supposed to feature a pastry cutout of a log
cabin, but, looking at it again, I decided the design would pop more if I baked the cutout separately, then outlined the “logs” in chocolate, applied after baking. I scribbled a note to myself. I gently brushed the pastry designs with egg white and sprinkled them with sanding sugar so that they would glisten and sparkle.

Quickly, I rolled out the puff pastry sheets and formed small square tartlets, which I would fill after they had baked. I rolled out another sheet, cut it into squares, and spooned in strawberry-rhubarb filling, then folded them into tiny triangles for hand pies with decorative vents on the top. They, too, got a brush of egg white and a dusting of sugar.

When they all came out of the oven, my heart lifted.

I never tired of the thrill I got when my abstract ideas turned out better than I had imagined.

Whatever else happened, at least I had this.

Later that afternoon, I welcomed Lydia Ballou and Cadence Stidham back to my parlor. Ro had a detailed plan that she handed to them both. Gavin showed them his watercolor renderings of the tobacco barn interior, the garden set up for the wedding ceremony, the wedding pie table—everything they couldn't imagine for themselves.