From Scratch (14 page)

Rolling my eyes, I slide a stack of purchase orders over to him. For the next few hours we work in tandem, sorting papers and recycling others, marking folders with dot stickers, then filing everything away. I discover that while the diner’s records are disordered and, in some cases, incomplete, it’s not as bad as I originally suspected.

“Dad, can I ask you something?”

“Course you can,” he says, fighting with the plastic on a new package of dot stickers. “You know you can always ask me anything.”

“You used to be so meticulous about everything, the diner, the house, almost to a fault. Now it’s all so . . . run-down.” I gesture to a patch on the wall where paint is peeling away. “What happened?”

My father blows out a breath and says, “I ain’t a spring chicken anymore, baby girl. It’s getting harder for me to keep up with everything, is all. That’s why you’re here, to set me straight as spaghetti.”

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I wish he would’ve told me all this sooner. I could have arranged help for him, ensured he slowed down and didn’t work such long hours slaving in the kitchen.

“Do your old man a favor and help me with this, will you?” He tosses me the now-mangled package of stickers. “It’s the least you can do after that phyllo and peach whatchamacallit disaster.”

“It wasn’t a
disaster,
” I say, walking over to the desk and rifling around in the drawers for a pair of scissors. “In fact I thought the dessert tasted delicious, even with my bias.” While I finished my tasks for Thomas Brandon, I baked the dish in the fridge and ate several portions of the strudel.

My father grumbles something about how it’s still no peach cobbler.

“So you served it?” I say as I cut through the plastic and hand him back the stickers.

Peeling off a yellow dot, he places it on a folder with last week’s sales figures and says, “Course I did. You left me without much choice after that stunt you pulled. Gotta give the guests something to satisfy their sweet tooth.”

“And they loved it.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, because I know it to be true. “Which is great news, because I’m competing with it for the Upper Crust.” There. It’s out in the open now so it doesn’t surprise him on the day of the event.

My father frowns, the creases around his eyes deepening. “Well, baby girl, I know it’s a dessert that’s got peaches in it, but you’ve always had this talent for creating something from scratch, something that’s uniquely yours. So I don’t know why you’d submit a dish derived from a superior recipe, but that’s your decision, I guess.”

That’s what my father doesn’t understand. Under the confines of the competition guidelines, the deconstructed strudel
is
something uniquely mine.

It has to be good enough.

FIFTEEN

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
I push open the shiny black door to B is for Beholden, Annabelle’s wedding and event planning company. As I step inside, I’m immediately greeted by decadence. A pair of wing chairs and a sofa adorned with Ikat throw pillows welcome clients, and a chevron rug and a faux bamboo coffee table anchor the space.

In an alcove off the main area, Annabelle sits at a white-lacquered desk, stacks of papers, sticky notes, and Red Bull cans cluttering the top. Framing her on each side are two identical desks, though they’re much tidier. They must belong to her assistants, Nora and Ruthie. A phone is propped between Annabelle’s ear and shoulder as her fingers fly across a computer keyboard. She smiles when she sees me holding up a large paper bag from her favorite Tex-Mex joint and motions that she’ll only be a couple more minutes.

While she finishes her conversation, I roam around. Framed accolades from local and national publications hang on walls painted silver sage. Built-in white bookshelves lined with magazines, invitation sample books, and fine-art wedding albums from past events flank a tall doorway that leads to a room brimming with party decor ideas and linens in various textures and patterns.

By the time Annabelle joins me in the main area, I have set up a picnic on the floor using a checkered tablecloth I borrowed from one of the racks.

“Holy hell,” she says, kicking off her heels before flopping down beside me, legs stretched out in front of her. “I’m so hungry I swear the caterer could hear my stomach rumbling through the phone.” Grabbing one of the Styrofoam containers, she opens the lid and inhales the spicy scent of barbacoa tacos. “Thank heavens for chipotle peppers in adobo.” She takes a giant bite as chunks of shredded beef fall out of the corn tortilla.

I laugh as I doctor up my tacos with jicama-mango slaw and guacamole. “I can’t believe how much your place has grown,” I say through a mouthful of food. “It really looks fantastic.”

When Annabelle entered the industry out of college, she worked for Simon Ross, a slave driver who had a wedding planning show on TLC and whose clientele consisted exclusively of Dallas’s most elite, until she gained enough money and experience to break out on her own. At first, she operated the business out of her rental house. But after landing a few high-profile clients and earning a feature in
Martha Stewart Weddings,
her reputation soared and she was able to make the leap to the Dallas Design District, where she firmly established herself. Now she’s one of the most sought-after wedding and event planners in the area.

“Thanks,” she says, licking her fingers. “We expanded last year, but it’s still too cozy. We’re drowning in clients. I really need to hire another assistant.”

While we eat, we chat about inconsequential things—what we should do for Halloween and the new deep-fried desserts that are all the rage at this year’s Texas State Fair. I fill her in on the big promotion I’m in line for at work. She tells me about how her company is organizing the album release party and private concert at the House of Blues for the Randy Hollis Band and that, of course, I’m invited and must come, no excuses.

I’m scooping some black beans and rice into my mouth when Annabelle catches me off guard and says, “So you and Drew are engaged.”

My stomach drops as the realization sinks in that I accidentally let that bit of news slip during my tirade against Margaret.

“Which is rather interesting,” she continues with a pointed stare, “because the last I heard you weren’t ready for the relationship to progress to that stage.”

I cringe. It sounds so much worse when she puts it like that, especially after what happened with Nick at the Tipsy Teakettle. My mind floods with images of his mouth on mine, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hips pressing me into the truck while my hands explored. I shake my head, dislodging the memory.

“Well I’m ready now.” My voice is so strained I barely recognize it. I clear my throat. “And you never mentioned your breakup with Wes. That isn’t an excuse or a reason for not confiding in you sooner, but I’m not the only person who hid things.”

Annabelle sighs. “So that somehow makes it better?”

“No,” I say, shuffling mango pieces around with the plastic fork. “Of course it doesn’t.”

“When did we start keeping secrets from each other, Lil?” she asks. Not accusatory or mad. Just . . . sad.

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. “When life got bigger than the both of us, I guess.”

“Maybe, but no more secrets, okay?”

I nod. “Promise.”

For a moment, we’re both quiet, lost in thought. Then the confession tumbles out of me.

“I kissed Nick,” I blurt. “In the parking lot after trivia ended.”

Annabelle freezes in the midst of pouring tomatillo salsa on her tacos. “You did
what
?”

“Obviously it was a mistake,” I say quickly. “A result of the alcohol and the thrill of the game and . . . a stupid moment of weakness.”

She snorts. “Right. A mistake.”

“It was,” I insist, wondering if wanting to believe my words and deep-down believing them can be the same thing.

“Have you told Drew?”

“It was a onetime thing that didn’t mean anything. What would be the point?” Even to my ears the excuse sounds flimsy, but kissing Nick
was
a one time occurrence.

“Did you and Nick talk about it after?” Annabelle asks. “Or at least get some things straightened out?”

I look at her, my silence a resounding no.

She sets her food container aside. “You two are ridiculous.”

“What does it matter? I have Drew, and Nick’s with Margaret now,” I say, careful to conceal the bitterness creeping into my voice. “After everything, she’s finally sunk her claws into Nick.”

“It’s not like that. Margaret can be a bitch, for sure, but her intentions are good.”

I choke on a laugh. “You’re joking, right? Her intentions have never been good,” I say. “More like manipulative and vindictive. Or have you forgotten all those times she showed a blatant disregard for my relationship with Nick?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Annabelle says, shifting her legs beneath her. “I just don’t think it’s relevant anymore.”

Not relevant? Is she kidding?

“Are you on her side now?” I ask.

“This isn’t about picking sides,” she says. “All I’m saying is that Margaret does care about Nick.”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

“No, not ‘whatever.’ Whether you like it or not, you need to hear this. Margaret’s been a real friend to Nick these past few years and supported him when he desperately needed someone there. He was a mess after you left, Lil. Destructive . . .” Annabelle presses her eyes shut, as if trying to erase a painful memory. She clears her throat. “After a while of getting nowhere, Wes and I . . . we had to let Nick fail, learn his own lessons, but Margaret refused to do that. During his parents’ divorce—”

“Charlotte and Dr. Preston are divorced?” I say, my mind spinning. I never thought that would happen. While I’m certain Nick’s parents haven’t been in love since their wedding day, they always presented a united front to the outside world, especially in regards to family matters. “When?”

“Three years ago. It was ugly, too. Roger Stokes’s firm handled Dr. Preston’s side of the case. Nick and Margaret grew close in the process.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“That’s something you’ll need to discuss with Nick,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not my story to tell.”

I shake my head. “You know I can’t do that, Annabelle.”

“No, you
won’t
do that.”

“Does it make a difference?”

She sighs. “Lillie, you’re my best friend, so
please
feel free to take this the wrong way. You’re a first-rate idiot.”

“Excuse me. I resent—”

She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I’m not done. Listen, I know how rough those last few years were for you and Nick. How angry and depressed you were—hell, how angry and depressed you both were—but you gave up on him. You gave up on yourself.”

I pull my shoulders back, resolve straightening my posture. “I never gave up on myself.”

“No?” Annabelle says. “Tell me the last recipe you created.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You used to live your life through a kitchen,” she says. “When you needed a space to think, a space to
be,
that’s where you went. Now you’re a strategy consultant? How does that make sense?”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“No, it’s really not,” Annabelle says. “Your mother did a shitty thing, Lil. I’m not arguing against that. But you’ve allowed something that’s about her to cause you to turn your back on everything important to you.” She pauses, as if searching for the right words. “You’re in a job that dictates your existence but is in no way fulfilling. And Drew . . . he provides you with a safe little world without any challenges.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Like stability and genuine affection and comfort are worth less than passion and heat. They’re not.”

Ignoring me, Annabelle rises onto her knees and continues. “What about friendships outside of Drew? Not once have you ever mentioned grabbing drinks with girlfriends after work or eating out with other couples on a Friday night. I could maybe get on board with all of this if you were truly happy in Chicago, but instead you’re just kind of floating.”

My body tenses. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave, how tough it was to start over.”

She nods, as if granting me that point, but then says, “That doesn’t mean you settle. You claim you love Drew, that you’re ready to
marry
him, but someone in a committed relationship doesn’t hide something like that from her closest family and friends. And she definitely doesn’t kiss her ex-fiancé. I would know, given my experience on the topic.”

“Don’t compare us,” I say, rising onto my knees to match her. “Me kissing Nick is nowhere near the same as you sleeping with someone else.”

Annabelle arches an eyebrow and plants her hands on her hips. “Careful in that glass house, Lil. It may be new to you, but it still breaks.”

Wadding up a napkin and tossing it into the brown paper bag, I stand and say, “You don’t know
anything
.” I move around her toward the door, but her voice stops me cold.

“Go ahead, Lillie. Run away again when things get hard.”

“That’s not fair,” I say as I turn to face her. “You act as if this whole thing between Nick and me is my fault. I wasn’t in that relationship by myself.” Though as I say the words, I’m struck by how true they felt at the time.

She gets to her feet and takes a deep breath, the way she does when she’s trying to tamp her frustration. “You’re right. He isn’t blameless, but neither are you. What did you do to fix it? Or to prevent it?”

“Are you serious?” I say, my voice escalating. “What could I have done, Annabelle? Beg him to acknowledge me? Pretend he made me happy and that everything was great when it wasn’t? Somehow force him to change his attitude and become his old self again?”

“Yes!” she says, exasperated, throwing her arms up. “Anything would have been more than what you actually did—more than what you are doing—which is
nothing
.”

“How was I supposed to do that? Nick wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone look at me. He shut me out.” I’m shouting now, my voice trembling.

“That is such bullshit, Lillie. You didn’t even
try
.” Fierceness blazes in her eyes. “Quit playing the victim and recognize the truth for what it is—you tucked your tail between your legs and
ran away
. From Nick, but more importantly, from yourself.”

Heat races through me as tears prick my eyes. How dare she insinuate that I’m some kind of coward who so easily surrendered. Annabelle’s not the one who felt powerless witnessing her world crumble into dust. She’s not the one who cried herself to sleep so often that her eyes became permanently swollen and bloodshot. I had to get out. I couldn’t keep living like that.

“It wasn’t that simple, Annabelle. I didn’t just quit,” I say as I turn and continue on my path to the door.

“Funny. I’ll bet your mother said the same thing when she left,” she says, a knife in my back.

My hand freezes on the knob as something inside me snaps. Venomous words rise like bile from my stomach, the taste sour and foreign on my tongue. Spinning on my heel, I meet her hard gaze. “Fuck you, Annabelle. At least I found someone who
wants
to marry me.”

Because unlike her, I have the decency to stab her in the front.