From Scratch (3 page)

THREE

WES AGREES TO
distract my father so I can sneak away. I have a career to save and precious time has already been wasted. As much as my father would disagree, my life doesn’t stop for his whims or demands.

I set up a makeshift office in the Prickly Pear, a café-slash-used-bookstore-slash-live-music-joint and an old favorite haunt. After ordering a large, extra foam, skim, vanilla chai latte, I claim the corner table and boot up my laptop.

My inbox is flooded with emails, most of which are from Ben, another consultant on the product launch. He’d never miss an opportunity to gloat, especially after he was put in charge today. In my absence, he pitched the distribution concepts to the Kingsbury Enterprises executive board. I can see him in his three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses presenting my ideas, taking credit for my hard work, gobbling up the attention like Garfield with his lasagna. I shouldn’t be shocked—he’s been after partner since starting at White, Ogden, and Morris a year ago. With my sudden departure, he’ll do anything to secure the promotion I’ve rightfully earned. I’m the one who arrives early and stays late, the one who works most Saturdays, who accepts the tedious, mundane assignments no one wants while seeking out new opportunities to develop my skill set. That position will be mine.

As suspected, several emails are from Ben gushing over himself, bragging to the team about what a stellar job he did at the meeting. How the executive board
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed over his extensive research and creative solutions—
my
extensive research,
my
creative solutions. But it’s his last email, written in his normal condescending tone, that makes me want to tie him down and force him to lick mold off cheese. I’m the senior consultant on the account, and yet he’s taken it upon himself to dictate duties to the team. Next to my name he’s indicated I’m responsible for an updated report on market demographics, the newest financial projections for the first-quarter sales, and a detailed roll-out schedule. He’s also added this gem:

Lillie, while you have chosen to go on an impromptu vacation, these items must take priority, and I believe a week is an appropriate time frame for you to accomplish them.

The nerve of this guy. I
chose
an impromptu vacation? If only that was the case. Maybe he’ll finally die from a paper cut or choke on a pen cap. Ordinarily I’d tell Ben where to shove his undermining attitude, but he’s copied Thomas Brandon, our boss and the head of the committee that decides who makes partner. I don’t want to further jeopardize my chances of a promotion, so I need to be a team player.

I take a sip of chai, allowing the earthy clove and cinnamon flavors to calm me, and settle in for a long evening.

Hours later, my back aches from hunching over the computer and my stomach is grumbling from skipping dinner, but I’ve finished Ben’s tasks. As I send off the documents, I can’t help but feel vindicated and a tad smug. Ben underestimated how much I like a challenge.

As I am packing up my things, a buzzing noise comes from my purse. Digging out my phone, I glance at the caller ID—Thomas Brandon. I sit up straighter, pull my shoulders back, and answer.

“I assume your emergency’s been handled?” his stern voice barks into my ear, skipping all pleasantries.

Cringing, I say, “Not quite. I need to stay in Dallas a little while longer. No more than a few weeks.”

“A few
weeks
?” The way he says “weeks” sounds like he thinks I’m a sleazy car salesman selling him a lemon.

“But not to worry,” I say quickly. “I’ll be working from Dallas until I return. In fact, I’ve already submitted several documents for your review. They should be in your inbox as we speak.”

“Good. I expect nothing less from you.” Thomas Brandon hates excuses and doesn’t tolerate apologies. Do it right the first time, every time, no exceptions. “I’ll permit you to remain in Dallas as long as you’re back in the office by early November, ready to hit the ground running. We can’t afford a slow ramp-up period.”

“Why? What’s happening?” I ask, hoping it’s not a demotion.

“Despite the unprofessional way you left Benjamin to cover today’s presentation, Kingsbury Enterprises is quite impressed with the effort you’ve put forth into their product launch thus far. They’ve asked for you personally to lead the next phase.”

“That’s excellent, sir. Thank you.”

“This is the firm’s biggest account, so I shouldn’t have to remind you what’s at stake if our client’s expectations aren’t met.”

“Absolutely. You won’t be sorry,” I say, an idea forming in my mind. The diner already runs itself. All that’s needed is someone to ensure back-of-house operations—shift scheduling, payroll, communicating with suppliers, placing and tracking purchase orders—and that can be facilitated from anywhere. I could be back in Chicago by early November, working on the next phase of the product launch for Kingsbury Enterprises, all while overseeing diner business.

It’s a win-win solution for everyone. I’ll be partner by New Year’s Eve.

“I know I won’t,” he says in his no-nonsense, nasally voice. “In the meantime, I’ll rush some documents over to your address in Dallas so you can get started. Don’t screw this up, Lillie.” He hangs up without a good-bye.

By the time I park my rental car on the street in front of my father’s house, the night has turned cool, promising rain. Nestled in the middle of southern Rockefeller mansions decorated for Halloween, my father’s humble two-story home stands like a stale gingerbread house. Peeking out from under a thick layer of grime, white trim adorns the brick facade. Black shutters frame windows in desperate need of a cleaning. Even some of the shingles are peeling away from the roof. I wonder how my father let it get to this state of disarray. Growing up, he took pride in having the only original house left on the block, polishing our quaint little abode until it sparkled brighter than the stainless steel counters at the diner.

I take a seat on the worn front steps and dial Drew.

“There you are,” he says, concern edging his voice. “I’ve been worried.”

Stability floods my body. I catch the jumbled chatter of the television in the background, and I picture Drew lounging on our leather couch, his suit jacket and tie banished to the floor and his dress shirt untucked as he watches sports highlights.

“Sorry it’s so late,” I say. “Today has been such a mess.”

There’s a shuffle on the other end, and the background noise disappears. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Better now.” Picking at a weed growing through a crack in the steps, I launch into the day’s events. Drew listens intently, murmuring his support, as I rehash how my father expects me to drop everything to manage the diner without any consideration for my life, my dreams, while he recovers from knee surgery.

After I’ve finished, Drew tells me he loves me and says, “What are you going to do?”

I sigh. “I’m not sure . . . I’m still figuring it all out. I mean, obviously I’m not moving back here, but I can’t leave him right now. I need to stay until I figure out what’s going on with him.”

“That’s understandable. Want me to come down there? I could see where you grew up. Help out for a bit.”

Even though he can’t see me, I shake my head. Drew knows the basics of my childhood. It’s not something I’ve ever tried to hide, but I don’t speak often or openly about it either. It’s a part of me best kept separate from him and our relationship.

“I want you here, Drew,” I say, biting my lip, “but it’s only for a little while. There’s no reason both of us should get behind on work. Besides, someone has to keep our plants alive.”

He laughs, then lets out the cute groaning sound he makes when he’s stretching. “Did you pack enough clothes when you left this morning? Do you need me to send you anything?” That’s Drew, always so caring, so thoughtful.

“That’d be great,” I say, and ramble off a list of items that don’t include business suits or stilettos.

“Did you tell your dad our news yet?”

There’s no accusation in his voice, only that hopeful sincerity I adore so much, but I still feel a pang of guilt as I say, “Not yet. With everything being so hectic around here, I thought I’d wait until after his surgery. Once life has settled down.”

“Okay. But I have to meet your father eventually, preferably before he’s walking you down the aisle.”

“Ha-ha. I promise I’ll tell him, but not right now.”

“It’s going to be weird sleeping alone tonight. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” And I do. I miss the way he leaves little notes scattered around our apartment just because. Or how his pillow still smells of him long after he’s left for work. Or when he surprises me at the office with takeout from our favorite Thai place if I’m stuck in the middle of a project. But above all that, I miss the easiness of him, of our life together.

We talk for a few more minutes where he rehashes his day and I complain about Ben before wishing each other good night. I put the phone back in my purse and push open the front door to a roaring crowd singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch. My father is asleep in front of the Rangers game, an arm flung over the back of the couch, a foot resting on the coffee table. From my vantage point, I can see a big toe peeking out from a hole in his sock. The television flickers, and shadows dance across the ceiling, casting the living room in a faint glow.

My father stirs and mutters under his breath nonsensical snippets about balding watermelons and fuzzy raspberries. Laughing, I cover my mouth and creep toward the couch. By the time I bend down next to him, he’s rolled onto his side and started snoring, the sound as jagged and harsh as a steak knife. Tucking a blanket around him, I notice how he seems more like a scrawny boy I would punch on the playground as a little girl than the man who taught me to chop an onion and used potato-peeling duty as punishment. The diner has not been kind to him these past five years, and I imagine his knee giving him trouble has only added to wearing him down.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I tiptoe upstairs to my childhood room. The space feels strange and smothering now, as if the pale yellow walls are closing in around me with no chance of escape.

Boy band posters are plastered over the mirrored closet, staring me down. Medals from baking contests I won drape over the corner of a bulletin board cluttered with pictures and ripped concert stubs. The dresser and nightstand now look like dollhouse furniture next to the queen bed crowding the room where my twin used to be. I expect to find a fine layer of dust covering the desk and bookshelf, but they’ve been polished so they gleam, the scent of lemon cleaner heavy in the air. My father’s obviously been preparing for my arrival.

I hear the television turn off and heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. A floorboard creaks outside my room, followed by a knock on the door.

“Baby girl?”

“Yeah?” I say, preparing myself for another one of my father’s infamous surprises.

“Oh good, you’re here.” He pokes his head around the doorway. His graying hair is sticking up at all angles, and the skin around his eyes is dark and wrinkled as a raisin. “You know better than to run off like that. The Spoons doesn’t wait for anyone.”

“Neither does my career.”

“Then it’s time you reprioritize. And don’t think I didn’t recognize Wes tryin’ to distract me. I may be aging, baby girl, but I’m not stupid. Now before you get buried under quicksand with all this diner business, mind doing your old man a favor and meeting me at the lawyer’s office tomorrow afternoon? There’s some paperwork I need you to look at.”

I sigh. “Sure. Leave me a note with the address.” What’s the point of arguing? He doesn’t listen to me anyway.

“I scheduled myself for the early shift tomorrow, and there’s some banana pudding in the fridge if you feel so inclined. Sleep tight.” He winks before shutting the door with a soft click.

“Don’t let the sour candies bite,” I finish, reciting our old nightly bedtime ritual as I listen to him pad down the hallway.

Outside, the moon hangs low in the sky. The overgrown oak tree scratches against the bedroom window, the wind rustling its leaves. My eyes land on the stone mansion beyond the fence where Nick used to live.

Do you want to count the licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop with me?

Those are the first words I ever spoke to him, hours after his family moved in next door, the moment he slipped into my heart. We were an unlikely pair from the start. I was the spunky five-year-old girl who spent her time fooling around in the diner’s kitchen, while he was the golden boy—two years older and son of the beloved Dr. Greg and Charlotte Preston—who attended private school with Wes and dressed like he belonged in a yuppie children’s clothing catalog.

Kneeling on the bed, I touch the thumbtack wedged into the windowsill, once a part of our secret messaging system consisting of a pair of recycled soup cans and a long piece of yarn that ran between our windows. My mind flickers to a memory of a gap-toothed boy and a pigtailed little girl, soup-can phones pressed against their ears in the dead of night, trying not to laugh too loudly so they wouldn’t get caught.