From Scratch (6 page)

My father straightened and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, a few dropping onto his shirt. I’d never seen my father cry before.

“Baby girl, I want that recipe added to the diner’s weekly dessert Blue Plate Specials, and I want you to make it.” He squeezed my arm. “
Promise me
you’ll make it.”

Before I could respond, he stepped inside the house, the screen door slamming shut behind him in an exclamation point. I promised anyway.
Of course
I promised, spending one afternoon every week preparing my mother’s cobbler. And every time a peach slipped in my hand as I peeled away the skin or my back ached from crafting batch after batch, I felt a kinship with her—a connection stronger than DNA.

Once upon a time, I had these dreams of following in my mother’s footsteps, of someday taking over Turner’s Greasy Spoons and creating dishes of my own that would nourish people’s souls the way hers had. But then years later I learned the truth about my mother and why she left. So I gave up those childish dreams.

I haven’t made her peach cobbler since.

“Mr. Stokes will see you now,” the receptionist says, startling me when she touches my shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed as pink as a Mary Kay Cadillac, probably from her ridiculous attempts at flirting with my father.

She leads us into a corner conference room with marble floors, a large mahogany table, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the west side of downtown Dallas. Lining the adjacent wall is an antique sideboard with a platter of pastries and a sterling silver coffee urn perched on top. My father places the box of raspberry oatmeal bars next to the bowl filled with sugar cubes and pours himself a cup of coffee. He’s midsip when Roger Stokes enters the conference room, wearing what must be a four-thousand-dollar Italian suit.

“Jack, my friend,” he says, slapping my father on the back. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

Hot coffee sloshes out of the cup, landing on my father’s calloused hands. He winces slightly, but he doesn’t yelp or cause a scene. My father has never been one to outwardly display pain or weakness. Instead, he wipes up the mess with his shirtsleeve. It’s the nicest shirt he owns, and now it’s marred with a stain like every other piece of clothing in his closet. My father says hello to Roger and introduces me.

“Ah, Lillie,” Roger says, shaking my hand. “Wonderful to meet you.”

I return the greeting and study him. He seems oddly familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He’s a tall man with reddish-brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a large, round belly that dares the buttons on his starched-white shirt to pop off like corks flying out of champagne bottles.

“Let’s sit,” Roger says, gesturing at the conference table where a folder is placed in front of three rolling chairs.

I take the seat across from my father and glare at him. He’s leaning back in his chair, hands linked behind his head, smiling. He’s so at ease, comfortable, as if he’s happy watching my life bounce around in uncertainty like the numbered balls in a lottery machine.

“Quit frowning, baby girl,” my father says. “This’ll feel like home again in no time.”

Narrowing my eyes, I mutter that I doubt that very much.

My father pretends he doesn’t hear me, which seems to be a pattern lately, and turns to Roger, who is sitting at the head of the table. “I’ll let you explain to Lillie. She’s running this dog and pony show from now on. I brought the sustenance,” he says, gesturing to the raspberry oatmeal bars on the sideboard. “Feel free to help yourself.”

I start to tell him that this isn’t a joke, that this is my life, but stop myself when I realize there’s no point. My father is beyond reasoning with. He’s always been this way. When his mind is set on something, there’s no persuading him differently.

“Now, before we begin,” Roger says, facing me, “I assume Jack’s made you aware of his situation?”

“Told Lillie yesterday,” my father says. “Took the news like a real sport.” He takes a sip of his coffee and sighs, but does it so dramatically that he looks like an actor in a Folgers commercial.

I sit back in my chair and cross my arms, my lips pressed in a thin line. My father has a knack for reducing me to a petulant teenager.

“Great,” Roger says. “Now contained in these folders are copies of a legal document. The original was notarized last week and placed on file. Jack already knows the nature of this document, but since you’re unfamiliar, Lillie, spend a few minutes reading it over. Once you’re finished, I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”

I nod and open the folder, examining the paper inside.

A medical power of attorney?

My father’s signature is scrawled at the bottom, followed by two witnesses: Sullivan Grace and—

“
Nick
witnessed this?” I blurt.

Roger shifts in his chair, looking as uncomfortable as I feel, though I’m not sure why. He doesn’t even know Nick.

“Sure did,” my father says. Like it’s no big deal. Like my
ex-fiancé
being a witness on a document that could someday determine my father’s existence isn’t some messed-up scenario out of
Twin Peaks
.

Maybe there’s another explanation,
I think.
There has to be another explanation.

“Nick’s not your surgeon, is he?” I say.

My father frowns. “Course not, baby girl.”

Roger clears his throat. “And if he was, he wouldn’t be eligible to act as a witness on a medical power of attorney.”

“Oh.”
Then why?

In all the times I’ve spoken to my father since leaving Dallas, not once did he mention that he and Nick are still close. Though, if I’m being honest, I can’t say I’m surprised. Nick and my father always did have this special bond between them. When I was a little girl, it used to make me green with envy, like maybe my father cared more about Nick than he cared about me. But as I got older, I could see their relationship with more clarity. Nick was a boy desperate for a father’s attention, even if it wasn’t from his own. It was a known fact the hospital came first in the Preston family. Even when Nick was a child, Dr. Preston’s presence in his life was determined by the needs of Baylor Medical.

I clear my throat. “Isn’t this a bit overkill?” I say, tapping the document. Once again I have this nagging sense that my father is hiding something.

“You can never be too careful, baby girl. It’s still surgery I’m having, and I ain’t the age I used to be,” my father says. “Remember ol’ Dolores Pinkston?”

I sigh and give him a pointed stare, as if to say,
Why would I?

“You know, she always put cinnamon roll frosting in her coffee instead of creamer?” When I don’t respond, he continues. “Well, anyway, two years ago she went in for surgery and ended up in a coma. Never woke up. But she had one of these and it saved her family a lot of trouble. So really this is just a precaution in case I decide being under is more my cup of tea. You’ll get to pull the plug, guilt free.”

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t dare do that. You’d haunt me for eternity.”

“Only if you make a poor life choice and dash off to that frozen tundra of yours.” He says it in that joking way of his, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach has returned.

Before I start to worry, I remind myself that while my father is devious and manipulative, it’s almost always what he’s hinting at that’s the issue. Which leads me right back to the diner, right back to my roots, right back to home.

Or at least where he thinks my home should be.

SIX

JUST THE SMELL
of cinnamon griddle cakes is healing.

When I was a little girl, my father would whip up a batch anytime I felt sick. He said the pillows of deliciousness had restorative powers, claiming that if chicken noodle soup and his cinnamon griddle cakes were thrown together in a boxing ring, the heady scent of cinnamon would deliver the knockout punch every time.

Even now, as I ladle more batter onto the griddle, the spices tickle my nose, releasing the tension in my neck and back. I already feel more refreshed. Last night, after my father and I parted ways at the attorney’s office, I returned to the house to continue sifting through the diner’s files. At some point I dozed off on a stack of unpaid supplier invoices. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, an aching neck, and the FedEx man banging on the front door. When Thomas Brandon said he’d rush documents over for me to review, I expected a folio’s worth, not
three boxes.

I’m not sure what exactly inspired me to rummage through the kitchen for the requisite ingredients, seeing as how I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal—a bad case of regression, perhaps?

Whatever the reason, after I spent several hours sorting through the mound of files from White, Ogden, and Morris, I found myself in my father’s kitchen, measuring and mixing and
cooking
. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve worked so hard to establish order, structure, control in my life, but being back here is making a mess of all that, smudging the lines I’ve drawn.

While I wait for the cakes to finish, I study the mansion next door, observing a grounds crew from a landscaping service haul garbage bags and hedge trimmers to their company truck. Even though the Rosenbloom family has been my father’s neighbors since Nick’s parents sold the house when I was in high school, I can’t help but think of them as impostors. I keep expecting to see Charlotte Preston and her country club cronies gossiping on the veranda as they sip Bellinis. Or Dr. Preston pacing in his navy jacket and cuffed khaki dress slacks on the long circular drive as he shouts into his cell phone at some poor soul at Baylor Medical about his recent transplant patient. Or Nick sitting under the large oak tree in the backyard, writing in his Moleskine notebook and strumming pretty songs on—

I push the thought away.
Nick’s not that person anymore,
I remind myself, remembering the edge in his voice, his hard stare, the bite in his words—
How would I know that? You left.

I knew there was a possibility I’d run into him again, but I didn’t expect it to be less than a day after showing up in Dallas. I wonder if Wes told him about my arrival or if it truly was a coincidence.

As I’m plating up the last cinnamon cake, the front door swings open and slams against the wall. Spinning around, the batter spoon dangling from my mouth, I find Annabelle fighting her way through the boxes blocking the entryway. Hunger distracted me from moving them earlier.

“What is all this crap?” she mumbles to herself as the hem of her cardigan catches on a box corner.

A cheek-splitting smile spreads across my face. “Need some help?”

With a hard yank, she tugs herself free and stares at me, blinking once, twice. Then she springs into action.

“Shut up! You hot bitch. Get your ass over here,” she says with a squeal, kissing my cheek before hugging me so tight I almost burst. Hugging her makes me think of summer days sunbathing at the pool, trips to the mall followed by sleepovers, frilly dresses and high school dances.

“Hey, kid,” she says, her favorite nickname for me. “Sorry for just dropping by.”

“I’m glad you did,” I say, pulling back and taking her in.

Her once chin-length black hair has been replaced with long, sleek layers that frame her face and fall down her back. Her makeup is more subdued and classic, enhancing her alabaster skin and violet eyes. She’s traded in the jeans and flip-flops from our college days for a pale-green, fitted dress and nude peep-toe heels. But above all that, underneath her smile, she seems sadder, harder, like the light that used to radiate from inside her is now a flicker.

There’s a prolonged moment of unease when I remember my conversation with Wes, how my best friend has been lying to me for months. For a second, I consider admitting that I know about the demise of their relationship, but stop myself. Shouldn’t she be the one to tell me? Instead I say, “You look good, lady.”

She hesitates, and I wonder if she can sense that I already know her secret by the tone of my voice. “I can’t believe you’re here. I missed the hell out of you.”

“Missed you more.”

“How’d Old Man Jack convince you to finally come home?”

“He faked an emergency,” I say, then fill her in on the details.

Annabelle smiles, but it seems forced.

“You hungry?” I say, gesturing to the steaming stack of cinnamon griddle cakes on the counter. “I was about to eat a late breakfast.”

Craning her neck, she first eyes the plate, then the bag of powdered sugar beside it. I swear there’s drool in the corner of her mouth, but instead of taking me up on the offer, she says, “There’s no time. We can catch up in the car. You’re supposed to be at the Upper Crust meeting, remember? Sullivan Grace will break my fingers one by one if I arrive without you. I think she suspects you’re going to bail.”

Of course I’m going to bail. I told Sullivan Grace yesterday that I couldn’t be involved. She obviously chose to ignore that. My father must have rubbed off on her.

I flop down in a kitchen chair. “Did everyone know I was supposed to be participating in this baking competition except for me?”

At least Annabelle tries to look sheepish when she says, “Sullivan Grace and I sit on the planning committee for the event, and Old Man Jack’s been talking about it nonstop for the past month. He expects you to claim the title.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Annabelle walks over to the towering plate of cinnamon griddle cakes and steals one off the top. Leaning against the counter, she tears off a piece and tilts her head back, dropping it into her mouth. She swallows and says, “You know your dad won two years ago, right?”

“Really?” In truth, I didn’t even know he competed.

“It was a total upset. Everyone expected Thelma Wilbanks to win with her sage and blood orange cheesecake, but your dad showed up with an off-the-cuff grapefruit jam rugelach and blew everyone away. He raised over eleven thousand dollars for charity and was even featured in
D Magazine
.”

That little sneak. I wonder what else he hasn’t told me.

“Last year he had to drop out at the last minute and a Granny Smith apple turnover swept the competition,” she continues. “I’m pretty sure Old Man Jack will have an aneurism if that happens again.”

I roll my eyes. “Only my father would get riled up about a poor, helpless apple taking the grand prize.”

Annabelle sighs. “I know this isn’t your life anymore—it hasn’t been for a long time—but do this for your dad. It would mean everything to him.” She pushes off the counter and comes to stand beside me, cinnamon griddle cake in hand. She is quiet for a moment, staring at me with an intensity I don’t understand, but finally she says, “The competition is right after Halloween, so you’ll still be here anyway. Then you can fly back to Chicago. Everything else, including the diner, will sort itself out.” As if her guilt-inducing words aren’t enough, she lays it on thick with the puppy-dog eyes.

I feel myself softening like cereal in milk. “I’ll
consider
it.” Plucking a griddle cake from the stack, I fold it in half and take a dramatic bite. The texture is fluffy, and the subtle sweetness of the vanilla extract blends perfectly with the sharp contrast of the cinnamon. “But I’m not making peach cobbler.”

She sucks in her cheeks as if she’s battling against a grin. “Of course not.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, but her expression says,
You’ll be eating those words.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER
I’m riding shotgun in Annabelle’s Mini Cooper on the way to Junior League headquarters. Signs, cars, and skyscrapers whip past my window as Annabelle speeds across town. Her haphazard lane changes make me feel like I’m a stunt double in an action movie. My feet push against the floorboard and my wrist is sore from using the dashboard to keep me from crashing through the windshield.

“Hey, shouldn’t we be going that way?” I say as we pass our exit.

“Quick detour,” she says, jerking the steering wheel violently. The car cuts across three lanes of traffic. Horns blare from every direction. A truck barrels past us. The driver yells something out his window and flips us off. Annabelle doesn’t seem to notice. “I need to drop off some flyers for an event next week.”

What feels like a nanosecond later, the car swings into the parking lot of a strip mall near the SMU campus. Annabelle parks the car in the handicap spot in front of the entrance to the bookstore, leaving the engine idling.

“I’ll only be a minute,” she says, grabbing a thick manila envelope from the backseat before dashing inside.

While I wait, I turn on the radio, pressing the preprogrammed buttons until I settle on a station playing a sad country rock song. There’s a familiarity about it—the haunting melody, maybe, or the way it speaks of struggling to survive once-requited love—even though I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.

The song ends, replaced by the radio DJ’s voice. “That was ‘August,’ the latest single from our own local boys, the Randy Hollis Band.”

I gasp, scrambling to turn up the volume, wishing I’d paid more attention yesterday when I saw them at the Prickly Pear.

“Tickets for their upcoming tour go on sale Saturday,” the DJ continues, “and their new record,
Resolution,
hits stores next month. We’ll be giving away advance copies all week, so stay tuned—”

Silently promising to order a copy, I adjust the volume and check my watch. Five minutes have passed since Annabelle went inside. I wait for five more. People continue to walk in and out of the bookstore. Still no sign of Annabelle.

Sighing, I turn off the ignition, grab my purse from the backseat, and go inside, glancing around. When I don’t see her anywhere, I take a quick stroll along the perimeter, past the literature and young adult sections. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her in the college apparel section, but she’s not perusing the merchandise. Instead she appears to be in a very tense and awkward conversation with Wes.

His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his eyes are glued to the sign hanging above the entrance to the university textbook area. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap, his curly hair sticking out in tufts underneath, and a bitter expression. Annabelle’s arms are crossed over her chest. Her cheeks are flushed and wet. From my vantage point, I can see her bottom lip quivering. The way she’s standing makes her look small and fragile, as if she’s on the verge of crumbling like a cake that doesn’t have enough eggs to bind it together.

In an aisle nearby, a group of women point and whisper. I watch as a store employee tiptoes around Wes, straightening a rack of red and blue polo shirts, no doubt hoping to appear invisible.

A beat later, I’m beside Annabelle. For a moment, they both seem confused as to why I’m there.

“Hey, guys,” I say, my gaze darting back and forth between them. “Everything okay?”

Wes flinches but stays quiet.

Blinking back tears, Annabelle takes a deep breath and says with false bravado, “Everything’s great. We were . . . catching up.”

Wes shifts on his feet. “Whatever,” he mumbles, his attention focused on the group of women not even trying to hide their eavesdropping. He looks like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “This is such bullshit.”

“Hey, knock it off with the attitude, Wesley,” I say.

I can see a battle being fought behind his eyes, as if he’s contemplating whether or not to challenge me. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “I gotta go.” Then he glares at Annabelle, and without even a good-bye to me, stalks away.

Annabelle’s shoulders slump and her body seems to collapse in on itself.

As I watch him flee the bookstore, I wonder where the old Wesley went, my protective older brother who can consume twenty hard-shell tacos in less than seven minutes and cringes when people use the word “panties.” The Wes that gave Annabelle bouquets of irises because they matched her eyes and mouthed lines to her from the front row of the Highland Park High School auditorium when she landed the female lead in
Macbeth
.

This Wesley is bitter, jaded.

When we get back into the car, Annabelle refuses to meet my gaze. She starts the engine and fiddles with the radio, her fingers shaking as she switches from station to station at lightning speed.

I place my hand over hers and wait. After a long moment, she hits the power button. The silence is heavy around us.

“How long have you known?” she says finally.

“A couple of days,” I say, hesitant. “I ran into Wes at the diner. He told me—”