The Recipe Box

by Sandra Lee

  With impeccable timing, Marie appeared. “Surprise! We have cannelloni!”

  There was nothing more to say, so Grace and Brian dutifully followed her back to the table, as if they were sixteen again and having Sunday dinner at his parents’ house under the D’Angelos’ watchful supervision, before they started their homework. Except now their daughter sat waiting for them, a bird on her shoulder, and two families were splintered, for different reasons.

  Later that night, as Grace lay beside Emma on the futon in the loft’s balcony bedroom, she stared at her daughter’s back, bundled beneath the covers. Telling Emma she was going straight back to New London had not gone well at all, and Emma had stormed up the stairs, texted madly for about a half hour, and cried herself to sleep. Brian had left to take Marie home. The dishwasher hummed and sloshed softly below the open loft space. A phone rang below and Grace realized it was her cell. She pulled back the covers, and clambered down the balcony ladder.

  “Grace?”

  “Hi, Ken,” she said softly.

  “I am so sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your place to pick up the mail for you. You have a letter.”

  Probably from the school; they’d said they would send a confirmation of their conversation. “Ken, it’s been such a long day.”

  “Grace. It’s a letter from Leeza.”

  “What? How can that be?”

  “I called Snoopy. Apparently she left a series of letters with instructions for them to be mailed at certain times. Should I open it, or do you want me to hold on to it?”

  A letter from Leeza! “Open it, read it, oh my God, this is unbelievable.”

  “It’s dated two months ago,” Ken said. As he read the letter over the phone, Grace heard Leeza’s words as clearly if she were speaking them herself.

  “Dear, darling Gracie. You have just left to go back to our wonderful Emma. I am so sorry to see you go but also glad you will be with Emma. I know how precious it is for me to be with my Sara. I have so valued and treasured the time we spend together now that I know time is short.”

  “She knew it,” Grace said. “Leeza knew it all along.” How could she not have realized that all the optimistic talk was not for Leeza’s benefit, but for hers? Tears rolled down Grace’s cheeks.

  Ken continued: “I need to write this down and put it in a safe place to tell you when the time comes that I am not here to say it for myself. Grace, we made a promise, and only death would force these words from me, but here they are: You must stop running. Not from me or Emma or Brian or your mother, but from yourself. It is time to find forgiveness and peace within yourself. Time to go home. Life is not a rehearsal for show choir, my dearest friend. It’s opening night every day. Always remember, I’m here and I’m in the audience applauding you. Bravo, Grace.”

  “She signed it xxxT3M—our secret signature, the one we always used in high school—love, The 3 Musketeers.” Ken’s voice broke. “She left this letter…” His voice trailed off. “I’ll save this for you.”

  Grace stood rooted to the spot. Leeza had reached out and been there for her, as always. The Three Musketeers were still an unbroken force, a friendship even beyond death. After a while, Grace was able to speak. “Ken? Would you mind sending Leeza’s letter to my mother’s house? I think I need to ask for a brief leave of absence.”

  After she hung up, Grace sat perfectly still on the stairs to the loft. She blotted her face with her T-shirt. Leeza was right—there were no more rehearsals. The curtain was up and it was about Emma now. Grace would do whatever was best for her daughter.

  Emma sat on the bed in Grace’s childhood room, Skyping with a friend. Grace could picture herself in the exact same spot years ago, on the phone with Leeza. Nothing had changed. Even her childhood room was like a time capsule. Her treasured tape collection sat in a box in the corner. Heavy Wisconsin winter clothes—a never-again size 6—still hung in the closet. The rainbow she’d stenciled on the wall behind her bed was faded, but still there, and the once-coveted state fair blue ribbon still hung on the shade of her bedside lamp. She’d been out of the house for sixteen years, but her room still stood ready for her to return. In a way, she was glad that nothing had changed, but this weekend, even this room was going to get a new life. Lorraine had asked Emma to help her redecorate it. Emma was allowed to choose any color to repaint the walls, and they’d pick out a coordinating bedspread and curtains. Grace smiled to herself, knowing that Lorraine had imagined they’d pick out a fluffy pink-and-white gingham or a radically stylish violet together, but Emma planned to paint the room red with a red shag throw rug. The bedspread, headboard, and curtains were going to be black—even Grace’s old bookshelves would be painted black.

  Welcome to my world, Lorraine. Still, Grace had to admit, her mother had gained a certain level of street cred with Emma by being cool with her plan.

  Emma looked up and noticed her mother standing in the doorway. “Gotta go,” she said hurriedly, snapping off-line.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Grace sighed. Ensconced in New London between her daughter and her mother, Grace thought it was entirely possible she would lose her mind. Thank God, once the show wrapped in mid-June, Ken had decided to come back to New London for his summer hiatus—although Grace knew that wasn’t entirely due to her and Emma. Ken and Tim were spending a lot of time together working on a plan for the Book Nook.

  Emma, on the other hand, had still not forgiven Grace for forcing her to stay in Wisconsin.

  Grace had tried to explain that this was the best option for all of them, that she was taking time off so they could bond. That conversation had completely backfired. No sooner had she dropped her backpack on the floor of Grace’s old room than Emma had grabbed the now somewhat-faded state fair blue ribbon off the lampshade and waved it in her mother’s face. “Well, this proves it,” she says. “I have actual, physical proof that you lie!” she exclaimed.

  “What are you talking about, Emma?”

  She shook the ribbon, then tossed it on the bed. “This, you won this when you were my age. A state fair blue ribbon for a cake YOU baked, but my whole life you’ve made it über-clear that you do not cook. You won this, but you never even cared enough to bake me a birthday cake. It’s always store-bought!” She hissed the last words at Grace.

  The next day, Grace had come across Emma and Lorraine talking in the kitchen. She paused outside the door, where she heard her daughter downloading a litany of complaints about her. Her mother didn’t say a single thing in Grace’s defense.

  “Why can’t we go back to Chicago?” Emma sulked. “She doesn’t like my LA friends anyhow. And she complains about what I eat, but she’s never home to make dinner and all she ever buys is junk food. Unless we’re eating sushi, our house is a walking saturated fat.”

  “Well, look at it this way,” Lorraine said. She was rolling out dough for kanelbullar, the Swedish cinnamon buns she brought every week to the food pantry. “Your mother is like these cinnamon buns. She’s one thing on the outside, but there’s something else going on in the inside. Watch how I do this, Emma.” She rolled out the dough.

  Kanelbullar. Just the thought of the traditional Swedish buns made Grace’s mouth water. She still remembered making them with her mother when she was a little girl. Grace could see the recipe card on the table and, of course, there it was on the counter beside the card: the recipe box. Grace went cold. Good lord, what if her birth certificate was still in there and Emma found it! A surge of fury washed over her. She marched into the kitchen and slapped the top of the recipe box shut.

  “Thank you for the culinary analysis, Dr. Freud.” Grace looked at her mother.

  Emma tossed her wooden spoon in the sink and stomped out of the kitchen. “I have to go.” She spat the words at Grace, and a moment later her bedroom door slammed.

  Lorraine shot Grace a look. Grace knew h
er mother would never have allowed a slammed door in her house when Grace was a girl, but she was giving Grace room to lay down the law with Emma.

  “Please don’t discuss me with my daughter,” Grace snapped. “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to dissect my motives with her. I’m her mother, not a character in a book you’re reviewing with your book club.”

  Lorraine kept rolling out the dough. “Grace, do you intend to punish me forever for the fact that you were born? Because if that’s the case, don’t you realize you are also punishing yourself—and Emma? You don’t even recognize that you’ve been pushing her away. She’s rebelling to get your attention.” She wiped her hands on her apron and fixed her gaze on Grace. “I’m not saying I did things perfectly, God knows. And I know you’ve never forgiven me for my mistakes. Well, here’s the newsflash, my dear daughter—people make mistakes. Life isn’t the same as baking a perfect cake or getting an A on a test. All of which came easy for you, but life is about what happens after the mistakes we make. If I hadn’t made my mistakes, you wouldn’t be here. Sometimes, mistakes work out. What matters is the rest of the story.”

  Grace picked up the recipe box. “Where is it?”

  She didn’t need to explain. “All the important papers are at the bank now. Where they should have always been.”

  Grace ran her hand over the smooth wooden lid, gaining courage. “I never knew my father,” Grace said softly. There. She’d said it.

  Lorraine stepped over and placed her hand on Grace’s arm. “Yes, you did. And he loved you. The man whose name is on your birth certificate did not. He didn’t love me and he didn’t even care to know you. I was very unhappy about that once, and instead of dealing with my feelings, I pretended like the whole thing hadn’t happened. Your dad made it easy for me. He took care of us all.”

  “Well, things didn’t work out that way for me. My husband didn’t make things easy. I’m on my own and I have to work.”

  Lorraine looked at Grace with understanding. “I know, but maybe Emma could help with your work. Did you ever consider including her, instead of working around her? I thought I was protecting you by keeping things to myself. Don’t do what I did.”

  At this point, Grace’s discussions with Lorraine usually fell apart, but this time she remembered her conversation with Ken, and Leeza’s letter. Ken had brought the letter with him to New London, and she’d read it over and over. She’d promised herself: No more running. So, this time, Grace stayed in the kitchen. She picked up the bowl that Emma had put down, and, from memory, measured and mixed the correct amounts of cinnamon and sugar. Cooking was like riding a bicycle, Grace thought. Once you learned, you really could get right back on the bike at any time. You might be a little wobbly at first, but off you went.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Grace said.

  Lorraine brushed the flattened rectangles of dough with melted butter. Then, together, without saying a word, mother and daughter spooned the sweet cinnamon mixture over the dough, working from the opposite sides of the table. Next, they rolled each rectangle up into a cylinder. Grace separated the brown paper cupcake wrappers and set them in rows on the cookie sheets. Then she picked up a sharp, serrated knife and cut slices that Lorraine set into the individual cupcake wrappers. Grace took a stack of cloth tea towels from the drawer by the sink, wet them with warm water, wrung them out till they were just damp, and covered the pans of dough. They would sit like that until the dough rose and doubled in size. Only then would the buns be ready for the egg wash, the scrumptious crushed sugar-cube topping, and their trip to the oven.

  “About forty-five minutes, right?”

  Lorraine nodded, and a certain understanding passed between them.

  Next, Grace decided to deal with the stomping and door-slamming. This couldn’t go on. In fact, she was sure that Emma was really begging for boundaries. Well, she’d set them. Emma’s door, the door to Grace’s old bedroom, was still closed. Grace gave a perfunctory tap and walked in. Maybe if it hadn’t been her old room, she would have knocked louder, or longer, but she walked right in. Emma was Skyping.

  SWEDISH CINNAMON BUNS

  Makes about 20

  FOR THE DOUGH:

  1 package dry yeast

  1 cups milk, room temperature

  ½ cup sugar

  ½ cup butter, melted and cooled

  1 egg, beaten

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon salt

  5 cups flour

  FOR THE FILLING:

  1 stick soft butter

  2 tablespoons sugar

  2 tablespoons cinnamon

  FOR THE TOPPING:

  1 egg, beaten

  1 cup brown (demerara) sugar cubes, coarsely chopped

  FOR EMMA’S ICING:

  1 stick (½ cup) butter, softened

  2 ounces cream cheese, softened

  1 cup powdered sugar

  ½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  MAKE THE BUNS: Dissolve the yeast in 2 tablespoons of the milk. Whisk together the milk, sugar, butter, egg, cinnamon, and salt. Add in the dissolved yeast. Stir in 1 cup of flour at a time until you have a soft dough. Knead until the dough is smooth and elastic, adding more flour as needed, about 8 to 10 minutes. Put into a buttered bowl, cover, and let rise until doubled, about 1 hour.

  Gently punch down the dough and turn it out onto a floured surface. Roll into a 12×19-inch rectangle. Spread the butter over the dough. Stir together the sugar and cinnamon and sprinkle evenly over the surface. Starting with the longest side, roll up into a log and pinch the seam together. Cut into 20 to 24 pieces, about 1-inch thick. Put them cut side down into a buttered 9-×13-inch cake pan or 2 9-inch cake pans. Cover and let rise until doubled in size, about 1 hour. Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  When ready to bake, brush the tops of the buns with the egg and sprinkle over the chopped brown sugar cubes. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the tops are well browned.

  MAKE THE FROSTING: While the buns are baking, beat together the icing ingredients until smooth. Remove the buns from the oven and let them sit for 5 minutes. Spread the icing over the warm buns. Serve warm.

  At first, Grace couldn’t believe her eyes. How on earth did Von Vasser get onto Emma’s computer screen? Emma tried to slam the screen shut, but Grace leaned over her shoulder and grabbed it. Von waved. “Hi, Grace! We’re having a lovely chat. Emma and I have become Skype buddies. She couldn’t come to the Mediterranean, so I brought the Mediterranean to her!” The image on the screen whipped around to show a glorious, azure blue seascape, with islands in the distance. “We’re heading into port at Crete. You should have come, maybe next trip?”

  “Von, how long have you been Skyping with Emma?”

  “Well, since Leeza’s funeral. We are all so upset by her death. I told Emma she could reach out to me anytime. And you know, we are having a lot of fun, aren’t we Emma? I’m showing her sites from the Odyssey, firsthand.”

  Emma nodded. “I saw the rock where the Sirens sang,” she said. “And the Acropolis.”

  “If you can’t come to the Mediterranean—it can come to you,” Von explained, as if it were an everyday occurrence for Emma to be touring ancient Greece by Skype.

  Grace was incredulous. Surfers were one thing, teenage friends from Chicago another—but Skyping with Von from the Mediterranean was definitely not on the agenda.

  “Skyping from the Med!” Ken yelled when Grace recounted the Skype story later that day at the Book Nook. Pilot season had ended in LA, and he was spending a few days in New London with Tim. Grace had brought over some of the cinnamon buns while they were still warm, and now she and Ken sat on the porch talking while they waited for the buns to cool enough to eat. Grace would never get over Leeza’s absence, but thank goodness Ken was here, and Tim was fast becoming a dear friend.

  “That is amazing! I told you, you should have gone on that cruise with him.”

  “What? You know I
needed to be back in LA helping you, and Emma had school. You’d think with a chocolate factory to run and a boat to cruise on, he’d have better things to do. Emma’s probably figured out by now that I cancelled her Skype account. You don’t think she’ll try to run away to Europe? Her finals are next week.”

  “Well, she won’t risk having to repeat the year,” Tim said. “All the kids are so excited about high school.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ken agreed. “Von’s just showing off with Emma and trying to make a good impression to get to you.”

  “Well, it’s working.” Grace felt more uneasy than she let on. If this door opened, there was no telling where it could lead. But even Ken couldn’t really understand that.

  “Let’s not waste any more time on that hunk of Swiss cheese,” Ken proclaimed. “The Fourth of July is fast approaching, the town is planning a parade, a parachute fly-in onto the town square, and fireworks at dusk. In the immortal words of George Washington, I see this as a sales opportunity. A chance for the Book Nook to proclaim its independence from debt. Think of it—all the people who will be passing by—kids, tourists, patriots…”

  Tim clicked to the town calendar on his laptop. “If the Book Nook can’t pull in some numbers during a big holiday like this, we might as well close up shop.”

  “I will not permit negativity!” Ken scolded Tim playfully. “Now—logistics. The Book Nook is right across from the square. We have to have a strategic plan to pull people in.”

  “We could dress in costume, like the founding fathers,” Tim suggested. He nodded toward Grace. “And mother.”

  Ken winced and closed his eyes. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What about running an ad?”