From Scratch

by Rachel Goodman

  “That’s kind of you, but the diner is better off without me.”

  “I’m not talking about the diner, dear, though Jackson did make me the most delectable eggs Benedict this morning. He really is the sweetest man,” she says, smiling like a coy schoolgirl. It’s no secret that Sullivan Grace has always liked my father. “No, no. I’m talking about the Upper Crust.”

  “Upper what?”

  “Honestly, Lillie, have you heard nothing I’ve said? Sometimes I don’t know where your head is at,” she says, adjusting the strand of heirloom pearls around her neck. “The Upper Crust is Junior League’s annual charity baking competition. You’ll make Elizabeth’s peach cobbler recipe, of course.”

  Baking competition?

  Peach cobbler?

  “Are you crazy?” I say, my voice rising. “I’m not doing that.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” she says. “Jackson already signed you up!”

  My mouth drops open and a disbelieving laugh spills out. The jingling bell above the door interrupts my protest. A voice I never thought I’d hear again flitters into the Prickly Pear. It’s a voice I heard nearly every day for twenty years until the night everything broke apart. Nick’s voice.

  The blood drains from my face, and panic bubbles up in my chest, crushing my lungs. My heart pounds a two-beat bass line, so loud I’m sure even the barista can hear it. A roaring, rushing noise fills my ears.

  When I left Dallas, he was a second-year resident at Baylor Medical Hospital, sleeping on cots, living in scrubs, and eating cold cafeteria food. All so he could someday call himself a surgeon. Now he’s here, in the last place I expected.

  Inhaling sharply, I keep my focus on Sullivan Grace’s pearl necklace. Don’t look at him. I peek anyway. I can’t help it. He looks exactly as I remember, but older and somehow even more handsome in that striking way I’ve always found devastating. A hum of electricity runs through me.

  He’s standing in the doorway chatting with Candy Cotton, a diner regular from my high school days. Hovering at least two heads over her, he nods politely at something she says. Candy must be pushing ninety and almost deaf by now. I watch as she pats his cheeks with gnarled fingers, then pulls him down by an earlobe, yelling something in his face that brings out his signature crooked grin, followed by a laugh.

  My breath catches as I gape at him, mesmerized. Somewhere in the background I hear Sullivan Grace droning on, her words a monotone “wah-wah-wah” like Miss Othmar from the Peanuts comics. I’m too fascinated by the sound of his laughter to speak. It comes from deep in his chest—full and real.

  That laugh was once my favorite thing about him. The warmth of it. How it made the world seem limitless and bright. But like everything else that fell by the wayside once he started medical school, that laugh eventually faded away into silence.

  A weight settles on me and I jump, blinking at Sullivan Grace’s hand resting on my arm.

  “Are you paying attention, dear?”

  When I don’t answer, she snaps her fingers in front of my nose and scrutinizes me like I’ve stuck my head inside an oven and turned on the broiler.

  Maybe I have. Nothing else makes sense.

  Sullivan Grace sighs. “Lillie Claire?”

  My name hangs in the air. Nick’s gaze shifts in my direction, and the smile disappears from his face. Every alarm in my body sounds.

  Before I can run for cover, he’s walking over. Then he’s in front of me, studying me with those piercing blue eyes that can see right into me. I refuse to look away. Looking away is weakness. Looking him in the eye is a challenge, a silent way of letting him know I’m not the girl I was before, the girl who lost herself.

  Then he speaks, steady and controlled. “Hello, Lillie.”

  My confidence fizzles away. I’m not sure what I expected after . . . everything, but his simple greeting definitely isn’t it.

  “Hello, Nick.” My voice sounds weird and shaky.

  His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my clothes, my hair, my face. My heartbeat speeds up as little pinpricks travel up and down my body, vibrating with energy. I hate how he can still affect me like this.

  “You look good,” he says with a small smile that accentuates his strong cheekbones.

  “Thank you.” In my nervousness, my response comes out curt and forced. Up close, I notice faint purple crescents underneath his eyes. Stubble lines his jaw. Worn jeans cling to his toned frame, and a threadbare gray T-shirt hugs his sculpted chest and broad shoulders. His shift at the hospital must have recently ended.

  Before my mind has a chance to catch up with my mouth, I blurt, “You look tired.”

  He raises an eyebrow and clears his throat. “I had a late night and an early morning.”

  “Oh . . . right,” I say, glancing at his shoes—black canvas Chuck Taylor All Stars with scuffed toes and dirty laces. I remember shoes like those banging against the kitchen cabinets in my father’s house while Nick sat on the counter and taste-tested my recipes. I remember rubber soles squeaking as Nick chased me around the diner. I remember the feel of rough canvas moving up and down my calf while we made out in the backseat of Susanna—a restored 1969 mint-green Mercedes, named after my favorite James Taylor song, that was a gift from his grandfather.

  “How have you been?” Nick asks in a way that sounds sincere, though I imagine he’s only being polite.

  “Fine,” I say, biting my lip. “Just . . . tying up some loose ends for my father before I head back.”

  “I see.”

  “And you? The hospital?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I immediately wish there was a way I could pluck them from the air and put them back inside me.

  Nick rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. It’s the longest I’ve ever seen it but still just as untamed. “Things at the hospital are good,” he says. “Everything’s good. My father’s head of cardiology now.”

  “That’s . . . great,” I say. “Your mother must be so proud.”

  His lips form a thin line, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Something like that.”

  “Oh! Lillie, dear, haven’t you heard?” Sullivan Grace interjects, pressing a delicate hand to her chest. I forgot she was standing beside me, and from the startled look on Nick’s face, I think he did, too. “Everyone’s all aflutter about—”

  Nick’s shoulders stiffen. “It’s fine, Ms. Hasell,” he says. “Lillie doesn’t care about any of that.”

  He’s right. I don’t care. Not about him and Baylor Medical, not about this Upper Whatever my father has volunteered me for, and not about managing Turner’s Greasy Spoons. I left Dallas to get away from all that.

  Sullivan Grace blinks, looking momentarily stunned before regaining her composure. “Right, right. Of course,” she says, then changes the subject to the god-awful baking competition again, yammering on about sponsor expectations and donation forms and judging guidelines and blah blah blah.

  “Ms. Hasell,” I cut in. “I’m flattered you want me to do this, but I really must be going. My father’s expecting me at his attorney’s office and—”

  “And nothing, dear,” she says with a steel-wool smile, deepening the crow’s feet around her eyes. “You’ll be at Junior League headquarters tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock. This is for charity, after all. Are you really going to deny a desperate child the opportunity to receive a warm meal?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

  “Now you’re a bit behind the other contestants with practicing,” she continues, “but I’m sure you’ll catch up in no time. In fact, yesterday I was telling Paulette Bunny . . .”

  I tune her out, grateful she’s a talker.

  As I tuck a hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear, I watch as Nick’s eyes lock on my finger. My left ring finger—the one with the sparkling diamond on it. I meant to leave it in my pocket like I did yesterday, only this morning I must have slipped it on out of habit.

  Nick furrows his brow and tilts his head, examining
the ring as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball giving him a clue he doesn’t understand. A moment passes and then his expression hardens into an unreadable mask.

  My heart hammers in my chest and my insides twist like they’re being spun around fork tines. My hand trembles, and the cushion-cut stone dances under the lights, reflecting tiny rainbows onto Nick’s shirt.

  Could I be a bigger idiot? I think as I shove my left hand into my trouser pocket.

  My eyes dart to Sullivan Grace, hoping she hasn’t noticed. Thankfully, she seems oblivious. Now she’s in the middle of telling a story about last year’s Upper Crust baking competition. Something about how an apple turnover beat out French silk pie for best in show.

  I start to interrupt before Nick ruins everything. The last thing I need is Sullivan Grace gossiping to my father before I have the chance to tell him myself.

  But I’m too late. Nick speaks first.

  “Congratulations,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he never got down on one knee in our secret spot at Montgomery Park and asked me to marry him. “I’m happy for you.”

  My gaze meets his, and it’s as if we’re continents apart. I should feel smug, victorious, showing Nick that I’ve moved on, put our past behind me, but instead I’m overcome with sadness. It was supposed to be you. The thought is like a wound that won’t heal.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It . . . happened recently.”

  Sullivan Grace finally realizes there’s another conversation taking place and turns to me and says, “Recently? What happened recently?”

  “Oh, um, my new promotion at work,” I stammer, my eyes pleading with Nick to please, for the love of cherry streusel go along with it. “So you can understand, Ms. Hasell, why I’m not in a position to stay and help with your charity event. You’ll need to find someone else, someone willing.”

  Sullivan Grace’s mouth drops open but quickly snaps shut. In all my years, I’ve never seen her rendered speechless.

  Nick stares at me with the focus of a sniper. When he finally speaks, his tone is so sharp it could slice through dry ice. “It’s probably for the best, anyway,” he says to Sullivan Grace, though I know his words are meant for me. “Lillie’s still got all those loose ends to tie up before she runs back to wherever the hell she’s been. May as well let her get on with it.” Then he gives me a look, as if I’m the bad guy.

  A fire ignites in the pit of my stomach. Flames of anger lick through me and burst from my mouth. “You knew where I was.”

  “Really?” Nick says with a bitter laugh. “How would I know that? You left.”

  I feel a shift inside me, transforming my anger into righteous indignation as I recall all the meals I ate alone. All the times I waited for him to return home after his residency shift ended only to be faced with cold indifference when he finally did pass through the front door. All the conversations I had with myself because I couldn’t bear the silence. All the nights I laid curled up in bed longing for a touch that would never come.

  He left me first, long before I ever took the final step.

  He left me first.

  “Go ahead, Nick. Blame me.” I take a challenging step forward. “You’re right. I did leave, and I don’t regret it,” I say, then say it again, louder, firmer, grounding the electrical current pulsing through me. Reminding me that nothing has changed between us. Nothing.

  Then with long, purposeful strides, I walk away from him and Sullivan Grace, grabbing my things before stepping out into the warm October afternoon.

  And like that day five years ago when I boarded a plane to Chicago, I don’t look back.

  FIVE

  THE LAW OFFICES of Stokes and Ingram, LLP are located on the forty-fourth floor of the Trammell Crow Center in the Arts District of downtown Dallas.

  Bursting into the reception area, I see a group of men in suits and ties lounging in leather wing chairs immersed in today’s New York Times. I walk past them but stop when I notice they’re all stuffing their faces with . . . raspberry oatmeal bars?

  Then I hear my father’s booming voice say, “Now if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret ingredient anymore.”

  I glance at the reception desk, where my father is chatting with a silver-haired woman wearing an afghan for a sweater, her hand deep inside a pastry box. My father is dressed in faded Levi’s and scuffed work boots. At least he threw on a button-down shirt.

  As I make my way over to him, the receptionist slaps my father playfully on the arm and says, “Jack, don’t tease an old woman. Give me a little hint. What else is in the filling?”

  Is she flirting with him? The ladies have always loved my father and his sweet-talking ways, so I guess I shouldn’t be shocked.

  “You signed me up for a baking competition?” I say in a firm voice, interrupting their conversation. My father keeps setting these traps, and like an idiot, I fall right into them. I thought once I entered adulthood I’d have learned my lesson.

  Peering over her glasses, the receptionist scrutinizes me like a judge at a beauty pageant.

  My father winks at me and grins. “Course I did, baby girl,” he says, popping half a raspberry oatmeal bar into his mouth. “I already ironed your mother’s apron. It’s waiting for you in the office.”

  “I don’t bake anymore. Remember?” I try to sound cordial. I don’t succeed.

  “With my bum knee, you can’t expect me to do it.”

  “Then find someone else.”

  Wiping crumbs off his jeans, he says, “You know I’d never give anyone who knows jack-diddly-squat about the diner a copy of our family’s recipe.”

  Frustration sweeps through me, cresting in my chest. “Maybe you should have thought about that before—”

  The receptionist clears her throat. “Why don’t you have a seat, sweetheart? Mr. Stokes is still finishing up with his three o’clock. I’ll come get you when he’s ready.” She motions to the waiting area with a smile wrapped in barbed wire—a southern specialty right up there with Civil War reenactments and fried green tomatoes.

  I want to argue, but I don’t. When I’m angry, I have a tendency to say things I’ll regret. Instead, I sigh and take the only open seat. Picking up the latest issue of People magazine, I flip through the glossy pages.

  “Baby girl’s competing in the Upper Crust, and she’s going to win with Elizabeth’s peach cobbler,” I hear my father proudly say to the receptionist. “Did you know Lillie used to make it at the diner every week? People would line up around the block for it.”

  His words sink like stones at the bottom of my stomach, dredging up a memory I’ve tried so hard to bury. And just like that I’m sixteen again, back in my father’s Brady Bunch kitchen with Nick on the day I first made my mother’s peach cobbler.

  The scene feels so real it’s as though I can touch it.

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” Nick said, taking the recipe card off the counter and reading it over. “Ernie’s Incredible Edible Carrot Cake. Sounds good.”

  “I hope so. If only I could find the darn grater,” I said as I kneeled on the floor and rifled through the pantry, gathering ingredients for my latest project. “I swear I had it in my hand.”

  A beat later, the grater dangled in front of my nose. I blew wisps of hair away from my face and looked at Nick.

  “It was hiding behind the flour canister,” he said with a crooked smile.

  Standing, I took the grater, set it on the counter, and got busy shredding carrots.

  Nick came to stand beside me and slid the grater toward himself. “Why don’t you let me give this one a try?”

  “Cooking isn’t exactly your forte,” I said as I remembered the one and only time Nick tried to bake a cake—eleven years old and all lanky limbs and a mouthful of braces and wild hair. He had forgotten to let the layers cool before icing them, so the frosting had trickled down the sides in clumps. I’d commented that it was the best devil’s food cake I’d ever tasted, even though Nick accidentally con
fused the measurements for the sugar and the salt and put four extra eggs into the batter. My nine-year-old heart couldn’t bear to tell him I’d gagged down my slice.

  “Come on. Making a cake isn’t that hard,” Nick said. “I mix together the ingredients, pour them into a pan, and throw the whole thing in the oven. Voilà. Out comes the best carrot cake in the world.”

  My “Yeah, right” expression said otherwise. But I let him have his fun anyway, laughing in unabashed amusement as Nick fumbled about the kitchen, baking powder and egg yolks sticking to his skin. I hoped it’d get his mind off the argument he’d had with his parents. Nick was starting at SMU in the fall, where he wanted to pursue a degree in music composition. Charlotte and Dr. Preston had other ideas. Either Nick majored in biology or he would be cut off financially. Medical schools would never consider an applicant with a liberal arts background. He was eighteen, not some foolish child living in a fantasyland, and he needed to be serious, concentrate on his future. No more late nights playing that stupid guitar at the Prickly Pear. No more hanging around Turner’s Greasy Spoons with some misfit girl stuck on a dead-end path.

  Once the ingredients were dumped into the stand mixer, Nick scraped down the sides of the bowl with a spatula and secured the whisk attachment. He turned on the mixer and flipped it to the fastest whipping speed. Immediately, batter erupted out of the bowl. Springing into action, I grabbed the power cord and yanked it from the outlet before more damage could be done.

  Too late.

  Batter was splattered everywhere—on the cabinets, the tile backsplash, the stovetop. Large blobs of it dripped off the counter and were landing in soupy puddles on the floor. When my gaze locked on Nick, I burst into giggles. I couldn’t help it. He was coated in it.

  Nick only stood there, a stunned expression on his face. Finally, he shook his head and said, “That was not supposed to happen.” He pulled his polo shirt over his head, revealing a white cotton undershirt, and tossed it into the sink.

  I threw a dish towel at his chest. “I told you tripling the recipe was a stupid idea. You should have taken my advice—”