From Scratch

by Rachel Goodman

  “Your unsolicited advice,” he interjected as he cleaned himself up.

  “Does it matter? At least we would have something to show for it and the kitchen wouldn’t look like a scene from Animal House,” I said, then dipped my finger into one of the lumpy blobs on the counter and smeared it across his cheek.

  Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wipe it off.”

  “Make me,” I said with a wicked smile.

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Maybe. What are you going to do about it?” I said, reaching up to spread more batter across his other cheek. Nick captured my wrist, his gaze intense, making my pulse race.

  Then all at once we crashed together, two hormonal magnets colliding. Our mouths connected, and when our lips parted and tongues grazed against each other, I was gone, consumed by him. Nick pulled my waist against his, then lifted me up and placed me on the counter. My fingers curled into his shirtfront, tugging him even closer so that there was no room for a breath between us.

  A car alarm blared somewhere outside, loud and angry, and we broke apart, gasping, our breathing erratic. Nick dropped his head to my shoulder and let out a soft laugh.

  I ran my fingers through his hair and said, “I guess that’s our cue to clean up this mess and finish the cake before my father comes home.”

  Wiggling out of his grasp, I hopped off the counter, readjusted my tank top, and smoothed down my hair. Then I walked over to the counter and found the recipe card so we could get started again.

  Nick followed me. “I say we forget it,” he said, reclaiming my waist, a mischievous grin on his face. Then he took the card from my hand and flung it over his shoulder.

  I tried catching it in midair but was too late. The card fluttered in between the kitchen cabinet and the refrigerator. “Now look what you did,” I said, poking his shoulder. “Go get it.”

  Nick pushed the fridge flush against the wall and extended his arm as far as it would reach, searching around until he pulled out an index card. Using the fridge door handle for support, he hoisted himself up off the floor and handed it to me.

  It was a recipe card, but it wasn’t for Ernie’s Incredible Edible Carrot Cake.

  Summer Peach Cobbler was scrawled across the top. The card was covered in dust and grime, the paper yellowed, edges tattered, ink faded. I cleaned off the filth with the hem of my shirt and stared at the elegant script, knowing immediately it had belonged to my mother.

  Tracing the outline of her words, I found myself wondering about her. “Your mother needed to fly, baby girl,” was all my father would say anytime I asked. He rarely talked about her or their life together. I knew my father still loved her. The framed photo he kept propped up on his nightstand said as much. In it, my mother’s face glowed above a single candle placed haphazardly atop a red velvet cupcake, a tiny bundle swaddled in pink cashmere resting snugly against her sweat-stained hospital gown. The blue of her eyes flickered in the soft, yellow light and her smile, wide and bright, consumed the image. Written on the back in my father’s chicken scratch were the words Elizabeth with Lillie, twenty minutes old.

  A tear tumbled down my cheek and fell onto the recipe card. Then came another. Followed by another. I didn’t bother to wipe them away. At the edge of my consciousness, I heard my name being called.

  “Lillie, what is it?” Nick said, resting a firm hand on my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  I peered up at him, my vision blurred. “Can we make this instead?”

  His brow knit as he took the card from my hand, smudging the ink when he wiped away my tears. From his unsure expression, I could tell he knew its origin. Nick met my gaze, his eyes concerned.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want you upset by this.”

  “I’m not upset,” I whispered, smiling through my tears. “Promise.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because it was hers.”

  Nick searched my face. Then he absently linked our fingers together, swinging our arms back and forth, and said, “What do you need me to do?”

  For the remainder of the afternoon, we stood side-by-side, Nick blanching the peaches in boiling water and peeling away the skin, while I mixed the filling and prepared the drop-biscuit topping. Before long we were sitting at the kitchen table, treating ourselves to a second helping of bubbling, gooey, peachy goodness, the carrot cake long forgotten.

  The distant sound of the front door closing jolted us out of our seats. We looked at each other with wide, frantic eyes. But it was too late to do anything. My father was already striding toward us.

  “Baby girl, can you move Big Blue? It’s block—” My father came to an abrupt halt, eyes bulging as he took in the obliterated kitchen.

  “We made peach cobbler,” I blurted, thrusting my still-steaming portion at his chest.

  My father looked down at the plate in his hand and scrunched his nose. “By the looks of this kitchen, should I be eating this?”

  “We had a small episode earlier,” I said, casting a wry glance at Nick, who fidgeted like he wished he could eject himself from the situation.

  “In my defense, that crazy electrical appliance had no warning label on it,” Nick protested. “Had I known it might get violent like that, I would have used a wooden spoon instead.”

  “Son, not even a tornado could have caused this much damage,” my father said.

  “Try some, Dad,” I said. “It’s delicious. Really.”

  Tentatively my father picked up the fork and speared a peach segment. He popped the bite into his mouth, and to his surprise, his eyes lit up. “You’re right. This is darn good, baby girl. Did you use those white peaches I bought at the farmers’ market?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We didn’t have any yellow ones, so I improvised. Hope that’s all right.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” my father hummed while he chewed another bite. “It tastes familiar.”

  “We used Mom’s recipe.”

  My father dropped the fork onto the plate and stared at me, blinking rapidly, before he replied in an oddly strained voice, “Whose recipe?”

  “Mom’s recipe,” I repeated, showing him the index card. “Nick found it on the floor next to the fridge. I made a few adjustments, but it’s mostly the same.”

  My father cleared his throat. “Would you two hang on a minute? I’ll be right back.” With shaking hands, my father placed the plate on the counter and bolted from the kitchen, leaving Nick and me standing there, dumbstruck.

  We found him on the porch, bent over the railing, his arms outstretched and forehead resting against the weathered wood.

  “Dad?” I said, my hand hovering over his shoulder.

  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 conf
erence 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.