From Scratch

by Rachel Goodman

  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—”

  “Everything?”

  I shake my head. “Only that you guys broke up.”

  “I thought he would’ve told you sooner,” Annabelle says. “Every time you called I kept expecting you to bring it up, but you never did.”

  “It’s been awhile since Wes and I have talked,” I say. “I guess this is why.”

  She nods. When she doesn’t respond, I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m trying to understand why you didn’t tell me.”

  Annabelle tugs on her seat belt and stares out the window, her eyes locked on a plastic shopping bag skittering along the sidewalk. “Because you never asked.”

  My mouth drops open. That can’t be right. I think back to our conversations over the past few months and all the things we talked about—when her event planning company was featured in InStyle Weddings, how she adopted a cocker spaniel puppy named Finley, when she signed the papers on a newly built condo in the heart of Uptown.

  The truth hits me like a slap across the face. I assumed Wes had been a part of those milestones, but all that time Annabelle had been alone and heartbroken. And I had never asked.

  “Annabelle,” I start, then falter. “I’m . . . I’m so . . .”

  “I slept with someone else,” she says, her voice breaking. “Only once, but it was enough.”

  My mind fills with questions. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that Annabelle would cheat. On Wes, no less. I want to offer support, but the words dry up in my throat.

  She tells me she waited two months to confess, until the lies and the guilt became so unbearable that she spilled the beans one morning in the grocery store, smack dab in the middle of the frozen dinner aisle. Wes simply said nothing. Not when Annabelle cried and begged his forgiveness, right there by the Stouffer’s lasagna. Not when he stormed out of the store and drove away, leaving Annabelle to fend for her own ride home. Not even when he showed up at their rental house hours later and emptied his side of the closet into three suitcases and a duffel bag. He loaded his things into the back of his Jeep and left. She’s tried to apologize—attempt number eight being only a few moments ago—but Wes still refuses to even look at her.

  “Is this why we’re at the bookstore?” I ask.

  Annabelle rests her forehead against the steering wheel. “No. Him being here was the universe fucking with me.”

  “Do you want to tell me why?”

  Sighing, she straightens up and says, “We’d been fighting for a while . . . it’s just . . . what kind of couple that’s been together since they were kids isn’t married by now?” She sees me flinch and says, “Shit, sorry. You and Nick aside. I only meant that I’m thirty. It’s normal for me to want a husband and kids. Hell, most people already have both of those things by our age.”

  “And what did Wes want?”

  “Not that.” She shakes her head as if dislodging a memory. “He’s been dating a bit. I think he’s trying to punish me. I can’t blame him, but it still hurts so damn much, Lillie. When does it stop hurting?”

  A lump forms in my stomach as I recall the fateful night five years ago when I stumbled off the plane in Chicago with my heart shattered into so many pieces I was sure I’d never be able to put it together again. How despite my best efforts to move forward and hold my head high, around every corner and down every street, Nick’s ghost haunted me, refusing to let me forget all we had and then lost.

  I remember once when I was walking down Michigan Avenue on my way home from taking a final exam, I swore I saw Nick standing outside Crate & Barrel, in front of a window display outfitted with glittery ornaments and signs advertising Christmas sales. His cheeks were red and his breath escaped in clouds in the bitter cold and falling snow. Resting in his gloved hands was a steaming cup. As I crossed the street to approach him, I remember thinking how free he looked—so different from the man who ran his life like he conducted his operating room, with controlled, steady precision—and for a moment, I allowed myself to hope. That maybe he came to apologize, to confess how much he loved me and that he was a fool to let me go. That we could return to that cherished place where we were still two kids, counting the licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop. But before I could reach him, he was gone. A figment of my imagination.

  “I don’t know when the hurt goes away,” I say, unsure if it ever does. Maybe the pain just scabs over until a memory, a chance encounter, a conversation causes it to crack open and spill out. My mind drifts to Nick in the Prickly Pear, the sound of his laughter, those piercing blue eyes, the expression on his face when he saw my engagement ring and the overwhelming sadness I felt. “But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a second chance.”

  “Is that what Drew is for you?”

  I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. Drew isn’t a second chance. He’s the bandage that made everything okay again. He’s easiness and warmth and comfort.

  “Loving Wes has filled my whole life,” Annabelle says when I don’t respond. “I don’t want to let him go, but I don’t have it in me to fight for this anymore.”

  I’m struck by an eerie sense of déjà vu, remembering how I uttered similar words to Annabelle one dreary afternoon five years ago. How I looked her in the eye and finally admitted aloud what we’d all already known—Nick and I had become strangers. Nothing like the foolish teenagers who used to crave each other in a crazy, addictive kind of way that is sacred to first love, back when our world was new and full of possibility and I still believed in magic.

  But Wes and Annabelle aren’t us. They play hard and love harder. They’re scoreboard lights and packed-tight bleachers, Wes running down the football field and Annabelle cheering from the sidelines. They’re karaoke competitions, belly flops during Fourth of July pool parties, and coordinating Halloween costumes. Two people deserving of a different ending—a better ending—than the one I had with Nick.

  “I think you still have some fight left in you,” I say, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “Wes will come around. Give him time.”

  Annabelle sighs. “Forgiveness isn’t supposed to come with strings. Or retribution.”

  No, forgiveness is to be given freely. Unapologetically.

  But does it ever work that way?

  SEVEN

  JUNIOR LEAGUE HEADQUARTERS is housed in a sprawling Classical Revival estate known as Hasell House, named after Sullivan Grace’s grandmother, former League president Harper Dell Hasell and the original Ms. Bless Your Heart, for her generous bequest to the charitable organization. With its soaring white columns, winged porticos, and Old Carolina redbrick siding, the Hasell House is where the ladies of Dallas’s social elite go to be seen.

  I follow Annabelle through the wrought-iron gate and stroll along the paved path to the entrance. On the far side of the grounds, positioned under a cluster of trees, is a bronzed fountain with birds taking a bath. On the covered porch, rocking chairs creak slowly in the breeze as soft sounds from a piano float out the stately windows.

  Inside headquarters, the late-morning sun fills the foyer, frothing up the walls like champagne and spillin
g onto the grand, sweeping staircase. On my right, in a floral wallpapered room, a group of League members chat around an oval table while working in an assembly line, folding papers and stuffing envelopes. A sitting room adorned with ornamental crown moldings, tapestries, and antique furniture opens to the left. Ahead lies a massive ballroom featuring an equally massive crystal chandelier.

  Annabelle leads me past the staircase toward the tearoom, where League volunteers set tables with silver flatware and fine bone china in preparation for the afternoon service. Even though the committee meeting started fifteen minutes ago, Annabelle insists on dropping by the kitchen to grab some finger sandwiches, pimento cheese dip, and lemon poppy seed scones.

  “If we walk in with snacks, Sullivan Grace is less likely to whip us for being late,” she says as we climb the staircase, a tray propped on her hip. “But stay away from the scones if you value your life.”

  We stop in front of large wooden double doors with a sign that reads: MEETING IN SESSION, RING BELL FOR ADMITTANCE. Never one for convention, Annabelle uses the toe of her stiletto to give the doors two swift kicks.

  “A simple knock would have sufficed,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.

  “Too easy.” She winks.

  A moment later, the doors crack open and a woman with hair more processed and yellow than American cheese appears in front of me.

  “Who are you?” she asks with a southern drawl, dissecting my simple gray blouse and black pants, her nose wrinkled and lips puckered like a goldfish. I may have been offended if her expression weren’t so laughable. First my father, then Sullivan Grace, and now her? Apparently people in Dallas think I should be dressed for a debutante ball at all times.

  Before I can respond, her gaze swings to Annabelle and the tray of goodies. Her face lights up like a child discovering a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. “Why, Annabelle, aren’t you the sweetest thing, bringing us treats and everything,” she says, opening the doors completely and ushering us inside.