From Scratch

by Rachel Goodman

  “There,” he says. Instantly I feel relief. “Is that better?”

  Blinking, I nod and wipe the tears from my eye.

  “Jack told me about the diner,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Nick, don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s not who I am anymore.”

  Almost instinctively, he tucks a flyaway hair behind my ear, lingering on the spot where my jaw meets my neck. So simple, so natural, as if he touches me every day. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, clenching my hands into fists to keep them from shaking. The electricity is thrashing through me like a live wire.

  Nick leans in closer. His eyes are a sky I could fall into, an ocean I could drown in. Images of him peering down at me while he moved over me, inside me, flood my vision. His gaze drops to my mouth, and all at once it’s like the missing years between us are gone and I forget why this isn’t right or can’t be real. My mind has become a haze of kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting, wanting. I hear the rustle of his clothes, feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek, his warm breath on my skin.

  “I don’t believe you,” he whispers in my ear.

  “What?” I ask, completely disoriented. My voice sounds strangled. My heart beats in my throat, so fast it hurts.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says, louder and with an edge to it.

  The fog in my head clears and I jerk back, my chest heaving. What am I doing? “You don’t know me anymore, Nick.”

  He looks at me long and steady. “Whose fault is that?”

  Not this again.

  “These past five years are irrelevant,” I say as anger builds inside me. “Even when I was here, I was never enough. You’re the one who turned me into a stranger. You’re the one who locked me out. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “I remember,” he says, his voice hard, controlled. His eyes are bright with anger of his own. “But you didn’t exactly try that hard to fight your way back in.” Raking a hand through his hair, he stands and steps away from me. A muscle twitches in his jaw and his body is coiled tight. Finally he sighs and says, “Listen, Lillie—”

  The mahogany door swings open. Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes saunters onto the porch. She looks from me to Nick then back to me. Her gray eyes narrow and harden, as if she’s summoning voodoo magic to curse me dead. The floozy struts toward us, her hips swaying seductively. From the corner of my eye, I see Nick notices it, too. Sidling up next to him, Margaret flashes a smile that speaks of something more and hooks her arm through his, her red-lacquered nails digging possessively into his skin.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she says in a tone too intimate for friendship, gazing at Nick through long, sultry lashes. “I hope I didn’t make us late for tonight.”

  Late for tonight?

  It hits me just as Margaret leans in and presses her glossed lips against his.

  As if they’re alone on the porch and I’m invisible in this rocking chair, she deepens the kiss, her hand tangling into Nick’s hair. I swear I hear her moan. The anger drains out of me. My stomach rolls. I’m going to be sick. Still, I can’t force my eyes anywhere else, but thankfully Nick breaks away before I lose my breakfast. He considers me warily. Margaret smirks in smug satisfaction, like after all those years of biding her time she finally won the trophy. Only this isn’t a game.

  “We should probably go,” she says to Nick, then with a cool, patronizing stare, says to me, “We’ve got dinner reservations downtown and tickets to the show later.”

  “Mags,” Nick says, his voice low and serious.

  The use of a nickname knocks the air from my lungs. Nick never called her Mags or Maggie or any other endearing form of her given name. It was always Margaret.

  “What?” the floozy says, all innocent. She places a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

  It’s a surprisingly tender gesture for someone as vindictive as Margaret. A vision of what their life together must be like crystallizes in my mind. I imagine Baylor Medical fundraising events, Margaret on Nick’s arm in a sparkling dress that costs more than my monthly salary. I imagine Nick and his father yucking it up with their fellow surgeons, while Margaret gossips with Charlotte and the other wives, secure in the knowledge that she will someday be one of them. I imagine five-course tasting menus crafted by Dean Fearing, Junior League charity auctions and society parties, season tickets to the symphony, and Saturday evening dinners at the club.

  Aspects of Nick’s world I never had any place in.

  I avert my gaze, crossing my arms and pressing them tight against me like a shield. The sound of heels click-clacking on the grand staircase gets my attention. Seconds later, Annabelle flies onto the porch like a crazed banshee, her usually sleek black hair flailing in every direction.

  “There you are. I’ve been search—” She skids to a stop and glances around, first at me, then at Nick, then at Margaret. “Oh shit.”

  “I’d love to stay and chat, but we’re already running behind,” the floozy says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and adjusting her five-thousand-dollar purse. “I’ll see you next week for lunch, Annabelle.”

  They’re having lunch together? First Nick and now my best friend?

  By the triumphant grin on Margaret’s face, she knows how much her words have affected me. I want to slap her. Correction, I want to ruin her.

  I open my mouth to wipe the smile off her face, but Annabelle interrupts. “Lillie, we’re leaving. Now.” She grabs my wrist, pulls me to my feet, and drags me away. “I’ll explain later,” she whispers.

  When Annabelle pushes me through the wrought-iron gate, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Margaret is yapping to someone on her cell phone, appearing completely unfazed by what transpired on the porch, but Nick is watching me, his brow furrowed as if he’s making sense of something, working it all out.

  I wait until we’re driving down Lovers Lane before bursting out with it. “How long, Annabelle?”

  She shifts gears, the car jerking forward, and keeps her eyes straight ahead. “How long what?”

  She knows exactly what I’m referring to. Why is she avoiding it?

  “All of it. How long have you been keeping your friendship with her a secret from me?”

  Annabelle fidgets in her seat. “We’re not friends per se. More like casual acquaintances. We’re collaborating on a project.”

  “For Junior League?”

  “No, professionally. The event planning side of my company is working with her PR firm.”

  “Oh,” I say, then take a deep breath, gathering courage to ask what I really want to know. “And Nick? How long have they been involved?”

  “Awhile,” she hedges. “It’s complicated.”

  “It appeared pretty black and white to me.”

  “There’s a history there. It started after you left. Margaret introduced—”

  I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

  “Lillie, would you—”

  “Can we not talk about Nick and the floozy anymore?”

  Annabelle shakes her head, muttering something under her breath.

  I don’t care what Nick does anymore. I’ve moved on. I have a happy life in Chicago.

  So why does my heart feel like it’s been pulverized in a garbage disposal?

  NINE

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I’m sitting at the desk in my childhood room trapped on a conference call with Thomas Brandon and the rest of the strategy team.

  Kingsbury Enterprises lost a portion of its funding allocated toward the second phase of the product launch, and the company is asking White, Ogden, and Morris to provide Dom Pérignon champagne consulting services on a sparkling cider budget.

  As Thomas Brandon outlines the situation, I try hard to be an active participant in the discussion, to offer my opinion and give out-of-the-box solutions. It’s what I excel at, why I’m often assigned to the more complicated,
high-dollar projects. But today I’m struggling to even follow the conversation.

  “Lillie, where are you on compiling those sales forecasts?” Thomas Brandon’s nasally voice pierces my ear. “And I still haven’t received the market analyses I requested.”

  I should have completed everything yesterday after Annabelle dropped me off rather than starting an hour ago, but I haven’t been able to focus on anything except Junior League and what transpired on the porch. I can still feel Nick’s stubble on my cheek, his calloused thumb below my ear. I wanted him to kiss me, touch me. Worse, I never even considered Drew. Guilt twists in my chest. But that was a momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing like that will happen again.

  Besides, Nick is with Margaret now.

  Images of them kissing, the smug look on Margaret’s face, the way Nick called her Mags, flash through my mind, but I quickly blot them out.

  “Lillie, the items?” Thomas Brandon barks out.

  Before I can reply, Ben cuts in, “If she’s unable to handle it, I’d be happy to do it.” His tone is snide, but I’m sure to Thomas Brandon he sounds helpful, a real go-getter.

  I remind myself that Ben is an audible breather with sardine-smelling breath. “Everything will be in your inbox by the close of business today, Mr. Brandon,” I say, twirling a lock of hair and peering at the split ends.

  Thomas Brandon fires off status questions to the other team members, but after about three minutes, the conversation reverts back to the topics of cost and scheduling, and I find myself once again not paying attention. I spin my engagement ring like a top on the desk, watching it go around and around in a sparkly blur, until finally the conference call ends.

  As I put my phone away, I hear the front door open and my father’s heavy footsteps, followed by kitchen cabinets banging shut and rummaging in the fridge. He was gone when I woke up, and I wonder if he worked the early shift again.

  I walk down the short hallway that connects my childhood room to my father’s, brushing my fingertips along the floral wallpaper adorned with my school photos and tacky watercolor prints of Texas Hill Country, listening to the floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs.

  “Morning, baby girl,” my father says when I enter the living room, his eyes glued to one of those lifestyle food shows on the television. “A little birdie told me you’ve agreed to participate in the Upper Crust.”

  He’s settled on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, a remote in one hand and a half-eaten jelly Danish in the other. I notice some of the raspberry filling has stuck to his cookie duster—my father’s nickname for a mustache. His hair is a little mussed. He’s wearing his usual uniform of a plaid button-down and faded jeans. Taking up space on the cushion next to him is a box of grocery-store-brand doughnuts.

  I lean on the arm of the couch. “Let me guess. You spoke with Sullivan Grace.”

  “Sure did. I knew you’d come around.”

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice,” I say as my father polishes off the jelly Danish. “Not exactly a balanced diet, Dad.”

  “Nonsense. Sugar and trans fats, the breakfast of champions.” He rubs his stomach. “Frosted, glazed, or powdered?” he says, offering the box to me.

  “None of the above.” I place the doughnuts on the side table, next to a glass of milk using a fishing magazine for a coaster, and flop down beside him. “I fixed myself some toast earlier.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Were you at the diner?”

  “For a bit,” he says. “Then out running errands.”

  “Maybe you should cut back on your hours,” I say, studying him, taking in his droopy mustache, baggy eyes, creased skin. “You’re looking really run down.”

  “Don’t I know it? Why else do you think you’re taking over the Spoons?” He smiles and the grooves around his mouth deepen. “Doc says me and my bum knee need a nap and one of those therapeutic massager chairs.”

  I nudge his side. “Maybe one will show up under the Christmas tree this year. But don’t get any ideas. You know I’m only here temporarily.”

  “We’ll see about that, baby girl.” He pats my shoulder. “We’ll see.”

  He turns up the volume on the television and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I snuggle up next to him and rest my head on his chest, the outline of his bones sharp against my cheek. We watch in comfortable silence as the show’s host travels around New England, eating his way through local mom-and-pop joints.

  Even with the television blasting, the room feels quiet, relaxed. Nothing like Chicago, where my office phone rings nonstop and the incessant sound of honking seeps through the windows at all hours. And though I would never admit this to my father, I miss Dallas and the way I can be in the middle of downtown and smell fresh air. Five years in Chicago and I still haven’t gotten used to the stink of exhaust that permeates the streets, or how in summer the wind off the lake blows the odor of dead fish, or the scent of garbage that piles up during an epic snowstorm.

  At one point during the show, the host is at a deli in Boston, attempting an extra large bite of a meatball sub, but instead of a mouthful of Italian deliciousness, he gets nothing but sourdough bread and marinara sauce because all of the meatballs have fallen out the sides and rolled down his shirt. My father laughs as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, but soon his laughing morphs into a loud and mucousy coughing fit.

  Worry clenches my stomach. I rub his back until the coughing subsides. My father takes a deep breath and gulps down the rest of the milk. Then he relaxes into the couch cushions and puts an arm back around me, as if nothing happened.

  “Are you all right?” I keep my voice calm. “That sounded really bad.”

  He peers down at me and smooths the hair away from my forehead. “I know it does, baby girl. And yes, before you ask, I’ve been to the doctor. He’s treating it.”

  “When was your last appointment? And when is your next one?” Given my father’s aversion to showing weakness, it’s probably been months since he visited the doctor and instead he’s “treating” his cough with Robitussin and Mucinex.

  “You’ve got no faith in me,” he says with a frown. “I see Doc every few weeks. He checks me out, adjusts my meds. But at my age a cough can be a pesky nag that never goes away—a bit like you.” He winks and smiles.

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m coming to your next appointment. If I’m being cast as a nag, I want to nag effectively.”

  He chuckles and says, “All right, all right. Next one is on Halloween.”

  The rooster clock on the wall crows. My father sighs and kisses the top of my head. “Well, I’d better quit lollygagging around.” He groans as he stands up and stretches his back. “You should think about visiting the Spoons sometime today. Freshen up on how we do things around there and get some practice time in. You only have a few weeks until the Upper Crust, and I won’t have no goddamn apple turnover winning again.”

  Leave it to my father to act like I should be training for this charity event as though it’s some kind of Olympic sport. Too bad my plan of attack is to show up and wing it. I almost tell him this just to see him get all bent out of shape. Instead I grab the box of doughnuts and follow him into the kitchen.

  “I need to do some work for my actual job. You know, the one in Chicago that I get paid for? I’m being slated to be a partner.” Then I remember the binders and stacks of papers I stole from the diner that are still a disorganized mess and say, “But maybe I’ll drop by after I finish up.”

  He takes the doughnut box from my hand and places it on the counter. “I bought extra cobbler ingredients for you to use.”

  “Dad, I’m not competing with that recipe. I’m going to prepare something of my own.”

  He turns to face me so abruptly his shoulder knocks into mine, and I stumble a bit. “You ain’t doin’ no such thing.”

  “Why is this so important to you?” I ask, but what I really want to know is how he can pretend
that my mother didn’t throw away our family, how he can pretend she didn’t throw me away.

  My father grumbles something under his breath before he clears his throat and says, “Because it’s a darn good recipe, and we’re in this to win, baby girl. That’s all there is to it.”

  I sigh. My head is starting to ache.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” my father says, rifling around in his pocket. “I’ve got a present for you.” He drops a set of tarnished gold keys in my hand that belong to my old Ford truck.

  “When did you get it back?” I say, puzzled, remembering how I abandoned the clunker in an airport economy parking lot the day I boarded a plane to Chicago.

  “That’s not important. You didn’t honestly think I’d let you ditch that dinosaur, did you? Big Blue’s a part of our family.”

  I shrug, closing my fingers around the keys and squeezing so hard the teeth bite into the soft flesh of my palm. “I suppose not.”

  “Think of this as your homecoming gift,” he says with a wink. “She’s got a rebuilt engine, new tires, and a clean bill of health. Picked her up from the shop this morning.”

  “Thanks for rescuing her for me. It saves me from spending a fortune on the rental. I’ll call to make arrangements for it to be picked up.”

  My father’s mustache twitches, and a funny expression flits over his face.

  “What?”

  He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “You’ve been cooped up in this house since yesterday afternoon, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, you might want to take a gander out front before you do anything else.” He opens the cabinet under the sink and removes the trash bin. “And you might want to consider bringing this with you.”

  I look dumbly at him, then at the trash bin, then back at him. “Okay. Why?”

  “Does that prank you and Annabelle pulled on Wes that one summer ring any bells?”

  “No . . .”

  Then it clicks.

  No. No freaking way.

  “Dad, you can’t be serious right now,” I exclaim as I frantically look outside. He couldn’t possibly be implying what I think he is.