Charlie pulled the bread and cheese from the shelf, snagging the plastic tub of Kroger-brand margarine as she closed the door. At the stove she heated a small skillet and buttered the outside of two slices, layering two squares of cheese on the bottom slice. She found the plastic spatula and pressed down on the top of the sandwich. It gave a satisfying sizzle as the bread began to fry.
How many years had it been since someone had made a grilled cheese sandwich for her, frying the bread so that it didn’t burn but turned crispy and golden, layering the American cheese two deep and melting it just so?
“You got to butter the bread all the way to the edges like this,” Aunt Mae had said. “That’s the secret.” It had been a little thing, but somehow it had meant everything, Charlie realized. She bit her lip, thinking of Aunt Mae at the stove night after night, cooking for the girls after a long day on her feet at the factory. One at a time her aunt’s little acts of kindness might seem insignificant—a grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of poached eggs in milk over buttered saltines when one of the girls caught a chill. Those actions were like copper pennies, small enough to be overlooked, but all together they were the currency of life. Charlie had not seen it until now.
Standing at the stove in the shabby, familiar kitchen, her grilled cheese sandwich browning too quickly at the edges as the cheese slowly melted in the pan, Charlie felt a piercing sense of loss, a longing so strong she almost choked on it, a longing for someone to take care of her, to smooth the hair back from her forehead and check for fever, to make poached eggs in milk and pour it over buttered saltines.
She was not only longing for Aunt Mae, Charlie realized, but for her mother, gone more than twenty years, for her pale, cool hand on Charlie’s brow. There was no one to come home to now. Aunt Mae was dead, and Waverly . . .
Charlie felt another sharp pang of regret when she thought of Waverly. She missed her sister, she realized, missed the closeness they had once shared.
“My two little peas in a pod,” their mother had called them fondly. Two peas in a pod. Charlie had not thought of that nickname in years.
As she slid the slightly scorched sandwich onto a plate and sat down at the table, she felt the distance keenly for the first time in a long time. Although Waverly was sleeping just a few miles down the road, tucked up at the Hide-a-Way Inn, she might as well have been sleeping on the moon. But what could Charlie do? She could not turn back the clock on their relationship. Their lives were an ocean apart. She had no idea how to bring them closer together.
She took a bite of her sandwich, satisfied as the crunch of the fried bread gave way to rich, melted cheese. Waverly wouldn’t approve of any part of this sandwich. Charlie could hear her sister’s voice in her head, not Waverly’s smooth, slightly sexy Simply Perfect voice, but her scolding one, the one she reserved for her loved ones.
“That is all just plastic food,” Waverly said disapprovingly. Charlie glanced at her sandwich and couldn’t disagree. She knew it was plastic food, but she didn’t care.
“This is pure comfort,” she told the imaginary Waverly, her words gooey with melted cheese.
Charlie pictured Waverly, her beautiful, willful sister who didn’t know how to take no for an answer, who was used to aiming for something and achieving it through sheer determination and perseverance. Waverly seemingly had the perfect life—a glamorous career; a handsome, successful husband; a huge house on the Connecticut shore; even a sailboat—but not the one thing she really wanted most: a baby. Charlie didn’t think she herself had a maternal bone in her body, but Waverly had always wanted to be a mother. What must it mean to her, to be denied the thing she most desired? When they were children Waverly had swaddled and nursed and carried her Cabbage Patch Kid with her in a tiny pink satin pram while Charlie had taken hers adventuring in the woods behind their stately house and then left it out in the rain.
Taking another bite of her sandwich, Charlie sighed and shifted in the hard kitchen chair. She was not by nature particularly introspective. She leaned more toward practicality and action. The quiet of the house unnerved her, made her long for something to do. She reached instinctively for her book, then set it down unopened. Wasn’t that the problem, that she had been too busy to see what was really important? And now it was too late. Aunt Mae was gone.
Charlie finished the sandwich, poured another finger of bourbon, and forced herself to sit still and take stock for the first time in a long while.
What did her life consist of now? she asked herself. A few dozen boxes of books, a rented apartment in Budapest, and, if she were honest, an occupation that allowed her to constantly improve other peoples’ lives but not really build one of her own. Her entire existence could be packed into a few suitcases. She wanted it that way. By traveling light she had less to lose.
The memory of what she had lost in Johannesburg was still stark after more than six years, seared into her consciousness—a heartbreaking mixture of good intentions and failure, the still-bitter taste of burnt idealism sharp on her tongue. She had taken the job in Budapest because it was useful and she was good at it, although it was not work she was passionate about. It was good enough. Her life was good enough.
But now, sitting in her dead aunt’s kitchen at two in the morning, Charlie was regretting her choices. She was not frightened of being alone. She had lived with the dull ache of isolation for six years since moving to Budapest, drifting through a culture not her own. It had been her choice—the disconnection, a benign numbness she really did not mind. She liked the utter control she had over her life, her ability to pack a suitcase at a moment’s notice and go anywhere. She liked living with few connections and few constraints. But there had always been something to come back to. Aunt Mae had acted as a touch point of sorts. Now that she was gone, Charlie felt strangely vulnerable. She had no anchor anymore, no center from which to arc away, knowing she could always return.
She swirled the bourbon around in her glass. She could not bring Aunt Mae back, could not turn back the clock and be fifteen again, sitting at this table watching the contestants spin the wheel and buy a vowel. “Any fool can see what that phrase is. It’s ‘a blessing in disguise.’” Aunt Mae shook her head as the contestants looked puzzled. While Vanna White turned the letters, Aunt Mae turned the sandwiches four times so that they browned evenly and didn’t burn.
Those days were gone. Charlie had left them behind by her own volition. They would never come again. Aunt Mae was gone. Only Waverly was left, and she felt so far away.
Well, don’t just sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Do something about it. It was Aunt Mae’s voice, as clear as though she were sitting across the table. Charlie looked up, startled, half expecting to see her aunt sitting across from her, but the kitchen was empty.
“Like what?” she asked cautiously, casting a glance at the remaining bourbon in her glass. Just how much had she drunk?
There was no answer.
“Like what?” she asked again. What could she possibly do now to erase the years and distance, to bring back her sister, to make amends to Aunt Mae? What could she do to create a center to her world again?
Whatever the Good Lord puts in your hand you give back to others. Again Aunt Mae’s voice, repeating her well-worn words to live by. Charlie furrowed her brow, trying to decipher just what she had that could be beneficial to Waverly. She didn’t have time for the copper pennies of life, the tiny gestures of affection and care that built slowly over time. She and Waverly led lives that were too different, too far apart. If she wanted her sister back, she needed something big.
And then a thought popped into her head, bright and fleeting as a spark of electricity, and just as shocking. She could give Waverly a baby.
Charlie laughed, almost dismissing the notion out of hand. It was crazy. But then she paused, considering the idea. As far as she knew, she had two good ovaries she had no intention of using for herself. What if she offered to be a surrogate and carry a baby for Waverly? What if Charlie
could give a gift so big that it would mend the years of silence and distance between them? What if she could make them a family again?
The thought was terrifying and a little thrilling. It made sense to her in some instinctual way. She knew there were a multitude of things to consider if she went forward with this notion—the practicalities of work and geography and physiology—but she didn’t bother to think through the details immediately. Those would come later. She just went with her gut. This was right; she could feel it.
“Okay, Aunt Mae,” she murmured, tossing back the last of the bourbon. “Let’s see if we can put these ovaries to good use after all.”
CHAPTER 4
The next morning at the bustling Early Bird Café in downtown Cooksville, Charlie planned to drop her bombshell of an idea on Waverly. It was just the two of them at breakfast. Andrew was on an early-morning call with London and had stayed back at the inn.
The café was crowded, but Barbara, the long-time waitress at the Early Bird, had managed to clear a table for two near the open kitchen just for them. Waverly was a hometown celebrity in Cooksville. She even had a Cooksville fan club, a group of retired ladies who called themselves the Perfectettes and FedExed Waverly a pineapple upside-down cake on her birthday every year.
The sisters ordered, and a few moments later Barbara brought their food, well ahead of anyone else’s in the restaurant. Waverly’s had been garnished with a radish rose perched on a bed of cucumber slices carved into leaf shapes. She thanked Barbara with a gracious smile, and then as soon as the waitress moved on to another table, carefully moved the lopsided embellishments to the side of her plate.
Charlie quirked a smile. “Oh, the perks of being a celebrity,” she observed.
The café was warm and thick with the scent of frying breakfast meat and pancake syrup. In the background a country music station played hits from the nineties—Tanya Tucker and George Strait warbling plaintively behind the clatter of plates.
Charlie tucked into her Coming Home breakfast platter, scooping up a fried egg and a bite of maple bacon, and considered how to introduce her grand idea to her sister. She noticed Waverly eying her enormous plate of bacon, sausages, fried eggs, and waffles with unveiled jealousy. Waverly had ordered two poached eggs and a fruit plate with a side of cottage cheese and a cup of green tea. As fraternal twins they did not share the same metabolism. Charlie had always been lean and wiry no matter what she ate, while Waverly had softer curves and had to watch her weight carefully.
Charlie gestured to her plate. “Help yourself,” she said, her mouth full of egg. She offered a slice of thick-cut bacon to her sister.
Waverly sighed and sipped her tea. “No, you got the fast metabolism in the family. I have to look at myself on television, and I look better without bacon around my middle.”
Charlie shrugged and poured a generous helping of maple syrup onto her waffles. She glanced at her sister, who was slicing her cantaloupe into perfect bite-size pieces. Maybe it was best just to come right out and say it. She took a deep breath. “I’ve been doing some thinking since Aunt Mae’s funeral,” she said. “I want to have a baby for you.”
Waverly froze, a spoonful of cottage cheese and cantaloupe halfway to her mouth. “You what?” She put the spoon down very slowly, cottage cheese curds falling to the plate below.
“I want to have a baby for you,” Charlie repeated slowly and distinctly, as though Waverly were hard of hearing.
Waverly had gone very still. “Is this a joke?” she demanded, her tone indignant.
“No,” Charlie insisted, a little piqued that Waverly would think she would joke about such a serious matter. “I have two good ovaries, as far as I know. I might as well put them to use. I mean, we’ll have to get everything checked out medically, obviously, just to make sure everything’s in good working order. But if it is, I’ll carry a baby for you.”
Waverly just stared, unblinking, as though she’d been turned to stone. Her face was blanched of all color.
“Everything all right, girls?” Barbara stopped at their table. “I think word got out that you’re here. There’s a TV crew coming through the door.” She nodded toward the entrance.
Charlie glanced over to the door. Indeed, a cameraman and a reporter were headed straight for them. The redhead wearing a fuchsia suit and holding a microphone looked slightly familiar, and in a moment Charlie placed her. Jessica Archer. Head cheerleader of the Cooksville Wildcats their senior year of high school. If Charlie recalled correctly, Jessica and Waverly had competed both for that position and for prom queen. Jessica won head cheerleader; Waverly was crowned queen. Neither had been particularly fond of defeat or of each other.
“Look sharp,” she murmured. “We’ve got company, and it’s a blast from the past.”
Waverly turned to see Jessica headed straight toward her, and in half a second she transformed, slipping instantly into her Simply Perfect persona. She straightened, brushing her hair back over her shoulder, and pasted on a gracious smile.
“We’re not done with this discussion,” Waverly said through gritted teeth, her smile bright and unwavering. “And for the record, I think you’re crazy.” Then she turned to the approaching news crew with practiced ease.
“Good morning, I’m Jessica Archer for Channel 9, your only local news station for Athens County.” Apparently already on the air, Jessica maneuvered herself to neatly block Charlie from the camera and focus her attention on Waverly.
Charlie scooted her chair away from the table a little, sat back, and watched the interchange with amusement.
“I’m here this morning with our own local Food Network star Waverly Talbot. And may I say she is looking simply perfect.” Jessica tittered at her own joke. The camera swung from Jessica to Waverly, who smiled and gave a little nod as though she’d been expecting to be ambushed at breakfast, indeed that she welcomed the attention. Only Charlie noticed the tightness at the corners of her smile.
“And what brings Cooksville’s very own celebrity chef to the Early Bird Café this fine fall morning?” Jessica trilled.
Waverly waved away the compliment gracefully. “Just enjoying a healthy breakfast to start my day off right,” she said. “It’s always a pleasure to be back in Cooksville.”
Charlie smirked at the blatant lie, and Waverly shot her a sideways warning look.
“And how is Ernie’s cooking this morning?” Jessica asked, shoving the microphone into Waverly’s face, so close her lips brushed the foam cover.
Waverly backed away a few inches. “Like coming home,” she said with a glance at her sister’s breakfast platter. Charlie chuckled.
“Well, word on the street is that Simply Perfect is now ranked in the top one hundred shows on the Food Network.” Jessica smiled sweetly, emphasizing the number one hundred, and Charlie thought her tone held a hint of malice. So, the old high school rivalry might not exactly be dead.
“Number nineteen, to be exact,” Waverly replied just as sweetly.
Charlie looked around the café. A small crowd was beginning to form outside the door, locals peering through the large plate glass window to see what the television van parked outside was all about. Every patron in the restaurant was watching the exchange in fascination, their forks poised motionless over their plates.
“Well, Waverly Talbot, we wish you and Simply Perfect all the best. Perhaps this is the year you’ll finally outrank The Pioneer Woman. We’re rooting for you, although those biscuits of hers are hard to beat.” Jessica turned to the camera after delivering this zinger and signed off. “This is Jessica Archer with Channel 9, your only local news source for Athens County.” She closed the segment and lowered her microphone, then turned back to Waverly. The cameraman lowered his camera and fiddled with the settings.
“What brings you back to little old Cooksville, Waverly?” Jessica asked with a smile as cold as an ice cube. “A special occasion?”
Waverly met her gaze with an equal lack of warmth. “A death in the fam
ily,” she said calmly, taking a sip of green tea.
“I . . . hadn’t heard,” Jessica stammered, having the grace to look embarrassed.
Charlie scooted her chair back to the table, edging around the reporter, and speared two bites of her now cold waffles. Waverly turned back to her own breakfast, and Jessica stood beside their table awkwardly for a moment.
“Well, we really should go. Come on, Kevin.” Jessica gestured for the cameraman to follow her. She gripped her microphone. “We’re covering a landmark city council meeting on waste management at ten,” she told Waverly. “Tune in tonight on channel nine to see your interview. If it doesn’t get bumped by something more important.”
“Like waste management,” Charlie offered around a mouthful of waffle.
Jessica had barely cleared the door when Waverly rounded on Charlie.
“What do you mean you want to have a baby for me?” she demanded, leaning in so she could not be heard by the other diners around them.
Charlie took a sip of orange juice, surprised by Waverly’s reaction. Charlie had assumed, deep down, that her sister would be grateful for the offer, or delighted, or both. She’d imagined her disbelief melting to joy, the distance of the past years fading away in the light of her gratitude. But Waverly didn’t look grateful. She looked borderline furious. Her mouth was pursed like a pink prune.
“Order up!” Ernie yelled from the kitchen. Barbara brushed past them, her arms laden with plates of biscuits and sausage gravy.
Charlie leaned closer as well. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” she urged. “You said you couldn’t use a surrogate that would be half of Andrew and none of you. Well, I’m as close as you can possibly get without being you. We can use a sperm donor if that would make it feel less weird, you know, with Andrew being my brother-in-law and all. Let me do this for you. I’ll make a baby for you, and you can raise it.” She sat back and reached for her orange juice.
Becoming the Talbot Sisters Page 4
