The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship

by Shirley Jump

  Colleen looked up, shook her head and got back to the countertop cleaning. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Bridget, stop throwing a tantrum.”

  “This isn’t a tantrum. This is me finally realizing that I married a control freak”—she paused a beat—”because I grew up with one.”

  “I am not—”

  “Ma, I love you, but you are a total control freak, and you know it. You’ve been telling us all what to do for years. Which was fine when we were seven but not now, not when we’re all adults.” Bridget took the rag out of her mother’s hands, forcing her to listen. Ma got the deer-in-headlights look, as if she’d rather be anywhere but here, discussing the underpinnings of her family. “Every time any one of us tries to have a serious conversation with you, you blow us off.”

  “I don’t see the point in rehashing old history. I had a difficult childhood, but you don’t see me blaming every little thing on it.” Without the rag to clean the counters, she leaned against the wall, her body tense and coiled, ready to get busy with some other meaningless task.

  “History isn’t old if it keeps impacting the present. All your bluff and bluster, Ma, is so you don’t have to talk about the hard stuff like Dad dying and how much that hurt. Hurt you, hurt all of us.” Emotions long dormant, like frozen weeds in winter ground, creeped into her voice. Bridget saw it now, saw the domino effect from that moment twenty years ago when their father died and their mother had buried herself in everything but her family. “My God, where were you when we needed you?”

  “Where was I? I was right here, working in this bakery, trying to keep a roof over our heads.” She picked up the cleaning cloth where Bridget had put it down and threw it across the room. It hit the sink with a solid thunk. “You think I didn’t hurt? You think I didn’t cry every single day after I lost your father? You think I never got weak, that I never lost myself and made mistakes?”

  Bridget couldn’t remember a solitary second when she’d seen her mother cry. Never a moment of weakness. Only work and expectations that were foisted on the girls.

  “I think you thought you were doing us a favor by keeping all that to yourself.” Bridget took a step closer to her mother and leaned on the counter. “You were wrong, Ma. We needed someone there to let us know it was okay to cry. To fail. To be messy and imperfect, and that you would love us just the same.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Ma threw up her hands. “Of course I love you girls.”

  “Regardless of who or what we are? Whether our hair is brushed or we’re quiet in church or we fail algebra? Or we make choices that don’t fit your prescription for our lives?” Bridget scoffed and pointed toward the back door. “Try telling that to the daughter you hurt so badly. We may never see her again.”

  “Abigail? She’ll be back. It’s just a—”

  “Tantrum? No, Ma, it’s not.” Frustration bubbled inside Bridget. All these years, her mother had controlled and judged—and never understood. “And you are too blind to what is going on with all of us to even see that.”

  Ma turned away. She checked the loaves in the top oven and inserted the cakes into the bottom oven. She trembled, grabbed the edge of the counter, then straightened and began tipping the loaves out of the pans. “I’m working, Bridget. I’ll talk to Abigail later.”

  Bridget sighed. Why did she stay here and keep arguing? It was like trying to convince a wall to bend. “This bakery matters more to you than your children.”

  Ma put a loaf of bread onto the counter and reached for a bread knife. Steam wafted off of the warm surface. “It does not.”

  “Oh yeah? Then prove it.” Bridget waited a moment but her mother kept busy slicing the finished loaves, her back to her daughter. “That’s what I thought. I’m done here.”

  Bridget ripped off her apron, threw it in the corner, and walked out of the bakery. The back door shut with a heavy slam. It was the second time she’d quit the bakery in three years, except this time the decision had been entirely hers and entirely about family.

  She found Nora in the parking lot, leaning against her car, arms crossed. She was still wearing her bakery apron and had a smudge of flour on her nose. “Abby left. I tried to get her to stop, but she hailed a cab and was gone.”

  “We’ll talk to her later.” Bridget tipped her head to the sun and let out a long breath. “I just told Ma off and I quit.”

  Nora arched a brow. “You did? For real?”

  “For real. I think I’m definitely out of the will now.” She tossed a grin at Nora. “Those Hummels are all yours, sis.”

  Nora wagged a finger at Bridget. “Not so fast. I’m joining the O’Bannon Girls’ Revolution and quitting too.”

  Nora, the responsible, practical, dependable one, was the last person in the world she could imagine quitting the bakery. Bridget had always thought Nora would be the only one of the girls to take over when Ma retired. “You? Why would you quit?”

  “Because I think it’s high time we all took a stand. And supported Abby.”

  On the other side of the heavy metal back door, chances were good that Ma was inside, muttering about her ungrateful daughters. Bridget was stunned that her mother hadn’t come out after any of the girls, that she hadn’t even tried to get them to stay.

  Abby’s strength and confidence had been contagious. Bridget used that to fuel her own words and to stand her ground here, with Nora, rather than going back inside and making peace. Abby needed them—and Bridget was done letting Abby down.

  “I think it’s about time everyone in this family got honest,” she said. “With themselves and with each other. Listening to Abby talk about Jessie and how much she loved her and how Jessie made her feel…” Bridget shook her head. “I never had that with Jim. I kept telling myself I did, but it was just to keep myself from realizing that I had made a colossal mistake. You all were right about him, and I didn’t realize it until I was already married. In fact I was…”

  “What?”

  “Leaving him. I had made plans to walk away that week because I didn’t see how we could fix the problems we had. And good Lord, I was only seeing the tip of our problems. Turned out things were far worse than I knew.” She leaned against the hood of her car. Getting honest felt like shit when you were doing it, but as soon as the truth left her, a sense of freedom and liberation filled the space left behind. “I felt so guilty about him dying that day, and because of that, I’ve been drinking too much wine and putting off decisions I should have made long ago. He was never the husband I thought he was, and I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. I’m moving forward, and if that means leaving this place, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Nora let out a low whistle. “Wow. You really have changed, Bridge.”

  “In good ways, I think.” The sun above them was bright, the day open to possibilities and new ventures. Bridget had expected to be panicked about the loss of full-time income, but instead, she felt…peace. Because what she was finding instead was so much sweeter than any paycheck could ever be. She was finding her family, her sisters, and for that she was grateful. “Come on, sis, let’s ride the crazy train with Abby.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Colleen sank onto the carpeted kneeler, clasped her hands together, lowered her forehead to her steepled fingers, and tried to pray. For the first time in her life, no words came to mind, no solace. Nothing but an aching pain that filled her chest.

  She had lost her girls. Three of them, walking out of her life at once. She had no doubt Magpie would do the same once she talked to the others. The four girls had always had a bond as strong as superglue. Something Colleen had encouraged—

  Until it came back to haunt her.

  She prayed to a God who wasn’t listening, asking Him where she had gone wrong, how she had failed as a parent. How she could undo all of this and go back to the days when they’d all been happy.

  She raised her head and watched the flicker of the prayer candles. The church was quiet—nearly empty in the middle
of the day, and only a handful of candles were lit, two of them by Colleen. One for her dear Michael and another for her girls. The light danced before her eyes, and the votives began to melt to their quicks, but nothing changed.

  Bridget was right. She had turned away from her children when Michael died. But the girls didn’t understand—they’d been too young, too confused—to see that Colleen’s grief had been a constant tsunami, threatening to swamp her every waking minute. As soon as she woke up in the morning, all she saw was four mouths to feed, a mortgage to pay, food to buy…the list never ended. She’d had panic attacks that launched her out of bed at three in the morning, nights when she’d paced the floors trying to balance an upside-down budget, drinking wine just so she could feel some measure of peace, and so many days when she’d forgone a meal so her children would have enough.

  Work had been her salvation. When Mary had found out how much Colleen was drinking, she’d encouraged Colleen to put that stress into work. It had taken a while, but eventually she stopped thinking about the bottles under the sink and began to see her life ease up. The repetition of mix, bake, serve, had numbed her mind, subdued her pain. Church had given her the forgiveness she needed and eased her guilt over spending all those hours earning money instead of being with her girls. But now those two things no longer worked, no longer quieted her mind. She found the remorse creeping into her thoughts, felt the weight of her busy life on her shoulders, and she craved…peace.

  When she’d been a little girl, she’d begged her father to let her get on a ride at the fair that spun in a circle. From the outside, it hadn’t looked so bad, or very fast. But as soon as the carney started the motor, she realized she’d underestimated the ride.

  The curved seat looped back and forth, then swooped around as centrifugal force propelled it faster on the track. She’d gripped the metal bar so tight that she could no longer feel her hands. All she wanted to do was get off the ride, get back to solid, stable ground, but she knew the second she moved, the ride would pitch her into the air. So she held on tight, closed her eyes, and prayed. When the ride finally came to a stop, she’d still been so sure she would tumble to the ground that she didn’t move. Her father had to climb onto the metal platform, pry her hands from the silver bar, and lead her back to the fair.

  That was what her life had become in the last two decades—a spinning dervish she didn’t know how to get off of. She couldn’t make it stop, couldn’t slow it down. So she lowered her head again and whispered prayers into the dim cavern of the church.

  A light touch on her back. Colleen turned to find Father McBride beside her in the pew. “Oh, hello, Father.”

  “Is everything all right, Colleen? I never see you at church in the middle of the day.”

  “Just a tough day at work.” She started to add that she was fine and stopped herself. She thought of the hundreds of times she had refused help or feigned happiness, when inside, she felt like she was falling apart. All those lies, to protect…what? Her girls were gone, driven away by the very rigidity that Colleen had used to get through twenty tough years. “It’s more than that. I had a disagreement with my daughters and…all three quit working for me today.”

  Father McBride’s brows rose. “Oh my. That must have been quite an argument.”

  “It was.” She drew in a deep breath and decided if she couldn’t be honest with the man who had heard her confessions for four decades, who could she be honest with? “And on top of that, my daughter Abigail told me she is marrying a woman.”

  Father McBride nodded. “Okay.”

  Colleen had braced herself for a long, stern lecture. Father McBride’s easy acceptance of the news surprised her. “And that is a sin against the church. How can I support her and still come here to worship?”

  Father McBride pushed his glasses up on his nose and turned to face Colleen. His blue eyes weren’t as bright now, forty years after he’d joined their church, and his face was thinner, more lined, but his voice still held the same calm wisdom. “She is your daughter, Colleen. While the church decries gay marriage and homosexual acts, it also recognizes that all people, regardless of their race or sexual preference, deserve to be loved.” He covered the back of her hand and gave it a squeeze. “She is your daughter. Accept her. The rest is up to God.”

  “That’s it?”

  Father McBride smiled. “Well, there are many complicated layers to this issue, but in the end, they all boil down to the same thing. Love each other. I happen to think the world is a much better place when we do that. Don’t you?” He got to his feet and gave her shoulder a pat. “Please do pass on my greetings to Bridget. Tell her if she ever wants to go on a mission trip, we’ll have a spot on the bus for her.”

  Colleen would bet dollars to donuts that Bridget was never going to sit on that bus. “Thank you, Father, I will.”

  He gave her a nod and walked away. Colleen remained in the pew a while longer but the peace she had always found in church remained elusive.

  * * *

  The next morning, Bridget stood on the back deck, doing the math in her head. If she was careful with the retirement check, she could pay off the funeral home, give half to Jennelle for Jim’s daughter, and have a small, very small, cushion in the bank. There was still the mortgage to consider, which was more than she could handle alone.

  Which meant selling the house.

  Moving. Changing. Starting over.

  She also needed to find a new full-time job, but the retirement check would buy her a little bit of time to get there. The thought of a new future, one she created herself, still scared her a little. It had been so long since she had done anything like this that she wasn’t sure where to start.

  The sun began to rise over her backyard, waking the grass with a touch of gold and then kissing the shrubs and the primroses. Bridget lowered herself onto the top step and hugged her knees to her chest. Part of her wished Jim was still here. Someone else to make the decisions, call the Realtors, figure out what to pack, what to donate.

  But if Jim had been here and they’d still been married, there never would have been a family dinner this week or pizza and wine with Nora and Aunt Mary last night. He would have made all the decisions, controlling every facet of her life. As terrifying as it used to be for her to step up and be in charge, now there was a sense of excitement and reinvigoration running through Bridget. Maintaining a budget. Selling the house. Moving…somewhere. Finding a job. All major changes—

  But good ones.

  Decisions she was making on her own, for better or worse. Decisions that put the control in her hands again.

  Her life had upended in the last few months, but that fear of the future had begun to abate, and she was starting to feel like she was getting a handle on things. Selling the house didn’t frighten her nearly as much as she had thought it would.

  The back door opened with a squeak, and Aunt Mary came out onto the porch. Pedro trotted along beside her and then climbed into Bridget’s lap and curled into a tiny furry ball. “Looks like you made a friend,” Aunt Mary said.

  Bridget had gotten used to the dog and had to admit she liked him. Maybe after Aunt Mary left, Bridget would get a dog of her own. She’d never had one—Ma had always said she had her hands full enough with the bakery and four daughters—and it might be nice to, as Garrett had said weeks ago, let something living depend on her again. Of course, she hadn’t had great luck with the hummingbird, so maybe that was a sign she should wait on pets.

  “He’s a good dog.” She rubbed Pedro behind his right ear, and he curved his body into hers and let out a little groan. “I’ve liked having him around more than I expected.”

  “Well, don’t get too used to it.” Aunt Mary smiled. “I’m feeling much stronger, and soon, I think, I’ll be off on another adventure.”

  “Already? Why don’t you stick around a little while longer? We’ve loved catching up with you.” Although Aunt Mary did look better now than when she’d first arrived. She had more
color in her cheeks, a bigger spring in her step. She’d been more active and even started doing some of the cooking and housework.

  “It’s…difficult to be here,” Aunt Mary said.

  “If I’ve made you feel unwelcome—”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all.” Aunt Mary sat down on the step and ran her hand over the dark wood decking. “There are…issues between your mother and me that we can’t seem to resolve.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  Aunt Mary cocked her head and studied her niece. “That sounds like something more than the normal family squabbles. What happened?”

  “Long story short? A nuclear meltdown in the O’Bannon family.” Bridget explained about Abby and Jessie and how she and Nora had quit after Abby had walked out. “We had it out with Ma in the bakery. Then when I realized she wasn’t going to try to fix things with Abby, and she was just going to go on being the same stubborn person she always was, I told her I didn’t want her controlling my life anymore.”

  “Wow. How’d she take that?”

  “I don’t know. I left, and she didn’t follow.” Bridget shrugged, as if the lump of disappointment in her gut didn’t grow with every passing second of no texts, no phone calls from her mother. How could she let all three of them leave?

  “Well, I won’t say I’m surprised. Just surprised it took this long to come to a head.” Aunt Mary rested her arms on her knees and drew in a deep breath. “There’s something you should know about your mother. About why she is the way she is. She had a tough childhood. I know you all loved your grandmother, and she was a wonderful woman—when she was older. But when we were kids, she was…tough. She had to be. Your grandpa was a bit of a drinker, and your grandmother had the responsibility of raising the children, running the bakery, and cleaning up any messes your grandfather left behind.”