I don’t say anything as I climb the stairs behind him. At the top of the stairs is a little landing. He unlocks the door to the apartment.
The apartment is bigger than it looks from the outside. The whole first floor is open plan with a big window in the front overlooking the street. At the back is a good-sized kitchen and a little dining area. The kitchen overlooks a garden at the back. I can see the other gardens of the nearby houses and, a little way down, a church steeple.
“It’s nice,” I say, meaning it. The room is painted a creamy-white color, and Dad has only a few pieces of furniture, but it seems like enough. I recognize an old rug from Peru hanging on the wall—it used to be in our old house. There’s also some framed school portraits of Kelsie and me up on the wall. There are no pictures of Mom or of us as a family.
“I like it,” he says. “It suits me. I have everything I need, and there’s two bedrooms upstairs. One is my study. I can do quite a lot of work at home. Plus…” he winks, “…there’s a fantastic little Indian takeout restaurant around the corner.”
“Sounds good.” I feel something building inside me like a wave. I like this apartment. I could see myself coming here sometimes. Doing my homework, having some peace and quiet. Someplace where there isn’t a lot of stuff everywhere, and where the TV isn’t on all the time, and where I don’t have to worry about what kind of mood Mom’s in, or about my sister annoying me…
But that future—one where Dad’s a part of my life—isn’t going to happen. It can’t happen. Not until I find out why I’m here, and why now.
“Would you like a drink?” Dad asks. “I’ve got juice, and tea, and Diet Coke. Or water.”
“No.” I walk over to him. “I don’t want anything. Not until we talk.”
He nods gravely. “I understand.” He sits at the table. I sit opposite him. I feel like I’m a police officer and he’s a criminal, or maybe it’s the other way around.
“Ever since you’ve come back, things have gone pear-shaped,” I say. “Mom was happy—she was going to marry Em-K. She and I were getting along. Kelsie was getting used to the idea of a new stepdad—and she loved the idea of being a bridesmaid. But now…” I take a breath. “I don’t know. They’re fighting all the time, and she’s being really horrible to him.”
“Isn’t that just wedding nerves?”
“I want to know if you’re trying to stir things up. Make her not marry Em-K. I want to know if you’re trying to come back in our lives.” I break off, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I’ve said way too much. Mom will probably be furious.
Dad is silent for a long moment. He stares at his hands. “Scarlett, I promise you, I am not trying to ‘stir things up.’ That’s not why I moved back here. I love you and your sister, and your mother too—she was my wife and is the mother of my two girls.” He smiles. I don’t smile back.
“I realized that I’d made a mistake long before your mom told me she was remarrying.”
I shift in my chair, uncomfortable.
He holds up a hand. “Not a mistake in letting your mom get on with her life. Things were never going to work out between us. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s the truth.”
I nod mutely.
“The mistake was leaving like I did. Without accounting for the impact it would have on you, and then moving so far away.” He sighs. “I guess I thought that would make the break easier. And in some ways, maybe it did. But there hasn’t been a day gone by when I didn’t wonder about you and your sister, and how you were getting along…and miss you.” His voice catches.
“So, to answer your question, Scarlett, I do want to be back in your life. Though I have no right to think that you’ll want me or have me.” He smiles sadly. “I’d love to be able to see you from time to time. Maybe even cook with you. Believe it or not, I used to love to cook.”
“You mentioned that in your email.”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Not that I was very good at it, mind you. But that’s not what matters. It was the process I liked. Adding a little of this, a little of that—and getting something completely different at the end, if that makes sense.”
It makes perfect sense. “You made spaghetti Bolognese once,” I say. “I remember. It was good.”
“That’s what I was going to make tonight. It’s my ‘specialty dish.’” He holds up his hand and whispers, “More like, the only thing I can guarantee will be edible.”
“Sure.”
“Or we could order out—or go out. Whatever you want. I’m just happy that you’re here.”
“So, you don’t want to marry Mom again?” I say. Right now, I’m not sure how whatever he answers will make me feel.
He shakes his head. “There’s a Buddhist saying that ‘you can’t step twice into the same river.’ Your mom and I had our chance. It didn’t work out. I’m happy that she’s happy with Emory.”
“Well…I thought she was. But I know the two of you have been talking a lot—going for coffee. It seemed weird—and I know it bothers Em-K.”
Dad sighs. “That was probably a bad idea. But she said she didn’t have many friends and wanted someone to talk to other than the groom-to-be. And she also wanted to clear the air about what happened between us. To try and make sure that history doesn’t repeat itself.” He smiles. “Not that I think it will. Em-K seems a much more sensible guy than I am.”
“I guess it’s nice if you can be friends—as long as that’s all you are.”
“Scarlett…” He looks me straight in the eye. “That’s all we are—I promise.”
“Okay.” I risk a smile. “Thanks…Dad.”
Chapter 33
A New Member
Dad chops vegetables and I cook the meat. When that’s done, we put everything into a pot, add salt, pepper, tomatoes, oregano, and plenty of garlic, and I stir the Bolognese sauce over low heat. We chat a little about cooking—what my favorite things are to cook—what his are—and about the Secret Cooking Club.
“Your friends sound very special,” he says. He puts a pan of water on the stove to boil.
“They are. And we were all set to cook the wedding food too.” I tell him all about the menu we wanted to do, and how we wanted to get as many kids helping us as we could. I tell him about Annabel Greene and how keen she was to help. Then I tell him about Producer Poppy and how what we wanted to do “just won’t work.”
“Why not?” Dad says, frowning.
“I don’t know. She says it will be too complicated and they aren’t ‘equipped’ for that.”
“But they have a whole TV studio that’s a kitchen. I’ve seen it.”
“I’m supposed to be going there tomorrow,” I say, suddenly breathless. “But to be honest, I’m petrified.” I tell him about my stage fright and about how ever since Mom put me in the spotlight with her blog, I’ve hated the idea of people knowing stuff about me.
“That’s understandable.” He sounds like he’s thinking over what I’ve been saying. One thing I never realized before—Dad’s a pretty good listener.
“You think so?”
“I think you should stick to your guns. You’ll do the show with your friends, but not on your own. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Do you think you could get them to come along with you tomorrow? It’s pretty short notice.”
“I don’t know. I could try. We often meet on Sundays anyway.”
“If you want to make a few calls, I can finish up the food.”
“But what about the producer?”
He gives a cryptic smile. “I’ve been doing some work at the TV station—as you know. I’ve run into Poppy before. I could make a call or two after dinner, if you like.”
He winks at me, and somehow, I get the idea that he knows her better than he’s letting on. “Really?” I say. “Do you think that will work?�
�
“I can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a try.”
While Dad’s making a green salad, I give Gretchen a quick call. She’s in the middle of cooking dinner with her mom, so I explain quickly what I need her to do. To her credit, she doesn’t ask a lot of questions—or any, really. “Leave it to me,” she says. And I do.
Finally, the pasta’s ready. I set the table, and Dad brings the dishes over. The pasta and sauce are steaming when he takes off the lids.
“It smells good,” I say.
“I think the ingredients make a difference. I got these vegetables from a little organic market near work. Next year, I’m hoping to grow some in the garden.”
“Cool,” I say.
We serve ourselves, and I take a bite of the spaghetti cooked just right, and the sauce—a little bit more garlicky than my friends and I usually make it.
“Maybe we could do this for Mom and Kelsie sometime,” I say.
“I’d like that,” Dad says. “And Emory too. Unless you think that would be too weird.”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll need to see what happens.”
Dad takes a big bite of pasta and chews it thoughtfully. “Do you want me to have a word with your mom? About…what we talked about?”
“No—not yet. Give me a chance to do it first.”
Dad agrees. We each have seconds of spaghetti and salad, and then he tries the dessert that Violet and I made. Even though it was easy to make—all we did was mix together strawberries, cream, and little broken-up pieces of meringue—the textures are really good together, and it’s light and fresh.
“Delicious,” Dad says, after taking a huge bite. He smiles. “I’d like to say you got your cooking talent from me, but I could never do anything like this!”
I laugh. “You might be able to if you check out the recipe on the website. We try to keep things as simple as possible so anyone can make them.”
“You mean you’d have me as a member of the Secret Cooking Club?”
I smile proudly. “‘The Little Cook’ already has thousands of followers,” I say. “But between you and me, she’s always happy when one more person joins up.”
The Secret Cooking Club
May 6
Guess what? My dad can cook! I said things were kind of weird with me lately, and that’s the truth. But one good thing has happened. Recently, my dad came back to live in town. I didn’t want to see him at first because I was upset by some things he did in the past—leaving my mom and our family and stuff. But I decided that I’d give him a chance. We got together and cooked a big pot of spaghetti Bolognese and salad. My friend and I made an Eton mess for dessert—it was really easy and quick to make, and tasted really yummy—full of cream and berries, and crunchy meringue. I’m not saying everything is perfect now—far from it. But I’m happy to say that cooking together has brought us closer, and I feel better about him than I have in a long time! I even invited him to join the club. So Dad, if you’re reading this…welcome to the Secret Cooking Club.
The Little Cook xx
Chapter 34
A Monster Banished
When Dad drops me home (with a container of leftover spaghetti Bolognese), Kelsie’s already asleep and Mom’s not in her Cave. I put the container in the fridge and go upstairs. In my room, I sit on my bed and text Violet that everything went well, and that the dessert went down great. She texts me back that the core group of friends: her, Gretchen, Alison, Fraser, Naya, Nick—and…Annabel Greene can all make it tomorrow. My heart feels like it’s flipping somersaults—but in a good way. I almost feel like this TV thing might be fun. If…they let my friends be part of it. If…there’s even going to be a wedding.
I leave my phone to charge and go down the hall. There’s a light on under Mom’s door, and the sound of typing. I knock quietly. “Mom?” I say.
The typing stops. There’s a long pause.
“What is it?” the reply finally comes.
Taking it as an invitation, I open the door. Mom’s sitting on her bed. All around her are bits of glossy paper torn up like confetti. It’s then that I realize—it’s the wedding file.
“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling an icy chill go through me.
“What does it look like? The wedding’s off.” She spreads her hands to indicate the carnage.
“No—it can’t be!” I rush over to her and try to put my hand on her shoulder. She pulls away.
“Go to your room, Scarlett. There’s nothing you can do.”
Ignoring her, I plunk down on the bed, sending up a whirlwind of paper.
“I just don’t understand,” I say. “You and Em-K—you’re good together. You…laugh together. He loves you.”
“Nonsense! If he loves me, then why did he walk out?”
“He was angry,” I say. “You were fighting.”
“You shouldn’t have been listening. And why do you care, anyway?”
I shake my head, frustrated that I can’t get through to her. “I care because I love you. He’s good for…all of us.”
“You make it sound like it’s a nice fairy tale,” Moms says. “And they rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after. But did they really?” She raises an eyebrow. “You know that he’ll never be your dad. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Is that what this is about? Dad? Dad coming back? Because, he told me he wasn’t trying to stir things up. I believe him.” I take a breath, suddenly scared. “Unless…”
I open my mouth and then close it again. I can’t deny that once or twice I’ve had little fantasies late at night, where Dad comes groveling back, Mom takes him in, and we’re a family again. But in the morning, when I remember my thoughts, I feel sick to my stomach—like I’ve been to a carnival and eaten way too many sweets. Because in the light of day, I know the difference between fantasy and reality. But I’m not so sure about Mom.
“Unless you’re still in love with him…” I choke out the words.
“In love—with your dad!” She looks at me with a mixture of disgust and disbelief.
Then she laughs bitterly, as tears begin to pour from her eyes.
“For all this time, I thought I hated him,” she says. “He left, and it hurt so much—it was so humiliating. Having him back here has brought it all back like it was yesterday. I don’t hate him now—I’ve come to realize that. I just feel like I’m on a roller coaster, churning up inside.” She shakes her head. “I can’t get married again—can’t go through that again.”
Something loosens inside my chest, as I try to understand what Mom’s saying. “You mean, you’re scared, Mom?”
“No…I…” She turns away from me and faces the wall. “When Emory walked out the other day, it was as though I’d been waiting for it all along. A ‘self-fulfilling prophecy,’ they call it. No man is going to stay around here, living in this kind of mess and chaos.” She shakes her head. “I was foolish to want to try again.”
“Em-K loves you!” I say, my eyes filling with tears. “He didn’t walk out the other day because he was leaving us—like…” I take a breath, “…Dad did. Em-K left because he thought you didn’t love him. Because his heart was broken.” I press my lips together. “It sounded like the TV show meant more to you than he did.”
“No… I mean, that can’t be right.” She turns to me, her face stricken.
“Please, Mom…” I say, “Em-K wants to marry you. I know it. And he isn’t like Dad. He’s different. And I thought—no, I still think—that deep down, he makes you happy.”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was doing the right thing by trying to patch things up with your dad—be friends, even. He hurt me, and then I tried to get back at him through the blog. I wanted to make things right before I married again. So I could move on from that chapter of our lives.”
I nod. �
�You needed closure,” I say.
“Closure.” She looks at me with puzzled admiration. “Yes, I suppose that’s it. But then I realized that maybe what happened was my fault, and then I…got scared—as you say.” Her eyes widen as if she’s horrified by the revelation. “And the TV show, and everything else, and now…well…I don’t know.”
“Then listen to me,” I say. “Em-K loves you, and you love him. Things are less…dramatic than with Dad. They’re normal.” I hesitate. “No—that’s not the right word.” I take a breath. “They’re good. Really good. And if I have to wear a ridiculous, pink, puffy bridesmaid’s dress to prove it, then I will.”
Mom looks up in alarm. “I thought we decided on lavender.”
“Okay, I guess we did.”
She leans against me, taking my hand in hers. “When Emory said he wished we’d elope, I was so angry. Because for a second, it sounded like the perfect solution to everything. No stress, no guest list, no awful white dress that makes me look like a cross between a marshmallow and a zombie. I could picture us—just the two of us—plus you and your sister, of course, and maybe a few friends. I’d wear my white linen dress with the blue flowers, and flip-flops. We’d sit around and eat and drink and laugh, and it would be…” she sighs. “But of course, that isn’t what I want. Not really.”
“Isn’t it, Mom?”
“Oh, Scarlett,” she says, shaking her head. “What have I done?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed, hopefully.” I focus on trying to lend her my newfound strength. I’ve been brave and faced my issues with Dad. Now, it’s her turn to do the right thing.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and give Em-K a call?” I say. “I’ll come down and make you a cup of hot chocolate, just after I clean up all this paper.”
Cake and Confessions Page 15
