Detour on Route 66 (Choices: Story Five)

by Beth Carpenter

  ***

  Marsha had finally stopped crying. She sat on her comfortable old couch, a homemade quilt on her lap, stroking Lindy’s soft fur, and thinking about her marriage. It had been nineteen months since she lost Eric, and she thought she had her emotions under control, but today the pain felt as raw as if it were yesterday.

  She thought of casual conversations she’d had with Eric about friends who had suffered a loss. They had talked as though getting over it was simply a decision. “He needs to move on,” she had said, or “She’s having a hard time letting go.” She’d had no idea just how hard it was to let go of the love of your life. She gave a silent apology to all those people whose grief she had taken lightly.

  She thought she’d made some progress this weekend. Ben was fun. They had been having such a good time together. She was seriously considering accompanying him on this trip until he mentioned the redwoods. That’s when she realized she couldn’t betray Eric, going with another man to visit all the places they had planned to see together. It just wouldn’t be right.

  The doorbell rang. She hoped it wasn’t Ben. How could she possibly explain that his only sin was being too nice? She looked through the peephole. Rebecca was waiting on the porch, carrying a tote bag. There were worry lines between her eyebrows.

  Marsha opened the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Ben said you might need a friend. May I come in?”

  “Okay.” Marsha opened the door, and Rebecca followed her into the living room. She frowned over the tearstains on Marsha’s face but didn’t comment before opening her shopping bag.

  “I’ve got chocolates, ice cream, and a bottle of wine. What’s your poison?”

  Marsha had to laugh. “None of those things.” She looked into the face of her well-meaning friend. “Would you like me to teach you how to make chocolate chip cookies?”

  “I would love that.”

  The two women moved into the kitchen, where Marsha put the ice cream in the freezer, washed her hands, and reached into the refrigerator to remove butter and eggs. Marsha’s kitchen was homey, comfortable, and efficient, just like her. Shiny copper-bottomed pots dangled from a rack overhead, while a crock full of utensils shared space on the butcher-block counter with a wooden knife holder. Cheerful café curtains made from vintage tea towels hung on a black wrought iron rod at the window.

  Marsha turned on the oven and reached into various nearby cabinets to set out the dry ingredients and equipment. Finally, she walked over to a bookshelf near the table and pulled out a stained book, the original red cover now faded to pink.

  “This was my mother’s cookbook. Maybe I’m just sentimental, but I think this is the best chocolate chip cookie recipe I’ve ever tried.”

  Rebecca washed her hands and focused her attention on Marsha. “Teach me, Sensei.”

  Marsha smiled at her. “We should have softened the butter at room temperature for an hour or so, but we can do the same thing in the microwave in ten seconds.” She demonstrated. “Okay, now we cream together the butter, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla and egg. Mixing the vanilla with the butter before we add the flour insures the flavor is evenly distributed through the cookie dough.”

  Rebecca operated the hand mixer and creamed together the ingredients. Marsha showed her how to mix in the flour, baking soda, and salt, and then how to add in the chocolate chips and pecans.

  “Now we shape the dough into three-quarter inch balls and place them two inches apart on a lightly greased cookie sheet.”

  “Wait, don’t we get to eat the dough?”

  Marsha held up a scolding finger. “As a home economics teacher, I must warn you that eating raw cookie dough containing egg puts you at risk of salmonella poisoning.” Marsha’s eyes twinkled. “As an emotionally fragile woman, I say let’s live dangerously.” She broke off a tiny piece and ate it.

  Rebecca laughed and tossed a bit of dough into her mouth. “Yum. It’s worth the risk.”

  They started to form the dough into balls and placed them on the cookie sheet, occasionally pinching off small pieces to eat. “Now they bake for eight to ten minutes until the edges begin to brown.”

  They covered a second sheet with balls of dough as the first batch cooked. The house began to fill with the irresistible smell of baking cookies as the timer went off. Marsha placed the cookie sheet on a wire rack to cool, and moved another sheet into the oven. She got out two glasses and poured them each some milk. Then she used a spatula to transfer two of the melting-hot cookies to small plates and handed one to Rebecca. She picked up the milk and the other plate and led Rebecca to the wooden table across the kitchen. They both sat down.

  “So, what did Ben say when you talked to him?” Marsha asked.

  “Only that you were upset. Did he do something to offend you?”

  Marsha shook her head. “Just the opposite. He couldn’t have been kinder or more understanding.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “It’s me. I feel so guilty. Ben and I had a great time together this weekend. He asked me to ride along for the rest of his Route 66 trip.”

  “And you felt pressured?”

  “No, I felt tempted. Then he mentioned the California redwoods.”

  A look of comprehension appeared on Rebecca’s face. “And you remembered how you and Eric were going to see the redwoods.”

  Marsha nodded, blinking. “Yes. I felt like such a heel, even considering taking a trip with another man.”

  Rebecca looked thoughtful. She bit into her cookie and closed her eyes, a blissful expression appearing on her face. After savoring the flavor for several seconds, she opened her eyes. “Marsha, this is without doubt the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve ever tasted.”

  Marsha smiled. “I know. My mother taught me how to make them.”

  Rebecca took a sip of milk. “Do you think your mother would mind that you’re sharing the recipe with me?”

  Marsha frowned. “Of course not. I’m honoring her memory by teaching you how to make cookies. She … oh.”

  “Yeah. Do you really think Eric would want you to avoid doing anything fun for the rest of your life, because he can’t be there?”

  “Of course not, but would he want me traveling with Ben? You were the one who warned me about him, you know.”

  Rebecca sighed. “I know. I told Dan about it on the way over to Prescott, that I was worried Ben would hurt you. He reminded me of something. When I was debating whether to marry Dan, Ben advised me that anything worth having involves risk, and of course, he was right. I think maybe I’m selling Ben short.”

  The timer went off, and Marsha moved across the kitchen to remove the next sheet of cookies from the oven. Ben had been so gentle with her, having fun, entertaining her, listening to her talk, holding her when she cried.

  She set the cookie sheet down to cool and looked at Rebecca. “I think you are. Selling Ben short, I mean.”

  “Do you think maybe you’re selling Eric short, too?”

  Marsha thought of her husband, about how much he loved her. He used to take her to every chick flick that passed through, even though he’d rather watch almost anything else. A few years ago, he had secretly planted two hundred daffodil bulbs along the edge of the driveway to surprise her in the spring. Even though he was gone, those bulbs had continued to bloom, an annual reminder of his devotion.

  She nodded slowly. “Maybe I am.”