The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  Chapter Sixteen Addie Nestled into the thick of winter, Valentine’s Day arrives, and Welcome Home is drunk on love. Pink and red tinsel is strewn about chair backs, bowls filled with candy hearts have been placed on every table, and lacy cutout cupids are taped to the windows. We’re playing an old mix of love songs from Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Armstrong. Sundays are always the busiest day of the week, and today, because of the occasion, it’s crazier than ever. We work the crowd in sync. Like intimate partners dancing a complicated tango, we know the direction to turn our heads according to the beat, never stepping on one another’s toes. My job, as always, is to greet and seat, fill glasses with water, and ensure each of our guests is wearing a smile. That’s easy today; the restaurant’s filled with my favorite customers. Tory and Wally have just entered and are lingering inside the front door. Wally holds a Free Press in his gloved hands. I take their coats and escort the

  Chapter Seventeen Sam Quiche has the day off. I’m taking her place at the flattop, flipping trout fillets and grilling buttered bread, my thoughts to myself. Last night, while Uriah and I were shopping at Home Depot for new light-switch plates, he called me honey. Honey, I’m thinking aged bronze will look better than the polished brass. Seriously? Honey? We’ve expressed our love for each other, yada yada, so why would I be thrilled when he called me honey? Because the word is comfortable, domestic, a sweet endearment that takes our relationship to the next plateau. Besides, aside from my dad, no man has ever addressed me using a word that sounds so sweet. As we shopped for fixtures, I felt as if he were taking ownership in my home. But that’s not the case. Last week he gave notice to the Boggs School; he will be leaving after the school year, sometime in mid-June. Here’s what I dare not speak of to anyone, especially Addie: we’re fixing up my area of the home so she’ll have a better ch

  Chapter Eighteen Addie Sun Beam pushes her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, then swivels to face me. “It looks like there’s dirt on my face, but they’re ashes. It’s supposed to be a cross. Can you tell?” The streaked marks resemble a hieroglyph of a running child, arms outstretched into the wind. “They do look like a cross and remind me it’s Lent. You also wore them on Ash Wednesday, almost three weeks back.” Four days prior to Valentine’s Day. I was still with David. A different woman. “Is it your church’s tradition to wear them through the season?” “No. I’m the only one who wore them today. Our fireplace is filled with soot, so I got the idea.” “When I was a girl, every Ash Wednesday my minister rubbed the sign above my brows, too. Babcia would quote from Genesis as she admired my forehead. ‘For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return.’” I touch the girl’s forehead, smiling at the memory. Sun Beam and her mother are helping me finish up my traditional Lenten project

  Chapter Nineteen Sam A man stands outside the diner, his shadow long in the afternoon sun. He reaches out to open the door; his hand is large and dark, with pinkish palms. The knob wiggles, and then his torso slumps, as if he’s dejected it’s locked. I recognize him—Angus’s grandson. Braydon pointed him out to me when the man was entering Angus’s house, carrying a bag of groceries. My heart quickens, and I look toward the counter, pretending I don’t see him, relieved the door is bolted. He was released last month from prison. This man’s a felon. For heaven’s sake, what am I thinking? My eyes dart back to the windowpanes. Theo’s also a felon and one of our favorite patrons. And we’ve been hoping this dude’s granddad would stop by since day one. I stride across the floor, unlatching the door. He enters and extends his hand, which I take. “Good afternoon,” he says, his voice deep and friendly. The tailored lines of his coat accentuate his broad shoulders, his slim waist. “I’m Gary, your ne

  Chapter Twenty Addie It’s late in the day, and the afternoon sky is dove gray and early-March bleary. Sooty streaks paint the horizon. I just stepped off the bus at Woodward and Washington, and out of nowhere black clouds are rolling in. At once it’s raining—cold, heavy—pricking my cheeks, pelting me from all angles. It’s as if winter were being ushered in instead of out. I didn’t bring an umbrella and begin to sprint. My panting breath manifests in billowing clouds as I try outrunning the rain, now freezing into hail. I’m alone now, shivering and wet in the Polar Passage, watching the bears in their silent ballet. One of the slick, white beasts paddles over to greet me. Bubbles churn from a scarred nose on an immense, furry face—Talina. Does she recognize me? I haven’t been here since December. Our eyes lock as I fiddle with the rosary around my neck. Jessie’s healing beads were saving the space for the real deal. “So, Talina,” I say, mouthing the words through the pane. “David called

  Chapter Twenty-One Sam My gut churns thinking of how my decision to leave Detroit will affect Addie. A pit sits in my stomach, and procrastination is making it grow larger by the day. We’ve just closed the diner, and I’m at the counter placing daffodils in vintage teal bottles filled with water. The bottles’ globular bases are in the shape of teardrops, and Addie is arranging them on each table and across the counter. Trumpets of yellow-gold cheer brighten my mood, announcing the coming of spring. Uriah’s mom is on her second round of chemo. Our plans are to move to Tennessee by the end of June, but he wants to leave sooner. It will be easier on him knowing he’s only a short distance away from his parents. Besides, he’s a Southern man at heart; his roots in the culture run deep. Thank God David’s returned to Addie’s life. I feel as if a ton of bricks has been removed from my chest. My news will now be an easier pill for her to swallow; she won’t feel so alone. She doesn’t, however, wan

  Chapter Twenty-Two Addie Sam and I slide into David’s truck. My thigh is planted next to his, sittin’ country, as Quiche would say. He wears a navy sweatshirt that has a gold M, the insignia for the University of Michigan, stitched on the front. “Thanks for the lift, babe.” I turn my head to kiss him, and my nose twitches. He smells like me. Reading my mind, he laughs. “I know, I know. I ran out of shampoo. I’m sure yours costs a king’s ransom, so I’ll replenish my generic at the drugstore while you guys are in your meeting.” We fasten our seat belts as he heads north toward Woodward and Grand Boulevard. An early-morning rain washed the patina of decay away from the streets, and the sidewalks are wet, shining like silver. Scattered, low-hanging clouds resemble dandelions trembling in a breeze. They hover in the sky, the palest of blues, pooling into and reflecting away from the Renaissance Center’s mirrored facade. The RenCen, a group of interconnected skyscrapers, is world headquarter

  Chapter Twenty-Three Sam Heartbreak, misery, and tears are the baggage of hard decisions. At least when you’re following your heart. Knowing my choice doesn’t have to be forever consoled us both. Decisions don’t have to be permanent. They’re made to be broken, I had said to Uriah, before dissolving into tears. Tennessee’s only a nine-hour drive from Detroit. But we both knew the truth. Nine hours may as well be nine months in our worlds of complexities and schedules. I direct my attention to preparing the soil for our first spring crop. I spade the soil again and again, and with each thrust, replay the dialog. And then, with the back of my trowel, I smooth the dirt, working out my feelings. Today’s my birthday, which this year falls on Palm Sunday. It would be an anomaly for the occasion to slip by without a fuss, but with all the tumult in our lives of late, I’d be relieved if my thirty-second came and went unnoticed. The weather, as it’s been all month, is unseasonably warm. The wind

  The Recipes Quiche’s Buttermilk Pancakes with Apple-Maple Syrup and Walnuts Yield: 12 pancakes, with enough Apple-Maple Syrup* to accommodate Time: 45 minutes *Make the syrup before making the pancakes. Ingredients for Pancakes ¾ cup all-purpose flour ¾ cup whole-grain pastry flour or whole-wheat flour 2 tablespoons light-brown sugar 1½ teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon kosher salt 2 large eggs 1¾ cups buttermilk 1½ tablespoons melted unsalted butter Canola oil, as needed Apple-Maple Syrup with Walnuts (recipe follows) Directions for Pancakes Preheat the oven to 200 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk togeth
er both flours, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and kosher salt. In a medium-size bowl, beat together the eggs and buttermilk. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, then stir in the melted butter. Lightly coat a large nonstick griddle or skillet with oil and heat over medium-low heat (325 degrees). Using a ⅓-cup measure, ladle the batter ont

  Book Club Discussion Questions Who is your favorite character and why? If you were in Angus’s shoes, what would have been your reaction to the women and their diner? Do you believe that Angus was justified in his initial anger? Do you think the women were overreacting to the fact that their community was avoiding them? Were they overstepping boundaries? If not, what other things could the women have done to encourage a welcome reception from their neighbors? How much of a person’s character is shaped by their parents? Are your parents easy to recognize in yourself? Do you have certain inherited traits you wish you could change? If so, do you think therapy is a route that could be productive? How is your community addressing the issues of human trafficking? Are there vestiges of racism in your community? If so, how are they expressed? How are they or how could they be dealt with? Is there an area in your town or city that has gone through gentrification in the last five years? Were busi

  Author Note Every day in the United States, victims of human trafficking—predominantly sex trafficking—are being exploited. In rural, suburban, and urban areas across the country, hundreds of thousands of people are trapped with the belief that no help is available. Help exists. Polaris, a nonprofit nongovernmental organization, is a leader in the global fight to eradicate modern slavery and restore freedom to survivors of human trafficking. To make a donation go to www.PolarisProject.org. If you suspect human trafficking, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center hotline at 1-888-373-8888.

  Acknowledgments If not for my deep friendship with Lucy Carnaghi, I wouldn’t have been able to portray my characters, the diner, and the city of Detroit with such intimacy and compassion. Sincere thanks, as well, to Molly Mitchell and my neighbor Krystyna Bobowski. As I wrote this book, your stories were on my mind. Enormous gratitude to my family, especially to my deceased grandmother Mary Ellen. Those hours we spent cooking in your kitchen branded my spirit, shaping my life. To my husband, Richard, who understands I’ve the soul of a chameleon, assuming the identities of my characters. You’re a gem to endure my multiple personalities. To my son-in-law, Tom Rickmeyer, mathematical whiz, who inspired Uriah. To my children, Greta and Zan. Because of you I understand the passions of a mother—of any person—who loves a child. You gave me insight into LaQuisha, who would lay down her life if it meant her daughter could soar. Judge David Swartz, your expertise was invaluable. My prayer is tha

  About the Author Photo © 2016 John Shultz Peggy Lampman was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama. After earning a bachelor’s degree in communications—summa cum laude—from the University of Michigan, she moved to New York City, where she worked as a copywriter and photographer for a public-relations firm. When she returned to Ann Arbor, her college town, she opened a specialty foods store, the Back Alley Gourmet. Years later, she sold the store and started writing a weekly food column for the Ann Arbor News and MLive. Lampman’s first novel, The Promise Kitchen, published in 2016, garnered several awards and accolades. She is married and has two children. She also writes the popular blog www.dinnerfeed.com.

  Awards and Praise for The Promise Kitchen

  First Place, Fiction, 2015, Royal Dragonfly Book Awards

  Winner, Best New Fiction, 2016, National Indie Excellence Awards

  Silver, Bill Fisher Award for Best First Book: Fiction, 2016, IBPA Ben Franklin Awards

  “First-time author and food blogger Peggy Lampman knows the exact ingredients needed to create an appealing story . . . an eye-opening and thought-provoking must read.”

  —San Francisco Book Review, 5 stars

  “A sweetly told saga, bubbling with appealing characters and food-related talk . . . A poor country girl and a fashionable city woman learn about life in a tasty novel that blends romance and recipes.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Peggy Lampman is an engaging writer, capturing the heart of Southern living with wit, charm, and vivid detail as she alternates chapters between Shelby, Mallory, and Miss Ann . . . For readers who enjoy a Southern flavor to their stories, spending time in the company of these fine folks . . . will go down as easily as a slice of watermelon on a hot summer’s day.”

  —Blue Ink Review

  “A book full of flavor and substance worth savoring. The characters, particularly Shelby and Mallory, are well drawn and three-dimensional, with roots, ambitions, motivations, and personalities . . . a story full of the evocative, powerful influence of food, cooking, love, friendship, and family on the human heart.”

  —Indie Reader, 4½ stars

  OTHER TITLES BY PEGGY LAMPMAN

  The Promise Kitchen (previously published as Simmer and Smoke)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Peggy Lampman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542047821

  ISBN-10: 154204782X

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  For Lucy

  Contents

  Start Reading

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Recipes

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Pot Liquor: The broth leftover in a pot after simmering greens with smoked pork.

  Potlikker: Viscous brew, leaked from the soil, savory and bold. Heaven’s field of blackened greens, bitter and sweet.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER

  Babcia: grandmother (BAHB-cia)

  Bolesławiec: a town in southern Poland famous for its pottery (BOL-e-swa-viets)

  Delikatnie: gently (de-lee-COT-neh)

  Dziadek: grandfather (JAH-deck)

  Gołąbki: stuffed cabbage (ga-WUMP-key)

  Obrzydliwe: disgusting (OB-ze-dlee-veh)

  Sytuacja swiatowa jest tragiczna: The situation in the world is tragic. (sit-u-AT-sia SHVIA-tova YEST tra-DICH-na)

  Włocławek: a town in central Poland on the Vistula River (vwo-TSWA-vek)

  Prologue

  I take my seat behind the breadboard and plunge my hands into the sticky mound. The dough is a revelation, the suppleness warm between my fingers.

  “The magic rests between your hands,” my grandmother says, “and like your fingerprints, the bread will be your own.”

 
I clutch the dough tighter, clenching these elements of life: flour of the earth, air, and water, which release the yeast.

  “Delikatnie,” she whispers, in her native Polish tongue. “Gently, my child. Let me show you.” As she kneads the mass, folding and turning, it contracts and then swells. She stretches and tucks the dough into a round. Beneath her touch, everything blooms.

  After returning to the stove, she stirs her spoon into a simmering soup. The kettle sings, the pans hiss. Yet the kitchen is silent.

  As I wake with a start, my body’s limp, loose, and my eyes are wet. I kick out of the sheets, and they twist around my feet. Adjusting the pillows smashed up against the headboard brings clarity; I’m twenty-four years older than in my dream.

  I settle into the duvet, close my eyes, and drift . . . The seven-year-old is still inside me, but my grandmother fades. Don’t leave, not yet! Her fingers brush away my tears and her hands smell of bread—of rye, sunlight, and dust. Shhhh, shhhh, she whispers while I am weeping but still happy beside my babcia as we melt into the glow.

  The sudden sweep of loss tastes of wood smoke, and it bites and burns. To soothe the pain, we grieve and then accept, digging deep, tugging at the roots, and pulling them out. By sharing memories with family, and with friends whom we’ve chosen to become our family, all of us clouding into a misty steam rising from the brew.

  Chapter One

  Addie

  If you’re the last person to leave Detroit, don’t forget to turn off the lights.

  The saying amuses me, as it does my cousin Samantha, known as Sam among our friends. Several months ago, we bought a house and opened a diner together in the city. Perhaps we are, as my stepfather says, out of our minds. Time will tell.