I returned to the house on Berrell Road, full of sunshine and summer breezes, feeling a bit like the birds that swooped and sang outside the open windows. Without Papa, and with Oliver now a grown man, my duties were suddenly fulfilled. I was free to do anything I pleased. I could live anywhere I chose. I would never live in California, but now I didn’t particularly want to. This house was home.
Lost in time and memory, I had trouble picturing Ellis’ face. All I could conjure were his hands. I could see them, rough and hearty, and imagined them resting paternally on the shoulders of a son that wasn’t mine. Though I still felt sadness at the missed opportunity of us, I wished him every happiness.
Everyone was kind at the delicatessen, having heard the news of Papa’s passing, but once it was closing time, I went home to a quiet house full of extra things. It was time to move on and so I began the task of packing up the items left behind.
I had attempted to do this with Mama’s things years ago, but Papa became so agitated that I stopped altogether. His eyes turned cold and he would shake his finger at me, like an old miser protecting his gold. Sometimes when I would knock on his door to announce breakfast, I would find him fingering an old coat of Mama’s, his eyes focused on something in the distance.
For years, I left him with the physical remains of her personal items, and now there was twice as much—his and hers—to go through. I packed trunks full of clothing that was decades out of style, laying their belongs inside together, as they were now in the Hillside Cemetery. Hats that were stiff and not of today’s fashion, and delicate shoes that were beautiful but worthless on my large feet went into the trunk, along with belts, sashes, and stockings. Even after all these years, I could smell Mama as I rummaged through her things, her scent diffusing into the house, sweet and deep, tinged with my childhood.
Once their bedroom was emptied, I worked my way around the house, finding long-forgotten gloves and handkerchiefs along the way. I moved to the main floor, passing one of her still lifes. Those would stay. The onions and carrots she painted with me by her side would grace the walls for as long as I lived here. As I stood in front of it, I laughed, feeling suddenly like Papa in my coveting.
I would continue to paint, of course. There seemed little time for it, but my love for the process lingered, even if my subjects were homegrown fruit and not mountains, and even if they only ever graced the walls of my home.
I walked in to the kitchen. Though all of the things in here were originally hers, they had grown to be mine too.
We had worked together in here from the day we moved in. I learned everything from her, and though I worked under her direction in the beginning, we soon were working together, and then I was finally capable of it myself. I opened all the drawers and the cabinets, flaying them like fish. Our pastry cutter. Our rolling pin. Our paring knife. Our wooden spoon. Each of these held her imprint, but also mine. I closed the cabinet doors and slid the drawers shut. The kitchen contents would remain intact, and I would use them every day. As I grew older, the house would be home again for my nephews, who spent much of their precious childhood here, filling this old house again with love.
Though I would eventually update the appliances and the facades of the cabinets, I never replaced or fixed the floor. I left the gouged tile there, feeling its broken truth with my wrinkled bare toes each morning as I made my coffee, secure in my decisions and grateful for my life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Molly
The morning of the dinner party, I worked inside to the sounds of Corey outside mowing the lawn. I riffled through Aunt Tish’s book, rereading the recipes I had chosen. I would never know Aunt Tish like Corey did, but if food held memory—like the iced oatmeal cookies held the memory of my mother—maybe by cooking the food she cooked, I could get to know her in some way. For the dinner party, I decided to serve Oyster Fritters, Chicken and Noodles, and Orange Feather Cake.
Hayden slept while I furiously prepped, knowing my time was limited. Flour flew all over the kitchen, mingling with oyster liquor and orange zest. It was a mess, but I was thrilled to be back at it. I sang to myself while the mixer whirred for the cake, the chicken simmered, and the fritters fried, all in harmony.
I set the table after Hayden woke up, holding him in one arm. As I placed each utensil on the table, I held it up to him and said its name. “Fork, Hayden. This is a fork.” His chubby digits flailed in the air before bringing them as a fist back into his mouth.
Corey finished his yard work about an hour before the guests were to arrive. After his shower, I passed Hayden off to him while I went to take mine. The fritters were staying warm in the oven, the chicken was ready to be served, and the cake was cooling on the counter.
“Just open the wine, babe?” I called to him as I rushed up the stairs.
Dressed and presentable, I returned to the dining room. Corey had turned on some music, lit a few candles on the table, and opened a bottle of my favorite white wine.
“You have him for a bit longer?” I asked. “There is some last-minute cooking I need to take care of,” I said.
“Sure,” Corey said. As I passed by, he grabbed me and stole a quick kiss. “Little man and I are going to have a beer. I’ll answer the door when everyone gets here.”
Back in the kitchen, I mixed up the tartar sauce, dipping my finger for a taste. When the balance of mayonnaise, relish, and lemon juice was just right, I took the bite-sized oyster fritters out of the oven and arranged them on a plate, giving them each a dollop of the sauce. I sprinkled freshly chopped chives over top and brought the plate to the family room. Corey was letting Hayden gum the upright beer bottle and I shot him a stern look.
“Stop giving our baby beer. I thought that was a joke. And don’t eat too many of these before everyone arrives,” I said in a stern but mocking tone, as Corey was poised to pop one into his mouth. “Hayden is off to bed promptly at seven, okay? Don’t get him too riled up.”
“The beer will help him sleep,” Corey said, laughing. I just shook my head at him and hoped he truly was joking.
Back in the kitchen, I ladled the chicken and noodles into a large serving bowl. It would stay hot with a lid, and so I placed it on a trivet on the table. I also brought in a bright green salad and crusty dinner rolls.
The doorbell rang promptly at six—I expected nothing less of Hank and Jocelyn. Hank let out a low whistle as he came in the door. “Looks great, kids,” he said. “I haven’t seen this place look this good in years.”
While Jocelyn took Hayden from Corey and began fussing over him, Hank walked around, poking his head into every room. “Kept the old paintings, though, huh? I like it.” He made his way into the kitchen and I followed. “Where’s the beer?”
I grabbed him one from the fridge and pulled a wine glass out for Jocelyn. We made our way back to the family room and I handed her the glass, now filled with chilled Sauvignon Blanc.
“The house really does look nice,” she said.
“Thanks, Jocelyn,” I said, reveling in the high praise from a tough critic.
Soon, Liz and Christy arrived with their husbands. It turned out that Liz’s husband knew Christy’s husband and so they shook hands and greeted one another, happily discussing how they came to be at the same dinner party. I smiled and thought small town.
Christy grabbed an oyster fritter and whispered to me, “Is that the sister-in-law with Hayden?”
“Yup,” I said. “How are the oyster fritters?”
“Fabulous. And fat free, I’m sure. Don’t tell me otherwise!” With a smile and a wink, she moved to get more wine.
The clock in the foyer chimed loudly, ringing out seven times. I collected Hayden from Jocelyn. “I’m just going to put this little man to bed, and then we’ll sit down to dinner,” I said.
“Goodnight, Hayden,” Liz called. “Sleep late for Mommy tomorrow morning!”
I lifted Hayden’s pudgy arm and made him wave it at our guests. Up in the stillness of his bedroom, I
turned on his mobile and the music that I hoped would soothe him to sleep. I changed him into his pajamas and gave him a fresh diaper. We settled into the rocker and I began to nurse him. While the party sounds floated up to his room, I relished our togetherness. I didn’t want to rush back to the party, a feeling that surprised and comforted me. I took my time with him, and when he was asleep I lowered him into the crib, patting his tummy and smoothing his hair. I crept out of his room, closing the door softly behind me. With the video monitor in hand, I joined the rest of the adults downstairs.
I poured myself a glass of wine and we ate the chicken and noodles, creamy and dotted with bright peas and carrots. The salad cut the heaviness of the meal and cleansed our palates for the next hearty bite. For dessert, I served the loaf cake, fragrant with orange, and sweet against the tart lemon curd glaze and blackberries. We talked and the wine flowed.
As the last bites of orange cake were eaten and forks clattered down on empty plates, I went to the kitchen to get the coffee pot and offer more cake. I brought out a bowl of candy also, Mary Janes. I watched Corey’s eyes land on them and a smile curve slightly on his lips. He unwrapped one and looked up at me, his mouth silently forming the words, “Thank you.” I smiled at him and nodded slightly.
“Whoa,” Hank said. “Remember these, Corey? Aunt Tish always had Mary Janes for you! Where did you find them, Molly?”
“They were in the bulk section at the grocery store; thought I’d buy a few. I hear the house was rarely without them,” I said.
“Did you get peppermints too? They are my favorite,” Hank said.
“Next time,” I said, smiling.
Everyone helped clear the table. I stood at the sink as the dishes were brought in and everyone crowded into the kitchen.
“Leave them, Molly,” Christy said. “Come have another glass of wine with us before we have to go. The grandparents have Delaney, but we should head home soon.”
“I’ll have another glass,” Liz said with the enthusiasm of already having had a few.
“Yes,” I said smiling. “I’ll think I will have another. Jocelyn, how about you?”
“No, but we had a lovely time. The babysitter is on the clock. We should go,” she said.
Hank nodded in agreement. “Did you know babysitters charge twelve dollars an hour these days? Expensive, huh? Maybe that’s why Mom always brought us here to Aunt Tish’s when she went out. Saved them a bunch of dough, I bet.”
“Aunt Tish was more than Corey’s babysitter,” I said. Corey slipped his arm around my waist.
“You know, speaking of dough, I saw you fixed the kitchen floor,” Hank said, pointing to the floor where the deep gouge was. “It looks perfect now.”
“Nothing’s perfect, but it’s ours,” I said.
Corey smiled at me. I knew he was happy in this house, and it turned out that I felt happy too.
Acknowledgements
I am forever grateful to Linda Breckenridge, Heidi Duffy, Diane Schweizer, and Bob Schweizer who encouraged me to never give up on my dream. Throughout this project, Courtney Gawthrop, Tina Baliban, Tina Hadgimallis, and Erica Heck were my sounding boards, and I am incredibly thankful for their friendship. Thank you also to my first readers, Bethany Meyer and Kelly Greenleaf, who read early versions and still said I should continue.
Much appreciation goes to Colleen and Mike Harter, who helped answer all my home improvement questions, and the Upper Moreland Historical Association, whose digital newspaper archives helped greatly with my research of Willow Grove in the early 1900s.
I’d like to thank my editors, Helen Mallon and Susan Helene Gottfried, for their insight and invaluable advice. Thank you to Gary Miller, and the hardworking people at Morgan James who brought this to fruition.
This book couldn’t have been written without the unfaltering support given by my amazing husband, Stew, who worked hard to allow me the incredible gift of a year dedicated solely to writing.
I am indebted to and inspired by my little ones, Stewart and Alice. My heart is full of gratitude to be their mother, and even though I am not perfect, they help me learn to be a better mother every day.
About the Author
Heather has a degree in Art History from the George Washington University and a degree in Culinary Arts from the Restaurant School at Walnut Hill College. In her free time, Heather is the Archivist for the Upper Moreland Historical Association. She lives in a historic home in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania with her husband, two young children, and an old cat named Bananas. This is her debut novel. Visit Heather at heathergreenleaf.com
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