“No thanks.” The can cracked and fizzed when she opened it.
“What do you think we should whip up?” I made my way to the shelf where my cookbooks lived. The one I pulled out felt heavy in my hands. Weighty with all the family recipes I’d cooked and baked my whole life.
“How about cookie bars?” Standing together at the counter, she put her cheek on my shoulder. “The ones with chocolate chips.”
“Good choice.”
The pages of that cookbook crinkled as I turned them. Bits of dried up sugar stiffened the paper. Flour dust had settled over the handwritten recipes.
“I thought you had all these memorized.” She lifted her head.
“When you get old like me, relying on memory is dangerous.” I reached up and held her face in the palm of my hand. She leaned right into it.
“You aren’t that old, Gran.” She smiled real gentle and then turned toward the book and touched the yellowed paper. “I can type these up for you. We could print them on special paper.”
“Aren’t you a sweetheart.” I brushed a hand over the pages. The history of times in the kitchen making birthday cakes and Christmas pies gritted under my skin. Cookies baked to soothe a broken heart. Yeast rolls to thicken hungry bellies. I read those stories, my heritage, in the old handwriting of the recipes. “You know, I like looking at all those chicken scratches. Some of them are my mother’s. This book reminds me so much of her. And, boy, could that woman work her way around a kitchen.”
I pulled my glass mixing bowl from the cupboard. One that my Clive had got for me years ago at an antique shop. Charlotte took it from my hands. My poor shoulders felt grateful for the help.
“I was only eight years old when my mother died, you know.” My hands on the countertop, I rested against it a spell, still trying to blink away the picture of her face grimaced in pain. “I watched them lower her casket into the grave. Of course, back then, they had the family stay and watch it go all the way down into the hole. I even had to toss in a handful of dirt.”
“Really?” Charlotte lowered the bowl to the counter so carefully, it didn’t make a sound.
“Awful thing to make a child do.” A chill sent a shudder down my spine. The way the clump of dirt had bumped and spread across the top of the wood casket, the sound of it, played in my mind. Then the shovelfuls of earth piling on top. Just too much.
Charlotte pushed a tear out from under her eye. “I can’t imagine.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay, Gran.”
“My aunt Gertie kept all my mama’s recipes for me. Gave them to me a couple years before she passed. I put them all in this book here.” I patted it. “Maybe one of these days I can hand it down to you.”
“I couldn’t take it from you.”
“Well, you’d have to do all the cooking and baking for me and Granddad. Doesn’t seem too shabby a deal, as far as I’m concerned.”
Charlotte smiled as she tried to pull open the utensil drawer. It stuck, warped after years of use and humid days like that one. I reached over and bumped it with the palm of my hand, the way I’d done for ten or so years. She laughed when the drawer opened without a protest. She grabbed the beaters and rubber spatula and measuring spoons.
“You need these spoons? Or can you still eyeball it?” That wink of hers got a little bubble of delight out of me.
I pointed at the hollow of my hand. “Best tool in the kitchen right there, honey.”
“I’d never get the right amount.”
“I guess I don’t know exactly if I do get it right. I just put in what I think looks good.” I winked back at her. “But it always seems to work out okay. I haven’t blown the place up yet from a batch of cookies.”
We cracked the eggs and dumped the sugar into the bowl. The smell of melted butter warmed the room. A puff of flour hung in the air. The two of us kept our mouths quiet, letting the sounds of mixing fill our ears. Baking with Charlotte healed a long-wounded place of my heart. I thanked God for the mercy of her standing next to me in the kitchen.
Charlotte dumped the chocolate chips into the batter, sneaking one. “I had to make sure it was good,” she said with her sideways smile.
“Spoken like a true baker.” My grin felt like it took over my whole face. “Now, honey, go on and grab that rubber spatula, please. You hold the bowl and I’ll scrape out the batter.”
The dough dropped into the pan. I pushed it around, making it even. I let Charlotte have the honor of lowering the whole shebang into the oven.
“How about we go sit a spell and wait on those to bake.” The dinette looked like a nice easy spot for me. “Remind me, how long does that recipe say it needs to bake?”
“Thirty-five minutes.” She traced the words with her fingertips. “But somebody wrote, ‘thirty-one to keep them gooey’.”
“Well, how do you like them, sweetie?” I pulled a chair away from the table.
“Gooey.” The light coming through the window over the sink caught the green of her eyes just right, making them look like jewels.
“Thirty-one minutes it is, then.” I put my backside into the chair. “I wrote that note years ago. I’ve always liked them a tad on the soft side.”
Charlotte picked up her can of pop from the counter and joined me at the table.
“Gran, do you think Granddad will be sad that I got a different job?” she asked. “I don’t want him to be upset that I’m not working with him downstairs.”
“Honey, do you even know how hard it is to upset that man?” I rested my elbows on the table. “He won’t be anything but proud of you.”
She leaned into the back of the chair.
“Now, you’ve had yourself one humdinger of a summer, haven’t you?” I slapped the table. “I want to hear all about it. I’ve hardly seen you for more than ten minutes at a time. So, spill the beans.”
We sat and chatted it up a good long time. She told me about trips here and there. A few dates that didn’t pan out. Friends that came to visit from the city. Most of it I already knew. More secondhand from Gretchen than anything. Still, I didn’t mind hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth. She told it better. And didn’t leave out the things she hadn’t wanted her mother to know.
She’d experienced more in that one summer than I had in a full year at her age. Maybe even two years. Of course, by her age, I had a wedding to plan. My, how things had changed.
When the timer buzzed, she got out of her chair and pulled those goodies from the oven, resting them on a rack to cool just a smidgen.
And as we snuck a square each, I had to force myself to trust that Gretchen would be okay. I told myself that it was just a stomach bug.
But I’d never seen a bug cause that kind of pain.
Chapter Five
Evelyn
Granddad kept every room in the Big House as cold as it would get. Especially the prep room, where we embalmed and dressed the bodies in our care. Even on the hottest day, I needed a sweater in that room.
Goosebumps raised on my arms as I walked between the embalming table and the wall. I couldn’t help but think how disappointed the boy at the restaurant would have been to see the room. Just like any other. Sterile and organized. More like an operating room than anything. No cobwebs in the corners or body parts tucked away in a shadowy room.
Of all we did as funeral directors, the work done in that room held the fascination or fear of most of the town. It kept them from inviting us to dinner or out for coffee. As a kid, I never got to go to sleepovers. The other children were too afraid of me.
The blinds gathered, folding up to the top of the window, as I pulled the cord, letting in a little light. My doctor had told me to get more sunshine. That it would help with the depression. I figured it couldn’t hurt. As well lit as we kept the prep room, it couldn’t beat the warmth of natural light.
I made my way to the casket that stood against the far wall. A simple wooden one with cream colored lining. I flipped o
n a light near it to illuminate the face of the woman who lay within. A file with a name had been placed on the counter. Loretta Allen. We’d buried her husband less than a year before.
“Poor family,” I whispered, opening the folder.
I looked at the picture clipped to the folder. Pulling it loose, I held it close to my face. It had to have been thirty years old.
“How am I supposed to make you look like this?” I asked the woman in the casket.
The photo was one of the square, faded orange ones from the nineteen-seventies. The woman in front of me had to have been at least twenty pounds lighter than the younger version of herself in the picture. And her hair was pure white and thinning instead of dark brown and thick.
My drawer pulled open, jostling the tubes of foundation and cakes of eye shadow. Every color imaginable. I set brushes and foam applicators on the counter next to the curling iron and hair spray.
With Mrs. Allen, I’d have to do my best at guessing on the colors. Especially with the strange, peachy tint the photo gave her skin.
Glancing out the window, I saw my mom walking toward the Big House. She was hard to miss. Her shocking red hair, still so bright I suspected she dyed it. She never would have admitted it. But I just knew she’d touched it up. At least a little. Hair dye or not, she was a beautiful woman. Not stick skinny, but I thought she looked better for the curves, anyway.
I lost sight of her when she went around the other side of the building. No doubt she’d come to see Gran. The two of them could hardly go half a day without seeing each other.
I went back to figuring out colors for Mrs. Allen. After a minute, the prep room door swung open.
“Hey, Ev.” My mom stood in the doorway. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nope.” I turned toward her. “Come on in.”
“Busy day, huh?” With her fingers, she pushed the hair off her forehead.
“Yeah.” Arms crossed over my chest, I leaned a hip into the counter. “I’m not sure how we’re keeping up on everything. Cal must be working really late.”
“That boy has always been a hard worker.”
“Well, he’s going to get burned out.”
“I don’t know about that.” She yawned, covering her mouth. “Goodness. Sorry about that.”
Standing across the room from her, I tried to remember the last time she’d been in the prep room. Dressing the body had been her job for years. Until she married Don, at least. He told her she didn’t have to work anymore. So, she retired. I should be so lucky.
“So, what brings you over here?” I asked, turning back to the file and the picture.
“Oh, I saw the blinds up and figured you were down here. I thought I’d see how you are.”
“Doing fine. Just busy.” Turning my head toward her, I noticed the creases on the side of her face. “Did you just get up from a nap? Since when do you nap?”
“I’m not feeling so well today.” She yawned again and patted a hand on her chest. “I’m worn out.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just my stomach. It’s bothering me.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” The charm on her necklace scraped across the chain. Back and forth.
“I know you’re retired and everything, but do you mind giving me a hand here?” The photo between my thumb and pointer finger, I held it next to Mrs. Allen’s face in the casket.
“Sure.” Her arm bumped up against mine when she stepped to the casket. “Is that Loretta?”
“Yeah. But all I have is a really old picture.”
“Well, I’m out of practice.” Her sigh carried a low tone in it. “But I guess I’d say, just go with a medium shade of foundation. Something with a little olive to it.”
“So earthy tones?” I asked.
“I’d think so.” She touched my shoulder.
“Have you called the doctor about your stomach? It might be food poisoning. You should get it checked out.” I squeezed a dot of foundation on a sponge wedge.
“If it isn’t better tomorrow, I’ll go in.” She watched me smooth the foundation on Mrs. Allen’s cheek. “That’s a good color. You’ll need to use a nice rich color for the blush, too.”
She rummaged through the makeup drawer for a few more shades, handing them to me.
“Now, Gretchie, what are you doing down here?” Gran’s voice sang into the room before I heard her footsteps. The corners of her eyes wrinkled with the grin she wore on her face. A dusting of flour whitened the front of her shirt.
“Hi, Gran,” I said.
She put an arm around Mom’s waist and gave her a little squeeze.
“How’d that nap do you?” Reaching up, she used the inside of her wrist to feel my mom’s forehead. “Feeling better?”
“A little.”
“That’s good.”
“Do you mind if I take you up on the antacids?”
“Sure, honey. They’re upstairs on my side of the medicine cabinet.”
Gran and I watched my mom walk from the room.
“I tell you, that mama of yours is bound to give me an ulcer from worry. We won’t have enough antacids to go around.” Gran shook her head, then reached her arm around me. “Hi, Evelyn. How’s it going with Mrs. Allen?”
“Do we have a more up-to-date picture of her in a file somewhere?” I grabbed the picture again. “This one isn’t all that helpful.”
She took the picture, shifting her glasses so she could see through the bifocals. Still, she had to squint her eyes.
“Oh, my. Is this ever an old picture. I bet this is from when Loretta and John prearranged years ago.” She handed it back to me. “You remember John. He passed last year. That’s him in the picture with her.”
“They were cute together.”
I gave the picture another look. Mrs. Allen faced the camera, her smile wide. I figured she was in the middle of a laugh. Her husband’s arms wrapped all the way around her thick waist as he kissed the top of her head. His eyes closed, the corners of his mouth turned up.
Using my finger to blend the foundation on Mrs. Allen’s jaw, I wished I could make her look more like the mid-laugh, joy-filled woman in the picture. I’d do the best I could with the makeup. But that woman was gone.
“Oh, how those two loved each other. Deep as the ocean,” Gran said. “They couldn’t get enough of one another.”
“How long were they married?”
“You know, their wedding was right around the same time as Granddad and mine.” She reached across me, grabbing the comb from the countertop. Her hands moved swiftly through Mrs. Allen’s hair. “Of course, they were a bit older than us. Granddad and me got married real young.”
“Gran, how did you and Granddad get together?” I asked, watching her flick the comb through the brittle hair, giving it a little lift.
“Oh, that old history?” She smacked her lips. “Honey, you’ve heard that story more times than I can count.”
“Please, Gran,” I begged. “At least tell me how you knew he was the right one for you.”
She stopped moving her hands. I felt her gaze. “Now, Evelyn, is this about the date you just went on? Cal told me all about it.”
“I think Cal’s as big a gossip as Deirdre.”
“Well, I agree with you on that.” Her fingers went back to work. “Now, you know I love your Granddad to bits and pieces.”
“Everybody knows that,” I said.
“I didn’t know right off when he first started coming around. The last thing I thought about was being married to him.” She shook her head. “Back then, I looked for about any reason to get out of Aunt Gertie’s kitchen and away from all those boys. And she wanted me to get married off so she didn’t have to feed me anymore.”
“She must have been a delightful woman.”
“Well, she didn’t have things easy. But that’s beside the point. I liked getting away from the house, even if it was just to take a little stroll with Granddad.”<
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“Where would you go?” Using a brush, I dusted a light brown shadow across Mrs. Allen’s eyelids.
“In those days, honey, there wasn’t much of any place to go. And I certainly didn’t want to get myself into trouble.” Her voice dropped in volume. “You know what I mean by that, don’t you?”
“I think so,” I answered, laughing.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to be the one to explain all that business to you. Especially since we’re going to need to get you married off sooner than later.” Gran giggled. “Oh, when I was a girl, we didn’t know anything about that kind of thing until we were married. Sometimes not even then. Some brides got an unwelcome surprise on their wedding night, I tell you. That caused all kinds of trouble.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” The eye shadow brush clunked back into the drawer. “I know all about that stuff. Not from personal experience or anything.”
“I’d hope not.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Anyway.” Flushed, my cheeks burned. “Go on.”
“So, I told Granddad that if he wanted to make time with me, he’d have to walk me over to Marshall’s for a chocolate Coke. Of course, it was Marshall Senior who owned it back in those days. Young Marshall slung burgers before he inherited the place.” She swatted her hand in the air. “That detail doesn’t matter so much. What does matter is that Granddad came around twice a week. Sometimes more. I never had intentions of falling in love with him, though. I just liked getting that chocolate Coke. A girl like me wasn’t so accustomed to such luxuries.”
“What happened then?” I painted an earthy tone on Mrs. Allen’s lips.
“One day, good gravy, it must have been after walking together for a whole summer, he told me that he loved me. He wanted to go steady. It was right at the gate leading up to Aunt Gertie’s front door.” She sighed. “I could tell he wanted to plant a kiss on me.”
“How could you tell?”
“Haven’t you ever been kissed before?” Gran nudged me with her elbow and grinned. “Anyway, he tilted his head a tiny bit and gave me this dreamy look with his big, blue eyes. I thanked him for being so good to me. Then I told him not to kiss me or ever come around again.”
My Mother's Chamomile Page 4
