by A. Gardner
"Not here, Bobbi," Dad says through his teeth. "Our daughter is almost thirty years old."
"Exactly! She's about to be thirty years old and she has no career, no man in her life, and no hopes of giving us grandchildren." She throws her hands up in the air. If anyone in the room is going mental, it's my mom.
My chest keeps pounding, and my entire face feels like it's on fire. My Uncle George takes a step forward, practically ignoring the drama, and grabs a plate. He then proceeds to eye the food on the table. When he reaches for a handful of assorted nuts, more guests follow his lead. I roll my eyes.
"What do I have to do to get through to you people?" I say out loud.
I take a step forward and knock Uncle George's plate out of his hands. He stares at me, bewildered. The only way I can get everyone to forget about the food is to get rid of it all. I rub my forehead. What I'm about to do is not going to aid my plea that I'm not crazy.
I quickly grab the serving platter of Tofurky and drop it. The porcelain tray shatters, leaving lumps of tofu strewn across the tile. I do the same with every single dish on the table. As fast as I can, I dig into the food with my fingers and toss it on the floor or into the trash. Anything to make it look less appetizing.
I hear gasps and whispers, but I don't care. I'm doing them a favor even if I look like I just escaped from an insane asylum in the process. I throw the nut platter in the trash and scoop out handfuls of quinoa until the whole bowl is empty. I turn to my vegan cake. My pride and joy that I spent hours making just for the approval of my loon of a mother. I can't be sure that it's not contaminated somehow so I tear it apart.
"Poppy, stop this right now!" My mom places a hand on her chest as if she is about to have a heart attack.
I ignore her until every last morsel of food in the kitchen is in pieces on the floor. When I'm finished, I take a deep breath and finally look at everyone. Most of the faces I see are terrified. Some are concerned. And Evie is laughing in the corner.
"Um." I take a deep breath. "Sorry, everyone. I guess the party is cancelled."
It's for their own good.
"She's right." Evie clears her throat and begins pushing guests back into the living room. "Nothing to see here, people. Keep moving. Keep moving." She herds as many guests as she can until it is just me and my family standing in the kitchen. I fold my arms and attempt to cover the bits that can be seen through the fabric of my dress.
"Do you care to explain yourself?" Dad begins.
"Would you believe me if I said that someone poisoned the food?"
"Mark," Lauren says quietly, grabbing my brother's arm. "Maybe we should go."
"Yes," he agrees. He gives my mom a hug goodnight. "Night, Mom. We're going to head over to our hotel. I'll call you in the morning."
"Bye, sweetheart." My mom watches him leave. She looks down at the mess on the floor and avoids looking at me. "Well, I'll send everybody home." She stops just before the door leading to the living area and straightens her shoulders.
"Dad." I kick a piece of broccoli off my shoe. "I promise you I have a completely rational explanation for all this."
"Okay," he responds, hanging his head. "Let's hear it." My dad is more patient than my mom. I know he will at least give me the chance to explain, but I'll have to start at the beginning.
"Mind if I change first?"
Dad nods approvingly as I tiptoe upstairs and pull a set of warm pajamas from my suitcase. They were too warm to wear in Georgia. I quickly dry my hair with a towel and fish through my purse until I find the card Detective Reid gave me. I need proof that I'm not crazy.
I pull out my cell phone and dial his number.
It goes straight to his voice mail.
Beep.
"Hi, Detective Reid. It's Poppy Peters. Call me back as soon as you get this message. Mr. Harris isn't your only guy. Some crazy farmer just tried to kill me with a Tofurky."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I take a sip of green tea as Detective Reid instructs his team to take samples of all the leftover food. My mom almost had a heart attack yesterday when I completely trashed the catered meal that she had paid so handsomely for. But what made her panic even more was hearing that she wasn't allowed to clean it up until the crime scene was properly assessed.
"You're a lucky woman, Mrs. Peters," Detective Reid informs my parents. "This could have turned out to be one deadly dinner party."
"I just hope you find the man responsible," she dramatically replies.
I get a kick out of watching her rub the side of her face and collapse onto the sofa like she's experiencing vertigo. When Detective Reid got my call, he immediately jumped on the next plane. He arrived this morning, confirming to my parents that I'm not a nut job and a psychotic farmhand really did try to poison us all out of spite.
"We've picked up his trail," the detective responds. "I've got all my best officers tracking him now. It won't be long before he makes another mistake."
"Thank you, Detective."
Detective Reid grins as he glances at me near the kitchen. I look down at my high-heeled boots and dark wash jeans. Here is a more appropriate place to wear them than in Georgia, where my feet sweat even in winter.
"First Mr. Harris and now this?" he says to me.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," I respond.
"At least now we know how far back this goes." He watches his team examine the food in the kitchen. After all the samples are collected, Detective Reid urges them to clean up a little while my mom searches for an aspirin for her headache.
"Since the school opened apparently."
He takes another look at the mess in the kitchen and glances at me.
"You really did all that?" he asks.
"Someone had to." I smile about the whole situation for the first time. "They would've eaten it all if I didn't, and we'd be having this conversation at a hospital."
"That was brave of you to make a fool of yourself like that."
"That's putting it lightly," I comment. "My neighbors think I've gone insane, and I single-handedly ruined what was supposed to also be my brother's engagement party. My mother had it all planned."
"I'm sorry." He offers his sympathy, but the damage has already been done. I explained everything to Mom and Dad. Everything. Down to the night Mr. Harris held me at knife point. My mom's first words were something along the lines of suing the school for nearly getting me killed. I disappointed her when I said I was going back after the break to finish what I started.
My dad was more understanding, but he's a man of few words. Unlike Mom, he usually chooses to keep his mouth shut and wait for a moment of privacy to speak his feelings. Mom doesn't understand privacy.
"It's okay," I lie, "I'm sure everyone will forget all about yesterday in a couple years…or decades."
* * *
Mark and his new fiancée were supposed to come over for dinner, but Mom couldn't bring herself to step into the kitchen after Detective Reid's team left. I took over and finished cleaning the mess I made even though my back was still a little sore from yesterday. I even scrubbed the tile floors on my hands and knees until it sparkled in the sunlight. That's when I looked up at the counters and realized that I had enough ingredients to make more of Grandma Liz's special Christmas candies, the Brazilian truffles that her grandmother taught her to make.
After heating up the candy mixture, I pour it onto a marble surface, a cutting board that my mom hardly uses. I wait until the candy cools and start forming balls that can be rolled into an assortment of sprinkles. Rolling each piece comes naturally, and it makes me feel better. Almost like yesterday never happened.
I find another serving dish. A festive one with red poinsettias painted on it. I place each candy on the plate so that they all line up perfectly. They are all the same size and the same chocolate flavor, but they alternate between chocolate sprinkles and Christmas sprinkles. I set the plate down on the counter and admire my work.
It was easy.
&n
bsp; It was fun.
And I feel happier having accomplished their perfect circular shapes.
I take a large bite of an extra truffle that didn't fit onto the plate. It's still warm, and it's the right level of sweetness. I chew it slowly, thinking of all the times I've impatiently waited next to Grandma to take a first bite. Every year I would look forward to this.
The doorbell rings, and my brother and Lauren walk through the front door. My parents suggested that we all meet here and then choose a restaurant to go to. I pick up the tray of candies and grip it firmly as I walk into the living room. Mark spots me and watches me carefully, eyeing the tray as if I might drop it at any second.
"Don't worry," I joke. "I'm not going to drop it. I promise."
Lauren laughs a little to lighten the mood. She's carrying a couple gift boxes with red bows. She hands one to my mom, and then she hands one to me. I set the tray of Christmas sweets down on the coffee table and accept her gift. I don't know anything about Lauren, and my first impression of her wasn't exactly the greatest since she reminds me slightly of Georgina.
I neatly open her gift, making sure I smile as I do. I tear aside the wrapping paper and see a tiny, square canvas. A simple vanilla cupcake is painted on it. It has a baby blue wrapper with polka dots and a fondant pink heart on top. Lauren anxiously bites her lip and watches me observe the piece of artwork she selected.
"Wow," I mutter. "This will be perfect for my apartment."
"Oh, good. I'm glad you like it."
"I haven't really seen any cake art like this before." I study it again and gently touch the smooth paint strokes. Bree might try and steal this from me when we graduate. "Where did you get it? I might have to buy a couple more."
"Oh, I painted it myself." She clasps her hands together like it's no big deal.
"You painted this?"
"Lauren is an artist," Mark chimes in. "She works at a gallery in the city. That's how we met actually."
"I can paint you another if you'd like," she says.
"Really? I have a friend who would absolutely love one of these."
I wasn't sure about Lauren at first, but I guess I can learn to like her.
My mom grabs her coat and suggests a few places for dinner. All of which, as she puts it, have excellent vegetarian options. Dad chooses Italian and we all grab our coats and purses. Before we walk out the door I pick up the platter of Grandma's candies.
"Does anyone want one?" I look around. No takers. "Please. For old time's sake?"
"I'll try one," Lauren says. She steps forward first after nudging my brother to do the same.
"Okay," Mark agrees.
When Mark agrees my Mom takes a candy, and after she takes a bite my Dad grabs one too. All four of them nod as they slowly chew the sugary treat from our childhood. Lauren nods and reaches out to take another. Mom takes tiny bites, savoring each piece before she swallows it. I look at my dad twice, but I could have sworn that his eyes were misty for a brief second.
"I love them," Lauren comments.
"Yes honey, they are delicious," my mom adds.
"Just like Grandma's," Dad responds.
I take a deep breath, finally feeling as if I've succeeded in making everyone else as happy as I was when I made them. The atmosphere in the room feels different. Mom holds her smile for longer. Dad doesn't seem so distracted. Mark isn't clenching his jaw, and I'm not counting down the hours until I can fly back to school.
The lot of us are loosening up.
I set the tray down and pick up my jacket. My mom places her hand on my back as we step out into the gray winter air. She squeezes my shoulder and leans in to whisper something in my ear. They are the very words I was hoping to hear the moment I spotted her at baggage claim.
"Good job, honey. Good job."
CHAPTER TWENTY
I walk into our apartment back in Georgia and smell something burning. I wrinkle my nose, not used to this sort of thing because Bree is my roommate. She always says it's better to undercook something than it is to overcook something. I've never seen her burn a thing. Never.
"It's a sign from on high!" Bree shouts hysterically. "It's wrong. This is all wrong." She runs to the oven with a frown on her face and waves away a small cloud of smoke. She pulls a blackened pan out of the oven. I glance at it. My face twinges when I see rock hard brownies.
"It's okay." I attempt to calm her down but her face is flushed, and she looks like she might be wearing the same outfit she wore yesterday. And the day before that.
"It's not okay." She sits at the kitchen table and puts her head down. I glance at the pan, but none of the brownies are salvageable.
"So just try again," I suggest.
"I have." She sniffs and lifts her head only long enough to wipe her nose. "I've tried many, many times, but nothing ever works. I'm cursed. I should have never gone to that party during the break."
"Okay?" I say, unsure why she's having a meltdown over an overestimated baking time.
"I got my hair done," she goes on. "I bought a new dress. I made those mini cheesecakes that he likes so much."
"We are talking about brownies here?"
"I knew he had a thing for brunettes," she mutters. "But I didn't think he would bring one home to marry. I'm cursed. I have to be. I bet you anything some voodoo witch doctor cast a spell on me that time in college when my sorority sisters and I all went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras."
"Right," I improvise. "Because brownies and Louisiana can do all those things."
She finally takes a breath and looks up at me. She rubs her eyes, and I notice that her whole face looks ragged like she hasn't been able to sleep in days. I open the window in the kitchen to air out the smell and take a seat next to her.
"I take it your holiday wasn't pleasant?"
"My neighbor Todd," she responds. "I've had a crush on him since we were nine. He usually comes to my mom's Christmas party alone, but this time he brought a date." She rolls her eyes. "She had a ring on her finger the size of Texas."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." She glances at the pan of blackened brownies. "I need to get my mojo back if I'm going to have a chance at winning that contest."
Despite what Bree is going through, my heart leaps when she mentions the contest. I've been thinking of nothing else since I boarded my plane back to the South. I finally know what I'm going to do, and I have been practicing every chance I get.
I am going to make my grandma's candies. I don't care if they seem a little too simple. I don't think anyone can resist a beautiful box of gourmet truffles paired with roasted cocoa bean hot chocolate. Sometimes Grandma brewed cocoa beans the way she did coffee beans, and added a shot of the liquid to her hot chocolate for an extra kick. Like James said back in Alabama, it's a dessert that brings back all the good memories I have of my grandmother. To me that's a dish worth sharing.
"So have you locked down the red velvet layered cake?"
"Yeah." She nods. "That cake is my pride and joy." She pauses for a minute. "Dang. That's what I should have made for Todd this year."
"Don't worry about him, Bree. It's his loss."
"Maybe it won't last?" She shrugs. "What about you? Have you decided to enter a napoleon?"
"That was a bad idea the moment I thought of it," I admit. "No. I am going to make brigadeiro." She wrinkles her forehead. "They are handmade Brazilian truffles. My grandma's recipe."
Bree smiles.
"I bet they will taste amazing."
"As long as I beat Georgina," I reply.
"There's only one thing left to do then." She stands up and wipes at the makeup smearing under her eyes. "We need to go to the store for ingredients and get to work. The contest is next weekend."
"I can't wait for you to try one." I touch the wrinkled sleeve of her shirt. "But first, you could use a shower."
"Yeah," she responds, rubbing her eyes. "I've been a wreck ever since he introduced me to that tart."
"Wait here a second." I run to
my room and dig out the cupcake painting from Lauren. Before she left she promised me that she would make me another one featuring a chocolate cupcake with rainbow sprinkles.
I return to the kitchen holding the painting, and Bree's eyes light up when she sees it. I was planning on giving her the chocolate one, but I know she would like either painting just the same. I hand it to her. Her eyes widen as she sits up and smiles, looking as if she might lick the frosting just to make sure it isn't real.
"Merry belated Christmas."
"Where did you get this?" she asks, astonished by the detail of each paint stroke.
"How much time do you have?"
She glances at her burnt brownies.
"If this involves girl talk you might want to hurry," she suggests. "Cole will be here any minute. I told him you were coming back today."
"Oh." My stomach fills with butterflies when she mentions his name. Other than a text message now and again, it has been a while since I've heard his voice.
Bree studies my expression. Her gaze meets mine, and I immediately look away. Bree giggles and heads towards the sink for a glass of water. She continues quietly laughing to herself as she fills a cup and opens the fridge to grab a leftover slice of lemon.
"Oh-my-gosh," she finally says. "You have a thing for Cole. I knew it."
"What makes you say that?"
"The look on your face," Bree answers.
"Am I not allowed to smile when you happen to mention his name?"
"It's not the smile. It's the way your entire face turns pink."
"It's a coincidence. It's hotter here than I'm used to."
"It always is, dear." She takes a sip of her lemon water and touches one of the mutilated brownies. She picks one up with a look of disgust on her face and then drops it back into the pan. It hits the surface with a loud thud.
"Hello?" There is a firm knock on the door. I answer it and feel a little flustered when I see Cole's face. I hesitate when my eyes fixate on his defined jawbone and fit torso. Bree is watching us more closely now.
