The Marriage Recipe

by Michele Dunaway

  Besides get-togethers, his mother cooked every year for the Morris family annual Thanksgiving celebration, which had over thirty people for the traditional turkey dinner and at least a hundred friends, associates and townsfolk stopping by the house throughout the day. Easter was coming in mid-March this year, and that holiday would be almost as crazy. The only difference was that the townspeople wouldn’t stop by.

  “Hey, Dad,” Colin greeted his father, entering the library. Whereas the kitchen was totally a woman’s area, the library was a man’s room. Reginald and Loretta Morris had always joked that their marriage worked because they kept certain rooms “one sex only.” They’d celebrated their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary last year, so Colin figured that whatever household arrangement they had was a good one. He’d never doubted the bond his parents shared.

  “Hi, Colin,” Reginald said. He lifted his Scotch-and-water in salute. “Shall I pour you one?”

  Colin shook his head. “Not tonight.” Ever since one of his and Bruce’s friends had died during high school, driving under the influence, he and Bruce hardly touched alcohol, especially if either would be behind the wheel later.

  “Ah,” Reginald said, nodding his understanding. “So tell me, how’s the plane search going?”

  Colin grinned. When he’d turned eighteen, his parents had given him a present of six flying lessons. The hobby had stuck. “We found one we like and we’re buying it.”

  Reginald tapped a forefinger on the glass. “Really?”

  Colin’s grin widened. It wasn’t every day your son announced he was buying a half-million-dollar Cessna with a group of friends. “Yeah. We’re drawing up the legal contracts now as to shares, usage, payments, insurance, etcetera. We’ll keep the plane at the airport here.”

  The Morrisville Airport was unmanned and uncontrolled. Colin had learned to fly at a regional airport with a control tower, but he’d become adept at flying in and out of an airport without towers.

  “Your mother won’t like this,” Reginald tried.

  “She’s finally promised to fly with me—this spring,” Colin said. “I’m good, Dad, and I’m safe. It’s Bruce who got hurt, remember?”

  “Hmph.” His father exhaled. In addition to being a lawyer, Bruce had volunteered as a firefighter, until the ceiling of Kim’s Diner had collapsed on him. He’d suffered a broken arm but otherwise had been fine. He’d retired from the fire department right after the accident and married Christina. Colin had never had the urge to fight fires. Instead, his rush came from piloting. He could remember his first solo as if it were yesterday.

  Sensing now was a good time to change the subject, he said, “I saw Rachel Palladia today.”

  His father swirled the liquid in his glass. “I heard Rachel broke off with her young man.”

  Colin glanced out the library window. Night had fallen, and because of the dense trees, he couldn’t tell if any lights were on at the Palladia house next door. “That’s true. Rachel told me the whole story. Did you hear that he’s threatening to sue her for her recipes? Says they belong to him.”

  “Hadn’t heard that part,” Reginald said, setting his Scotch down. “What a damn shame. Is that what you and she talked about today?”

  “Yeah. She says the recipes came from Kim. Since there’s no specific work-for-hire contract regarding her recipes, meaning they didn’t have a payment plan for those, I’m pretty convinced he’s just bullying her. He’s not happy she broke off the engagement and is probably smarting from having to change his menu.”

  “Maybe he should have kept his pants up,” Reginald said sharply. He caught Colin’s shocked expression. “What? Told you I knew everything.”

  “Well…” Colin felt embarrassed. Sometimes being man-to-man with your dad was awkward, even if you did work with him. He regained his composure. “I’d like to take on Rachel’s case. I told her I’d discuss it with you first. I don’t think he’ll go as far as a court filing.”

  “Okay,” Reginald said easily. “We’ve been handling the Palladia family’s legal matters for years. Adding Rachel as a client is only logical.”

  “There’s one little catch.” Colin paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “Rachel doesn’t have a lot of money. She says she’s pretty close to broke, which is why she’s back living at home.”

  “I’d heard that, too,” Reginald said. “Kim told me Rachel won’t accept anything from either her mother or grandmother. Kim offered her an outrageous salary and Rachel said no. She’s a Palladia, all right. Take nothing from anybody if you don’t know you can repay it.”

  Colin’s chin itched and he scratched the stubble. His five-o’clock shadow was arriving. “Could I lower my hourly rate for her? Do some of her case pro bono? You’re always saying the firm should do more of that, give back to the community.”

  Reginald paced for a minute. “I’d have to discuss this with the partners, but as longtime clients, I don’t foresee a problem waiving some billable hours.”

  Colin poured himself a glass of water from the small bar sink. “I told her I’d go over at lunchtime tomorrow and let her know.”

  “Then I’ll work on getting an answer first thing in the day and give it to you by noon. I’m not missing prime rib, either.”

  “Great. I can put in something myself, if that helps,” Colin said, meaning taking a cut in salary on this case. His bungalow was almost paid for. His car was paid in full. Except for the really expensive plane he would be a quarter owner of, he didn’t have any superhuge monthly bills.

  Reginald’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling the skin at the corner. “I do have one question before you accept Rachel as a client. Will you be able to maintain your professional objectivity?”

  The question caught Colin off guard and his heart seemed to stop. “What do you mean by that?”

  Reginald coughed, as was his habit when addressing a delicate matter. “You and Rachel were always good friends. She practically lived over here. She’s like a fourth daughter to your mother and me. Since you two were so close, it’s natural that you want to rush to her defense and be her knight in shining armor.”

  Colin stared at his father for a moment, processing his words. He had wanted to throttle her ex this afternoon. But that didn’t mean he would be reactive. He and Rachel weren’t…Then Colin understood his father’s concern.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You think I…She. No. No, it’s not like that. She was always over here because she had a crush on Bruce, not me. If you’re like a parent to her, I’m like her brother. She never thought of me as anything else, or as anything more than a buddy.”

  Reginald arched his left eyebrow. “Even if you did?”

  Colin shifted his weight, crossed his arms and simply waited, as if doing so would deny the truth. He’d always liked Rachel, and now a beautiful and intriguing woman had replaced the gangly girl of his childhood.

  “Son, it was so obvious to your mother and me that you had the biggest crush on her,” Reginald said quietly. “Kim, Rachel’s mother—Adrienne—your mother and I would joke that someday the two of you should get married, you were so like peas in a pod. You even finished each other’s sentences. We said it would finally unite our families. After all, we’ve been living next door to each other for generations. Your mother had the whole thing thought out.”

  Colin sputtered on the water he’d been sipping. “That’s morbid.”

  Reginald waved dismissively. “Oh, it’s a thing parents who are friends do. You’ll understand someday. You like to pretend you can somehow predestine your child’s future. You do it although you know your plans won’t come true. You went to college, she went to cooking school, and each of you moved on with your lives. That’s just how things go.”

  Reginald set his empty glass on the side bar. “As much as your mother and I would love for you to settle down, we know you’ll do that when the time’s right. I just want to be sure you’ll be objective in Rachel’s case.”

  Colin forced himself n
ot to cross his arms across his chest after he placed his glass in the sink. “As you said, we’ve both moved on. She’s planning on going back to New York. Her life isn’t in Morrisville anymore. And I’m not going to be anyone’s rebound guy, so even if she did choose me, which, may I remind you, she never has and won’t because she’s never thought of me as anything more than a friend, nothing’s going to happen. Client relationship only.”

  “If you’re sure,” Reginald said. Colin didn’t have a chance to further refute his father’s doubt, because his sister Kristin arrived and seven-year-old twins bounded in with yells of “Hi, Grandpa! We’re here. Can you tell us apart today?” To which Reginald promptly said Libby was the one with the red bow and Maggie was the one with the blue. He was right, of course, and within minutes all had taken their seats at the breakfast-room table, a more comfortable venue than the massive dining-room table, which sat sixteen.

  “So, Uncle Colin, will you be there?” Libby asked, and Colin focused on his niece.

  “Be there for what?” he asked.

  “We’re doing a St. Patrick’s Day feast at our school. St. Paddy’s Day is on Monday this year. We’ve already started making our leprechaun traps. Anyways, we get to invite someone special. I have to bring cupcakes. They have to be from a bakery. Something about hepa something.” Libby said.

  “Hepatitis,” her sister finished.

  “What about your mom and dad?” Colin asked. He didn’t want to be usurping anyone’s invitation.

  “Dad’s got patients and Mom’s already volunteering, so she doesn’t count. I thought I’d bring you. I keep telling my friends you have a plane.”

  “Not yet,” Colin said.

  Libby frowned. “But you fly a lot. Remember, you took us up. That wasn’t your plane?”

  “I rented it,” he said. He’d flown both twins and Kristin, providing them an aerial view of the town and their house. Colin smiled. “But that doesn’t matter. You name me the dates, and if I’m not required in court, we’ll go flying. And I will definitely be at your feast.”

  “Good.” Libby seemed satisfied, and dinner continued. Afterward everyone hung out in the family room for a while before Kristin took the girls home around seven-thirty.

  “Hey, Mom, do you still have my high-school yearbook?” Colin asked, walking into the kitchen. “I was looking for it at my place the other day and couldn’t find it.”

  “If I do, it’s in your old bedroom,” she said. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher.

  “You know I would have helped with that,” Colin said.

  “Yes, but I told you I had it.” She straightened. “What do you want your yearbook for?”

  “I realized I had the other three but not my senior year’s,” he said. “Thought I’d just grab it while I was here.”

  His mom wiped her hands on her apron. “I think it’s on your bookshelf.”

  Colin climbed the back stairs two at a time to the second floor. The house had a third floor, but that was mainly a big playroom that only the grandchildren now used.

  His mom had redecorated some of the other rooms, making them more kid friendly for the grandchildren, who stayed over on occasion, but Colin’s room remained largely untouched. He’d left behind his old childhood furniture, opting to buy a new king-size bed instead of keeping the twin he’d grown up on. He had removed most of his childhood mementos from the room, although they were stored in a box in his basement instead of holding a place of prominence in his own home.

  Since his old room was located on the east side of the house and faced the side yard, he had one four-foot-wide window instead of two or more like many of the Victorians. He flipped the light switch, activating the lamp, and moved toward the bookcase, situated near the window and still lined with high-school and college texts. The shelves also still held aviation magazines, a golf trophy from a charity match and, on the bottom shelf, his yearbook. He leaned down, removed it and straightened. As he did, a flash of light caught his eye. He stood there in the window, clearly in view, before reaching down and turning off the lamp.

  Rachel was in her room. He couldn’t see her clearly without binoculars, something they’d both used until their teen years. But behind the sheer curtains he could see her silhouette as she stood there, staring across the way—right at him.

  When he was a child, none of this was forbidden. He’d take his flashlight, let her know he was there, and they’d send Morse code messages across their yards until one of their parents would discover they were still awake and yell at them to go to sleep. Never once had there been anything sexual about their communication, even when he’d been in high school and realized his feelings for Rachel went beyond friendship.

  So why did he have the impression that unlike when they were children, he was somehow a voyeur, a Peeping Tom? And as he saw Rachel lift her arms as if removing a T-shirt, try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet to move one inch or his head to turn.

  A light flashed across the way, a small circular beam like from a flashlight’s. He froze. Had she spotted him? He hadn’t been in his room long. He’d turned off the light and was hidden in the darkness and the blinds were only open a sliver. The beam flashed two short, then one long. Then a pause with no light, then one long flash before the light went off again. She’d communicated two letters. U then T. Their code for You there?

  She must have seen him moving around earlier. His silhouette certainly didn’t match his mother’s. If Rachel had watched him walk in, she would have recognized him. Is that why she’d signaled?

  His eyes, accustomed to the room’s darkness, sought the flashlight that had lived on the bookshelf. His fingers reached for it, but found nothing. His mother might have removed it.

  Across the way, Rachel’s flashlight had fallen silent. He could use lamplight to answer, but that would illuminate him. They’d never done that to communicate.

  His cell phone would have to do. He drew the blinds, flipped the device open and held it open for a long, then short, then two long flashes. The letter Y.

  Yes. I’m here.

  Funny, how easily the knowledge returned. When he’d first learned Morse code, he’d had to glance at a sheet of paper to spell out words. He hadn’t used the code in thirteen years, yet the dots and dashes came easily as he and Rachel began to “talk.”

  What did he say? she asked.

  Ninety percent yes, Colin flashed back. Will know for sure by noon.

  How was dinner? she sent him.

  Great. Nieces here. Been invited to a school feast. This is like old times. Fun.

  Agreed, she returned.

  Colin stood there for a second, trying to figure out what to say next. He was supposed to be a professional, and here he was acting like a child and sending messages with his cell phone’s display light. Heck, years ago they hadn’t had cell phones. Now he could just dial Rachel up and talk to her that way. But here he remained, in the dark, enjoying the illicit thrill of communicating this way.

  “Colin? Are you up there still? Did you find it? Do you need some help?” his mother called.

  Colin quickly flashed three letters, G-T-G, his and Rachel’s code for Got to go, which usually indicated one of their parents was about to bust them.

  He shoved his phone back in his pocket. He was thirty-one years old, and his mom was about to discover him in his old bedroom, flashing his phone at the girl next door. She wouldn’t understand. He grabbed the yearbook off the bed, and as he left his bedroom, he ran into his mother as she rounded the corner. “I found it,” he told her, taking four steps down the hall.

  “Oh,” she said. “I was starting to wonder what was keeping you. I mean, I thought I’d seen your yearbook last on the bookshelf.”

  “It was in my closet,” Colin fibbed, glad he was behind his mother, who’d already turned toward the stairway. He clutched the book to his chest and followed her down into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get going. It’s getting late,” he told her.

  “Oka
y,” she said. She gave him a quick hug. “Stay safe.”

  “I will.” With that and a quick goodbye to his father, Colin was soon outside and climbing into his sedan. The driveway was on the opposite side of the house from Rachel’s window, so he couldn’t see if she was still in her bedroom. Once he backed out, a maze of tree branches should block any clear view.

  But somehow, he saw her standing in the window as he drove by.

  RACHEL SIGHED and set her flashlight down on the bed. Her mother was one of those home-safety types who had flashlights that also served as night-lights plugged into at least one outlet in every bedroom. Rachel had grown up knowing an evacuation plan for fire, tornado and earthquake. Considering that fire had destroyed the diner, maybe her mother’s better-safe-than-sorry attitude wasn’t so hard to understand.

  She glanced around her bedroom. Little had changed since high school. The antique white canopy bed had been in the room for years. The wallpaper was Victorian—faded cabbage-rose wallpaper that had become cream colored with age. Only the white lacy bedspread was new.

  Growing up, Rachel had always wanted something more modern. Her apartment decor had leaned toward black and chrome, befitting a New York City studio whose only view was the building next door.

  A knock sounded, and her mother entered. Rachel stood five-seven; Adrienne Palladia topped out at five-two. “I brought your laundry,” she said.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Rachel said, rising from where she’d been flopped on the bed.

  “It was no problem,” her mom insisted, setting the white circular basket on a small, upholstered chair and walking back to the doorway. As she did, she noticed the flashlight on the bedspread. “What’s that doing out?”

  “Uh…” Rachel stammered.

  Her mother frowned. “Were you flashing Colin again? He doesn’t even live there anymore.”

  “Um…” Rachel fought to think of something plausible. Although she’d never told Colin, on a long-ago visit home from New York City she’d confessed her nocturnal childhood activities. “I was just trying to see if I could peer into his room the way I used to do. Call it curiosity. I saw him today when I went to catch Bruce.”