chapter
17
When she lived at home, Saturday mornings were sacred to Sophie. That was when she rolled up her sleeves, donned an apron, and began to bake. Cookies mostly at first, until she moved on to things like bread and fudge and pies and cakes. Even if I slept in late, I always knew it was Saturday because the smells of melted chocolate and sticky vanilla, buttered cookie sheets and roasted walnuts, would fill the house like perfume, punctuated every ten minutes or so by the tiny ding of the timer on the stove.
I was not allowed anywhere near Sophie on Saturdays; she demanded to be alone. Even Mom and Dad cleared out, eating breakfast early and then making themselves scarce so Sophie could have free reign in the kitchen. But I loved to be around Sophie when she baked. I sat on the bottom step in the living room, which gave me a nearly perfect view of my big sister while still hiding me from her sight.
Sophie’s ability to create things in the kitchen was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a skill that came naturally, an innate knowledge that only she possessed, with an end result that was nothing short of magnificent. In the span of half a day, the blue kitchen counter would be covered with whole vanilla cakes, the edges moist and slightly crumbling, bowls of fudge frosting accented with a splash of espresso, zucchini bread studded with pineapple and carrots and walnuts, even peanut brittle made with a combination of brown sugar and toffee. She created everything from scratch; each recipe an original, tried again and again until the proportions were perfect.
And she worked hard. There was no doubt about that. Her shoulders would droop as the day went on, her cheeks would flush pink. But the exertion didn’t seem to bother her. On the contrary, it seemed to inspire her even more. She would finish with some sort of cream puff or biscotti and then, staring at it for a minute, say something like: “I wonder would what happen if…” The next moment, she would start all over again, throwing ingredients into a bowl, and whipping something else into a frenzy. Everything she made went to Eddie and his family, though. We never got a chance to try any of it.
I struck gold only once, when Sophie looked up in the middle of making her dark-chocolate chip cookies with walnuts, oatmeal, and toffee, and grinned at me. I ducked behind the wall, but I was too late. “I know you’re there,” she said. “You want to help?”
“Me?” I peeked out around the step.
She laughed. “Yeah, dork. You.”
I scrambled from my seat and ran into the kitchen. Sophie made me turn around as she tied an apron around my waist and scooped my hair up into a ponytail, and I was glad I wasn’t facing her, because my mouth was plastered with an idiotic smile. I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeves, ready to be let in on Sophie’s magical world of baking.
But there was not as much magic as I imagined. Not nearly as much. I’d conjured up visuals of Sophie adding secret ingredients here and there—maybe some sort of exotic extract that brought out the taste of the dough. Instead, I tried to hide my disappointment as she placed boring old butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and baking soda on the countertop, and then pulled out the mixer.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Isn’t there anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all that goes into your cookies?”
Sophie shrugged. “Well, we have to add the chocolate and walnuts and toffee at the end, but yeah, all this stuff makes up the base of the dough.” She reached for a tiny white dish on top of the stove. “Oops, and salt. I almost forgot salt.”
“Salt?” I wrinkled my nose, and then widened my eyes. “Is that your secret ingredient?”
Sophie laughed. “Salt isn’t a secret ingredient, doofus. Besides, you just add a pinch. Salt brings out all the flavors.” She paused. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How something so opposite of sweet can make things taste even better?”
“How does it do that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sophie answered. “It just kind of brings everything together in its own strange little way.”
The cookies came out of the oven twenty minutes later. Sophie poured each of us a tall glass of milk, placed two cookies apiece on Mom’s rose and ivy teacup saucers, and drew up a chair at the kitchen counter. I stood on the chair while Sophie rested her elbows on the counter, and we dug in. The cookies were warm and soft, a perfect contrast to the heavy, weighted centers, and the edges were crisped only slightly.
“You know, getting to eat what you make is the second-best thing about baking,” Sophie said, sinking her teeth into another cookie.
“What’s the first thing?” I asked.
“Being in the kitchen with a head full of ideas.” There was a tiny smear of chocolate on her chin. “Right before you start—when anything is possible. That’s the best thing.”
chapter
18
After breakfast, Sophie showed me around the house. She took me upstairs first, leading me into two small bedrooms. Except for a single bed and dresser in one of them, both rooms were completely bare. Despite their sparseness, they didn’t look half as bad as I expected them to. Their pale walls, freshly refinished floors, and undressed windows, however, indicated that some work had already been done to them. The scent of clean wood filled the air, and light streamed in from the wide windows on both sides.
“Where is all of Goober’s stuff?” I asked.
Sophie waved her hand. “Her things are still in the garage until I finish all of this. I don’t want them to get dirty. And technically she doesn’t even need her bed. She still sleeps with me.”
She led me back downstairs, into a large, very wide room in the front of the house. The floors were rough and unfinished, and while two of the walls were bare and smooth, the other two were pocked with cracked plaster. Unlike the woodsy scent upstairs, this room was permeated with a strange oily smell.
Sophie walked into the middle of the room. She spread her arms out wide and turned around slowly. “This room is going to be the first thing people see when they come in. This is going to be the whole front of the store.” She pointed to an empty space on the right. “I want to have a case of breads over there—whole wheat, rye—and English muffins, and cranberry-nut, blueberry-lemon, and white chocolate raspberry muffins over there. I want a table in the middle filled with nothing but cookies—the dark-chocolate-walnut-toffee ones, coconut macaroons, peanut butter drops with the little Hershey’s Kisses in the middle, and sugar cookies. And then on the left, I’m thinking pies: apple, peach, and cherry daily, and maybe chocolate cream espresso for special occasions. Plus, I want to have a wall for all different kinds of specials. Maybe a certain bread—like Irish soda bread for St. Patrick’s Day, fruitcake for Christmas, or challah bread for Passover—whatever.” She looked at me, her face shiny with perspiration. “What do you think?”
I shrugged. “Good.”
“But?”
“But it sounds like a lot.” I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. “It sounds like a whole lot. Can you do all that?”
“I can try.” She studied me for a few seconds without saying anything.
“What?” I asked finally.
“You know this is my dream, right, to have my own place, my own bakery? To create amazing things for people to eat?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yeah. I mean, I guess I do now.”
“Well, when something’s your dream, you do whatever it takes to make it happen.” She shrugged. “Even if it seems like too much.”
I waited, hoping she wasn’t going to start in again on her “you gotta have fun” speech.
“You have a dream, don’t you?” she asked instead.
I looked away uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. Of course.”
“What is it?” Sophie asked. “What’s your dream, Jules?”
“Didn’t we already talk about this?” I could feel my defenses starting to rise. “In my room, right after my graduation? You know I want to be an attorney and get on the whole legal fast track.”
Sophie nodd
ed slowly. “I know that’s going to be your job,” she said. “But is that your dream?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes. Now can we drop it?”
Sophie nodded. “Come on,” she said. “I want to show you the kitchen.”
“Actually, I think I need some air,” I said. “The smell in here…Can we go for a walk or something?”
“Yeah,” Sophie said. “Definitely. I should’ve given you a mask to put over your face before we came into this room. I’ve been using turpentine on the walls and the fumes are really strong. Come on.”
Outside, the day was warming up fast. More people had appeared on Main Street, walking dogs or just hurrying down the sidewalk. A man in biker shorts and bright red clogs was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the Brown Bag Delicatessen, and a herd of men holding coffee cups had gathered in front of a little convenience store called Stewart’s. They were laughing and talking, lifting their caps to scratch their heads and then placing them back on again.
“Let’s head this way.” Sophie pointed in the direction of the high school. “It leads right into East Poultney, where there’s an adorable little mom-and-pop store and a real gorge with a waterfall. We can get some drinks at the store and then sit for a while by the waterfall. I always go down there when I need to think. It’s great.”
I fell into step next to her, wondering when the topic of Maggie was going to come up. Should I say something now? Or wait until later, when we were alone in the house? I needed to do something. There really wasn’t much time.
We made our way down the neat little street, past the library and a bookstore with two white cats sitting in the front window, past the church with its pale front doors and a Dunkin’ Donuts—all without talking. Finally, as we crested a small hill next to the high school, Sophie turned to look at me. “Feeling any better?”
I nodded. “Yeah, much.”
“Good. Fresh air is always the best thing when you feel light-headed.”
We walked a bit more.
“It really is a cute little town,” I said. “I like it.”
“Me too.” Sophie sighed softly. “You know, I’d never even heard of Poultney until I saw the ad in the paper for the house. But when I came down to see the place, I just fell in love with the house and the town. I’m so glad I bought it.” She kicked a stone in her way, watching as it bounced and skidded along the road. “So how’re Mom and Dad?”
I shrugged. “Call them. Ask them yourself.”
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, we have this thing, the three of us, where we don’t talk for a while after a good fight.” Her tone sounded easy, bored even, but I could hear fragments of something else around the edges. “It always happens like this. We just have to let enough time pass until we forget what it was we were even fighting about, and then someone—usually Mom—calls again, and everything is forgotten and forgiven—even if it’s never mentioned again.” She lifted her arms straight above her and stretched. “I think the longest we ever went without talking was about eight months. It was right after Goober was born. I think I called Dad an asshole. Maybe even a fucking asshole.” She sighed. “It took him a while to get over that one. It just takes time, whatever it is. Always, always time.”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of stupid?” I asked. “I mean, no offense, but why didn’t you just call and apologize to Dad for saying that, instead of wasting all that time not talking?”
“Who said it was wasted time?” Sophie asked. “I don’t consider not speaking to them for eight months wasted time. It was actually a pretty good time, now that I think about it.”
I shook my head, pushing down the angry annoyance inside me. It was a little after nine in the morning, but I could already feel the heat beginning to prickle the tiny hairs on my arms. The trees on either side of the street were a deep jeweled green. Small clusters of cornflowers and stalks of Queen Anne’s lace dotted the sides of the road, and the drone of summer insects murmured around us.
“Listen,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I have to talk to you about something.”
“Ahhh…” Sophie reached into her pocket and withdrew her cigarettes. “So there was another purpose to the trip.”
“Sophie.” I said her name gingerly, as if it might break. “I know about…Maggie.” It felt strange to say the name, stranger still to imagine all over again that it had once been attached to a real person. A sister of mine. And hers.
Sophie’s lips pinched the cigarette in her mouth. It was still unlit. She withdrew it carefully, staring at it between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, and then reinserted it once more. Cupping her hands carefully around it, she snapped open her lighter, held the flame to the tip, then placed the lighter back inside her pocket. A deep hit from the cigarette produced a yarn of smoke from her lips. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. Then they finally told you.” She studied something in the distance. “When?”
“A day or two ago.” I tried to think back. “The night of my graduation. You’d already left.”
Sophie nodded, inhaling deeply again on her cigarette.
I waited, but she didn’t say any more. “Sophie, why didn’t you ever tell me about her? Mom and Dad said they were trying to protect me, but what about you? How could you keep something like that a secret all these years? Didn’t you think I had a right to know?”
Sophie turned her head, looking out across the enormous field to our right. Whip-slender stalks of grass fretted to and fro in the breeze, and a weeping willow, large as a locomotive, clouded the air with blooms. “They told me not to,” she said slowly.
“Who did? Mom and Dad?”
“Yes. They told me never to talk about it. And I didn’t.” Her voice had taken on a numb-sounding quality. She turned her head again so she was looking directly at me. “But it was eating me alive, Julia. That was the whole reason why I came down for your graduation. So that the four of us could start talking about it. Or try to, anyway.”
“Seventeen years later? You finally thought it was time to start talking about it seventeen years after she dropped dead from an asthma attack?”
“Asthma attack?” Sophie looked startled.
“Yeah. That’s what Mom and Dad told me. That Maggie had terrible asthma. They said that’s what she died from. She got all worked up and started crying really bad, and…” Sophie’s face paled. She had dropped her cigarette. “That’s what they said, Sophie.” I took a step toward her. “When she was four. What’s the matter? Why do you look like that?”
“What else did they tell you?”
“Not much, really.” My voice shook. “Sophie. What’s wrong? Isn’t that what happened?”
Instead of answering, Sophie turned around and began walking back toward town. “Sophie?” She kept moving, faster and faster. Little clouds of dust kicked up around the backs of her boots and the cuffs of her overall pants drooped against the sidewalk. “Great! You’re just gonna turn around and leave? Without answering me?” She moved farther ahead, creating more distance with every step. I lifted my hands and then let them fall against the sides of my legs helplessly. “Fine! Go ahead and leave then! It’s the only thing you ever do when things get hard!”
She stopped. Her hands clenched into fists as she whirled around and marched back in my direction. Pieces of her hair had come loose from underneath the bandanna. She was breathing hard. “That is not what happened to Maggie.” Her words came out with great effort, as if part of her was trying to old them back. “They did not tell you the truth.”
“Then what is the truth?” I whispered.
She stared at me, her eyes as big as the cornflowers on the road. “You know what?” she said. “I don’t even fucking know anymore.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Of course you know! Dad said you were there! He said you saw everything!”
“Dad said that?” Sophie’s voice was hoarse. “That’s what he said?”
“Sophie.” I put my hands on her shoulders. My finger
s were trembling. “Sophie, just tell me about Maggie. That’s why I came up this weekend, okay? I wanted—I felt like I needed—to get your side of the story. That’s all. It’s not a big deal, Sophie. Whatever it is. Just tell me, okay? Tell me what happened.”
Later, it seemed that the whole world fell away from us in that moment. The wind stopped blowing. The insects ceased their humming. Even the trees and the flowers shrank into the distance, fading against the tall grass, disappearing into the green.
It was just Sophie and me on that road, under the hot sun, looking at each other for the very first time.
“I can’t,” Sophie said, shrugging my hands off. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I just can’t.”
And then she turned and walked away from me again. This time I let her go.
chapter
19
A huge part of me wanted to run after her, to yank her by the arm, spin her around, and scream, “What do you mean you can’t? This is our family we’re talking about! You can and you will!”
But I didn’t. Those kinds of words might have worked on me, but Sophie was someone else entirely. I was afraid to keep pushing, afraid of what it might do to Sophie, afraid of what Sophie might do to me.
Instead, I watched as she raced back into town, her legs making long, determined strides over the sidewalk, her spine tall and rigid. She had shoved her pack of cigarettes into her back pocket, hitched up the waist of her overalls, and her arms swung by her sides. Only her chin, which was lowered slightly, gave the slightest indication that anything was wrong. When I couldn’t see her anymore, when she made the turn into the driveway of her little ramshackle house, I turned around and started walking in the opposite direction.
I didn’t have the slightest idea where I was headed. From what Sophie had said earlier, if I kept going straight I would either end up at some mom-and-pop store in East Poultney or at the bottom of a gorge. I didn’t even know what a mom-and-pop store was, and I sure as heck wasn’t interested in hanging out in the bottom of a gorge. I made a sharp right instead, and walked swiftly down a shaded dirt road behind the high school.
The Sweetness of Salt Page 8
