* * *
The next morning I wake late. I stayed up past midnight tinkering with Nana Alice’s lemon cake recipe and baking a test layer of the cake for practice. Yawning sleepily, I wander down to the kitchen to find it empty except for a familiar ginger-haired woman bent over my test cake on the counter, eating one corner.
“Mom?” I blink, befuddled. My parents aren’t due in from Moldova for another ten days. Henry miraculously managed to get ahold of them yesterday and told them about Nana Alice’s true prognosis and the upcoming wedding, and they immediately booked tickets home. They’re scheduled to arrive three days before the wedding.
The woman turns, a fork in her hand. It’s not my mother.
“Aunt Frannie?” I stare blankly at her for a moment, wondering if I’ve conjured her up or if I’m still half asleep.
“My favorite niece!” Aunt Frannie exclaims. She sets her fork on the counter and pulls me into a strong hug. She smells exotic, like red dust and chili peppers, salt and cloves. I sniff the collar of her shirt, inhaling the unfamiliar odors.
“What are you doing here?” I haven’t seen her in nearly four years. She’s been working in Ethiopia or Eritrea—I can’t quite keep up. Her communication, never a strong suit at the best of times, has been sporadic as she travels with her team in remote places with limited Internet access. I’m thrilled to see her, as always, though aware that she’s going to be sorely disappointed by what I’m doing with my life currently.
Aunt Frannie grins. “I’m just passing through, flying out tonight on my way to Cambodia for a dental conference. I decided to go at the last minute, so I didn’t really plan anything in advance.” She rolls her eyes. “I know, story of my life. Anyway, I got hold of your mom after I bought my tickets and she told me the whole story about Moldova and the farm. She gave me Henry’s number, but I got so busy I forgot to tell him I was coming. I just texted when I landed in Seattle last night and asked if I could crash here for the day.”
I pull back and look at her. Except for more laugh lines around her eyes and some silver streaks in her hair, she doesn’t seem to have aged at all. She’s as vibrant, brash, and larger than life as ever.
“Have you seen Henry and Christine?” I ask.
Aunt Frannie nods. “Passed them when I got up this morning. They were going into town. Those kids are certainly cute.”
“Yes, they are. Want some coffee?” I scoop Stumptown coffee into a French press and hit the button on the electric water boiler.
“Sure thing.” She yawns. “I’m still on Ethiopian time.” She straddles the back of a kitchen chair and watches me measure out the grounds. “So your parents are in Moldova, huh? Who’d have thought?” She shakes her head. “Meg and Henry, saving the world one lavender plant at a time.” Her voice is tinged with fondness.
I dread the question I know is coming next.
“What about you?” she asks. “Your mom told me you and Ethan broke up and you went on a trip around the world.”
“I did. I went to Mumbai and Hungary with a team from the Humanitas Foundation. It . . . didn’t really work out the way I expected.”
“How so?” Aunt Frannie sounds genuinely interested, so I give her the short version, leaving out some of the more embarrassing details.
“Wow,” she says when I finish. “That sounds intense. So what are you doing now?”
“Baking cakes.” I wince, not looking at her, sure I’ll see disappointment. “I’m making Nana Alice’s wedding cake. She’s getting married in two weeks.”
Aunt Frannie cocks her head and surveys me. “Cakes?”
“Yes, cakes.” I press my lips together and pour the coffee.
“Well, that’s the best cake I’ve had in years.” She points to my test cake on the counter. “It’s perfect. I’ll be dreaming about that cake all the way back to Addis Ababa.”
“Thanks.” I’m pleased despite myself. “At least I can still bake well. Even if baking can’t change the world, it’s something, right?” I hand her a mug and sit down across from her.
Aunt Frannie looks at me curiously. “What do you mean, baking can’t change the world? Who told you that?”
“You did.” I glance at her in surprise. “When I was twelve years old, you told me that baking wasn’t enough, that I should aim for better things.” I wait to see if she remembers, but her expression is blank. “You might not remember saying that, but it stuck with me. I wanted to be like you, the next Mother Teresa. Saint Mia. It was my highest goal in life.”
I take a sip of coffee, watching her face. She’s listening carefully, brow furrowed.
“The problem is, Aunt Frannie,” I explain, “I love to bake, and I don’t seem to be as talented at anything else. I think this may be all I have, the thing I’m actually good at.” It feels like a confession. It feels like the truth at last.
Aunt Frannie considers me, her slanted green cat eyes astonished. “Mia, are you telling me you’ve been avoiding doing the thing you love all these years because you thought I wouldn’t approve?”
“Well, yes.” I set my mug down, almost indignant. “I idolized you. I wanted to be just like you. You told me I needed to aim for better things, to think bigger than baking. You told me to shoot for the moon, but the problem is that I really just love to bake.” I bite my lip, surprised by my outburst, and watch her miserably.
“Oh for Pete’s sake, girl.” Aunt Frannie takes a sip of scalding coffee. She looks at me with fond exasperation. “My dear, bright, wonderful niece. You can do anything you put your mind to. And anything you do, you will touch people’s lives. It’s who you are. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I wanted to encourage you to reach as high as you could, to reach for the stars. But I didn’t mean to limit your choices, and I’m afraid I’ve done just that.” She pauses, then asks, “Do you know why I’m a dentist? Why I’ve spent my life traveling across Africa, setting up clinics in dusty schools and church sanctuaries, doing thousands of cleanings and extractions with just a folding portable dental chair and a headlamp?”
She waits for my response. I hesitate. “Because it’s useful work and really needed?”
“Wrong.” She shakes her head. “Because I love it. I love being a dentist. I wanted to be a dentist since I was a child. Your mother and I used to play house. Meg always wanted to play pioneer woman, farming like we were in Little House on the Prairie. And do you know what I was?”
I hazard a guess. “Her dentist?”
She nods. “So whatever I said about baking not being enough, that was nonsense. In the right hands, a cookie or pie or biscuit can be a powerful tool. It’s not about the baked goods. It’s about your heart. Almost anything can change the world if it’s done with love, if you use it to comfort, encourage, or strengthen someone. Even dental crowns and routine cleanings. Even piecrusts.”
She sits back and takes a sip of coffee. I stare at her, stunned by this paradigm shift. Her words are turning my entire world on its head.
“You really think so?” I ask.
She nods. “Absolutely. If baking is what you love, then that’s what you should do. Figure out how to make baking benefit the world, and then go for it. End of story. Now, how about some more of that cake?”
And just like that, the spell of her words from my childhood, the false lesson I believed for so long, is broken. I no longer have to work so hard to find something else worthy of my time, worthy of my effort. What I love, who I am, is enough. Speechless, I cut us both generous slices of cake.
As Aunt Frannie tucks into hers with relish, I perch on the edge of the chair and stare at my wedge of cake, astonished by this morning, by the appearance of Aunt Frannie, by the direction the conversation has taken. I take a small bite of cake. Moist, laced with coconut and lemon zest. She’s right. It is perfect.
Aunt Frannie scoops another bite of cake up with her fork and sighs contentedly. I am amazed by the change her words have wrought, what they unlock in my heart. All these years I
was laboring to do enough, to be enough. But I’ve been missing the truth all along.
I think of what Delphine told me when I said goodbye to her that last day at the camp. Remember, Mia, your place in this world is the space where your greatest passion meets the world’s great pain. Go now and find that place.
I have found my right place, with a cup of sugar and a stick of butter in my hand, but how do I let this passion meet the world’s great need? That is still the question. I am free to do what I love, transform the world one baked good at a time, but how exactly do I do that?
A honeybee buzzes in through the farmhouse’s open window, landing on the remainder of the layer cake and walking gingerly over the icing. I don’t shoo the worker bee away, just let her continue her slow parade across the cake. I have the strangest feeling that I am on the correct path, despite the appearance of being back where I started. I have returned to the kitchen of my childhood home, but this time I know it is the right place to be. I am finally free to do what I love. But there is still a piece I cannot quite see.
Chapter 51
The next two weeks fly by in a whirlwind of wedding preparations. Nana Alice is discharged from the hospital and turns her studio apartment at Sunny Days into a hub for wedding planning. I stay at West Wind and take the ferry back and forth from Sequim every day. It’s a long drive, but it feels unexpectedly good to be back home, sleeping in my childhood bed, walking the fragrant lavender fields heavy with morning dew. It feels like coming full circle.
Rosie and I text back and forth during my daily ferry commute. After debrief week finishes, she gently breaks the news that she will not be returning home to Seattle. She’s going to stay on the island with Lars (in her own guest cottage, she hastens to assure me). They want to explore the possibility of a future together. I’m thrilled for her, though saddened by the thought of losing her as a roommate. I will miss her loyalty and care as well as the drama and pizazz she brought to our little home.
One morning I’m busy in the farmhouse kitchen, testing and perfecting the frosting for the wedding cake, when my phone dings. I glance at it as I zest a lemon rind. Kai. My heart leaps as I read his text.
Lars just agreed to fully fund my greenhouse project for two years!
Hastily wiping my hands, I text him back. Congratulations, great news! No more law school!
My phone dings again. Yep, huge sigh of relief. Time to focus on getting the portable greenhouse project up and running. Heading back to Virginia tomorrow.
Sounds exciting. Safe travels. I stare at the Pyrex bowl of creamy frosting, debating, then type. I miss you. Wish you were here. I hesitate, unsure if I should send that last text. It’s true, I do miss him, but it feels vulnerable to put it out there. As my finger hovers over the Send arrow, a honeybee lands on my hand, gingerly walking the length of my outstretched finger. I take it as a sign and send the text, my heart skipping a beat. I wait ten seconds, a minute. No answer.
With a sigh I brush the bee out the open window and put my phone away. Regret lies dull and heavy in my chest. I wish so many things had turned out differently. I turn my attention back to the frosting, to the task at hand.
As one day slips into the next, I find solace in our old farmhouse kitchen. As I sift and stir and tinker alone in the familiar space, zesting lemons and measuring dollops of cream cheese, sifting flour and sugar, gently shooing away the honeybees that keep buzzing in through the open window, I feel my equilibrium gradually returning.
In those quiet, productive hours, early in the morning or later after my return from Seattle, while my mind is occupied with the technical aspects of getting the cake just right, my heart is slowly sorting through the events of the past weeks. My time in Mumbai, Shreya and the children in the slums, the Röszke camp, kissing Kai in the tea aisle of Tesco, Ethan’s surprising arrival and our final goodbye, the debacle and terror and my epiphany the day of the riot, Maryam and Yousef. Every time I picture their faces, I say a little prayer for them, that they made it safely to Sweden, that they are finding their feet again in their new home.
Slowly, slowly, eased by the gentle rhythms of the kitchen, those complex and painful memories soften and my heart slips into a place of stillness, of acceptance. The trip was not what I had dreamed of. I wanted to be Saint Mia, to see the world and change it for good. But what changed was my own heart.
Funny that a trip around the world led right back to my own kitchen. I am starting to be grateful, to slowly move past regret and disappointment and see the bigger picture. Bit by bit I make peace with my life. For the moment it is enough to just be here, just be me.
Chapter 52
The morning of the wedding dawns bright and sunny. I slip into my daisy yellow sundress and very carefully load the lemon butter cake into my dad’s old Ford truck. I take the ferry to Seattle and drive to the wedding location, the beautiful Admiral’s House on Magnolia overlooking Elliot Bay and the Space Needle. Henry and Christine will follow later with the children, closer to the ceremony start time. Sunlight dances on the Sound below, bright and silver blue. Seattle in the summer is an overabundance of beauty.
“This looks perfect.” I greet Aunt Karen, Uncle Carl’s wife, who has been handling the flowers and decorations.
“It’s a miracle we got it done,” she says. “I’ve never seen a wedding come together so fast, but everything is ready.”
Rows of white chairs are arranged in the garden for the thirty or so guests in attendance. An archway covered in greenery and blush-colored spray roses stands at the front. The Reverend Waters from the Lutheran church where Nana Alice has been a member for forty years will preside over the ceremony. And afterward there will be a reception on the lawn with dinner and dancing. A three-piece band in tuxedos is warming up near the archway as I gingerly carry the cake to the outdoor reception area, teetering on my wedges.
“That cake is pretty as a picture.” Aunt Karen bustles over to admire my handiwork.
Situated on a card table covered in a lace cloth, the wedding cake looks perfect. Its cream cheese frosting is luscious, and I piped white frosting flowers with sugar pearl centers around the top and bottom. It looks dainty and elegant and vintage, in keeping with the rest of the wedding. It was a joy to make, and after all those test runs, it turned out beautifully. I pinched a tiny crumb from the underside of a layer and tasted it while the frosting blended in my mom’s trusty KitchenAid mixer. Perfect.
Little by little, guests start to arrive. My mother and father flew in a few days ago from Moldova. They’ve been staying with Uncle Carl and Aunt Karen in Seattle in order to be close to Nana Alice. So far they’ve spent all their free time with her, so I haven’t really gotten a chance to catch up with either of them yet. I give them both hugs and let them go mingle with the other guests, all friends and family they haven’t seen in a while.
Henry and Christine arrive with the kids in tow. Maddie wears a white lace dress and carries a white patent leather purse, very prim and proper and ladylike. The twins look grouchy in tiny herringbone vests and bow ties.
“Oliver is refusing to wear pants.” Henry kisses my cheek, and behind him Christine pulls a face. Oliver, clad in only a diaper on his lower half, tugs on her hand and points to the cake.
“Dis, dis,” he hollers.
“Here, Ollie, do you want a cheese stick?” Christine asks, pulling string cheese from her purse and trying to distract him from the cake. Meanwhile Auden has wandered off into the yard and is crouching down, putting something in his mouth.
“Ew.” Maddie grimaces, pointing to him. “Brother’s eating a bug.”
Henry dashes off to pry the bug from Auden’s mouth, and I turn at a tap on my shoulder, expecting to see an old family friend or a distant relative. My eyes travel up, up, and my mouth drops open. Kai is standing directly in front of me, wearing a smart navy blue suit and a sheepish smile on his face.
“You!” I stare at him as though he’s been conjured up by magic. He is holding a bouquet of
white daisies, my favorite flower. “What are you doing here?” I gape at him, delighted and baffled. He holds the daisies out to me.
“Alice messaged me through Instagram last week and invited me to come.” He grins, leaning down and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “She wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” I say fervently, leaning in and giving him a long hug. My heart is doing a happy little jig in my chest, and I feel like crying. Also giggling a bit at the thought of Nana Alice navigating Instagram for the sake of my heart. All at once I’m immensely relieved that I wore waterproof mascara.
“I’m glad to be here.” He meets my eyes, his own crinkling at the corners in that endearing way. “Hey, Mia, I know we have a lot to talk about,” he says, sobering just a bit, “but today is about celebrating Alice and Albert. Let’s just concentrate on that. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. I just want you to know something.” He turns and faces me, gently cupping my face in his hands so he’s staring into my eyes. His expression is earnest. “I’m not Ethan. I won’t make you give up the dreams you have in your heart. Do you hear me? Whatever happens, I promise to help you find your better things.”
I nod, blinking back tears, amazed by those words. He’s making me a promise. He thinks we have a future together, one where we can both live out our dreams. I exhale with relief, letting go of a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Thank you,” I tell him, eyes shining.
Kai drops his hands and grins, looking relieved. “So can I meet your family?”
I spend the next twenty minutes in a haze of happiness, introducing Kai to friends and family, marveling at his presence beside me. He is witty and self-deprecating, perfectly at ease. I am so head over heels for him. I feel like I’m floating on air.
When the music starts we scramble to our seats in the second row behind my mother, aunt and uncle, and Albert’s two sons and their wives. Beside Reverend Waters, Albert is waiting, looking dashing in a sand-colored linen summer suit with a bow tie and a Panama hat. He also looks, adorably, a little nervous.
The Enlightenment of Bees Page 26
