How Sweet It Is (10 page)
“Yeah.” I sigh.
“Sorry I missed it.” He stands beside me as my fingers work to scrub the last of the white sauce out of the pan. “I wanted to be here to make sure everything went well on your first day, but I got a phone call from social services about another kid, and that took a lot of time.”
“Well, thanks for your concern.”
“Yep.” He grins at me, then leaves the kitchen.
What on earth am I doing? What was I thinking, quitting my job to come here? Why did I leave Atlanta? I left a place where I was wanted and needed and where no one yelled at me.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in, trying to smell the aroma from the kitchen at Palacio del Rey. I see a leg of lamb marinating in basil and mint and a plate of fresh asparagus cooked in butter, garnished with slivered almonds. Next, I conjure the aroma of the light buttercream frosting of my velvet white cake and just the idea of it sends a pang of yearning to my heart. I see each uniformed employee in my mind; all the dishes they will make for dinner tonight whirl before me—perfect and ready to be enjoyed. I try hard to get a whiff of one of them, but all I smell is lemon-scented cleaner and yesterday’s popcorn.
I take in another breath. There is one more scent— nostalgia.
L
ucas was seated in the pew in front of Sally and me. I sat through the whole church service staring at his wavy black hair. The sermon was on David and Bathsheba. That should have been my first clue that he was bad news. If you are seated in a sanctuary and the pastor preaches on sin and greed, do not greedily hope that the cute new guy in front of you will ask you out and not at all be interested in the dozens of other attractive single women in the other pews. Women with four-year degrees, wearing Liz Taylor perfume. Women with 401(k)s and matching leather luggage.
I stuck out my hand, told him my name, was too nervous to remember his, and invited him to the singles Sunday school class. I hoped that the way I said
singles
didn’t make it sound like it was a horrible disease. I was twenty-five and often thought I was carrying some deadly flaw or illness that kept me from finding the love of my life.
Lucas smiled and his aqua eyes crinkled at the edges. His black lashes gently swooped down, and when he looked at me again, we both smiled.
Then others approached him and I was literally lost in the swarming crowd.
The next week he appeared in my Sunday school class, making his way toward me. I felt anticipation fill every pore in my body, although, of course, thanks to my upbringing, I knew not to show it. When he chose the chair next to mine, I could feel my pounding heart.
We talked after that class about the simple things that are often discussed at the beginnings of relationships—the best restaurants in town, noisy neighbors, and the Atlanta Braves. Caught up in the moment, we nearly missed the worship service that followed.
When he called me four days later, I thought I was the luckiest girl on the planet. The sensation was even more exciting than baking a three-tier butter cake and icing it with the most perfect pink roses.
————
“So how was teaching?” Aunt Regena Lorraine asks as she boils water for sassafras tea. She is standing next to me in the kitchen, where I just pulled a white velvet cake from the oven. The aroma is enticing. However, her question quells my cheerful mood.
Funny how at church I lied, but here at home, I choose to be honest. “Tough.” Then I let out a sigh. It aches as it leaves my lungs, making me feel tired, as though I have just cooked a five-course meal for dinner guests. I push aside a cardboard box to make room for us at the table. When I sit down, I add, “I don’t think it could have gone worse.”
I don’t tell her that I threw myself into making the cake just to prove that I can still function in some normal way that resembles the me I’m familiar with. I don’t tell my aunt that while baking, I had conversations with myself. My reluctantfearful self was the clear winner of all my arguments.
“Well, well.” Sucking in air, she repeats, “Well, well.” As she pours the tea into mugs carrying the face of an Indian and the face of a bear, she tells me, “Those kids have been through a lot.” She rubs a pudgy hand across the neck of the bright dress she has on this afternoon. The fabric resembles an artist’s palette of reds and purples. “Did you meet Darren?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Even his mother.”
“His mother?”
“She called him her son when she came to The Center.”
“Hair orange or red?”
“Orange.”
My aunt nods. “At Christmas it was red. Was she determined to see him?”
“She was yelling.”
“She’s on probation and there is a restraining order.” She turns on the faucet and washes her hands.
“Why?” I ask.
But the question gets lost because Regena Lorraine says, “Looks like Jonas fixed the water pressure.” She smiles at me. “Did he come over the other day?”
I think of Jonas waving his wrench and calling me Deirdre. “He did. Is he a little… ?”
I’m not sure what the politically correct term is. What do you call someone who repeats phrases, delivers his words like lines from a poorly rehearsed role, and sings verses from the
Eagles’ Greatest Hits
as he goes around your house tapping every faucet with the top of a Sharpie?
My great aunt has no concerns about political correctness.
“Retarded. Jonas is retarded. He has a little house in Fontana and lives alone.” She dries her hands on the linen towel that Grandpa must have bought in Venice.
Venice
is stamped under a lopsided bowl of printed fruit. She joins me at the table, handing the bear mug to me and setting the Indian mug in front of her. A spoon swims in each mug. As she shifts into her chair, her rings picking up the sunlight, she smiles into my eyes. “I bet they love you.”
“What?”
“Young and attractive.”
I want her to stop right there. Notice the long sleeves, Auntie. I’m not wearing them because I’m cold. I am covering all my bad and ugly that is visible to the human eye. The trouble is, I still know those scars are there.
She wraps her ringed fingers around the mug. “Darren has a beautiful voice. He can sing ‘O Holy Night’ and make you cry.”
“That kid sings?” I don’t doubt he can make me cry. He already did that today.
“Wait till the pageant at church. His voice is magnificent.” She sips her tea, adds two teaspoons of sugar from the bowl I’ve placed in the center of the table, and stirs.
“Really?”
“Surprise you?”
“Yes.”
She reaches across the table and touches my arm. “ ‘In youth we learn. In age we understand.’ ” As I try to decipher what she means, she adds, “Austrian writer Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach.” She says the name like this writer is her friend, like she drops in at her house often for sassafras tea and pound cake.
I think of showing my aunt the letter I found from Grandpa and asking her about the raccoon bowl. Perhaps she could even solve the mystery of why he wrote a letter and never mailed it to me.
Rubbing a band of silver etched with swirls of yellow gold and tiny diamonds, she smiles. Looking up from the ring, she says, “Many rings from men, but there is nothing like a sentimental gift.”
I wonder if this is another quote from someone important, but she accredits the words to no one. “My mother died when I was still young. Well, younger than my sixty years now. I was only thirty-five.” Her eyes turn dark, suddenly, like a cloud that covers a summer sun. “Your dad was only thirty-two.”
“So your mother gave you that ring?”
“Oh, no! I found it among her jewelry when she died. Ernest said any necklaces or rings she had could be mine.” Her face breaks into a smile that almost glitters like the ring’s diamonds. “As long as none of my siblings found out and grew jealous. People can fight viciously over the family gemstones.”
I wonder what my sister Andrea and I will fight over when our mom dies. Mom has one sapphire ring, but I’ve never liked it because it looks like it came out of a gumball machine. Once I asked if the stone was real and she just said, “Deena, Deena.”
Solemnly, Regena Lorraine adds, “A lot of forgiving needs to happen in church after a funeral, I think.”
Forgiving.
The word makes me feel queasy. I grit my teeth and hope that Lucas’s face will disappear from my memory.
“Oh, speaking of church,” she says, pushing her chair back from the table, “I’ll pick you up this Sunday. Ten-twenty.”
Giovanni, who is lying on the rug by the sliding door, lets out a woof, and I wonder if my aunt brings him to church, too.
If he sits in the passenger seat of her truck, does that mean I have to sit next to him? Does he use a seatbelt?
“Service I go to starts at eleven.” My aunt wipes her lips with a tissue. “Not much of an early bird, so I’m still sleeping during the eight-thirty service.”
I want to say that I haven’t been to church in months, that even before the accident I was neglecting Sunday morning services. Lucas suggested we take drives instead. Then one day he didn’t show up for our Sunday morning drive. When he finally returned my frantic calls that evening, he said he’d come down with the flu. I brought chicken soup to his apartment, but when I got there, only his roommate Allen was home, watching a football game on TV.
A wave of sadness starts to spread over me.
“Okay, Shug?” prompts my aunt.
I just nod.
She takes a few more noisy sips of tea and then announces, “Time to go.” Abruptly, she stands.
“Going to play Clue?” I ask.
She pulls her tote bag over her shoulder and gives a little tug at her gray hair that is now hanging straight, except for the ends, which curve toward her chin. “Not tonight, Shug. Tonight is Scrabble at Jo-Jen’s.”
“Who is Jo-Jen?”
She laughs. “Josephine Jennifer. Friend of mine. She saved me once from a deep depression.”
Is she serious? I can’t imagine my aunt ever being depressed.
“But that’s another story. I’ll tell you later.” She heads toward the door, her rubber-soled sandals flopping against the floor. Over the shoulder without the tote bag, she calls, “It’s a good one.”
Then she’s gone, her dress billowing in the afternoon wind. Giovanni is slobbering and bounding after her.
No wonder people like their dogs so much. They are the most loyal and faithful of all beasts. No dog is going to cheat on you, or make you promises he doesn’t intend to keep. Canines don’t run off with other humans, even if those other humans happen to be better-looking; they stay loyal to their owners, regardless of how bad they look or smell.
I
am sipping Belgian coffee from the bear mug and thinking of the kids at The Center when Chef B calls the next morning. In his typical fashion he makes it sound as though he hasn’t slept at all since my departure because he’s had no idea if I even made it to North Carolina. “You not call me,” he scolds. “I worry you end up in hospital in Gainesville.”
Well, don’t think I wasn’t afraid of the same thing.
Chef B asks about the cabin and the state of the kitchen appliances.
“Gas stove,” I say, because he, unlike Sally and Jeannie, will care about that.
He doesn’t disappoint me. “Ah, gas is good, good. Better control of heat.”
I smile at his approval of the stove.
“Are you writing in journal book?”
I tell him I have written in the book; I do not say that I haven’t written in it every day as he instructed. He asks what I’m doing with my time. I tell him about my grandfather’s plan for me to teach cooking lessons to children.
He clears his throat, and I anticipate that he will say, “How awful!” or “That is beneath your skill!” Instead he says, “Deena, that is perfect for you.” With eagerness in his baritone voice he asks, “What did you teach them?”
I mutter that I started with a white sauce.
“White sauce?” His voice is raised, and I have to pull the cell phone away from my ear to save my hearing. “Teach them fun stuff,” he tells me. Again I am aware that white sauce was a big mistake.
“Children want to make brownies. Sweets. Things they eat right away. How you say?” He pauses for a few seconds. “Instant gratification.”
