How Sweet It Is (24 page)
Miriam ends the phone conversation and continues to riffle through her desk, looking for something. I look at her green tennis shoes and decide she wears them for comfort, and in case she has to run fast away from some angry parent like Darren’s mother.
I hear Zack telling the kids good-bye outside of the office as the parents and guardians pick up each child. I overhear Darren saying, “I hope I don’t have to see my mom this weekend,” to which Zack replies, “Don’t worry. She’s not supposed to come to your grandma’s unless she calls me first.” Then I hear Rhonda’s soprano voice, talking to Zack, giggling. I hear their footsteps as they walk down the hall away from Miriam’s office.
When all is quiet, Miriam says, “Oh, Zack usually comes, too. We try to have two men and two women. More, if we can get them.”
Zack goes camping with the kids. Of course. No surprise there.
“Think about it,” Miriam says as she crams a folder into her briefcase. “Oh.” She notices the pitcher of half-and-half on the edge of her desk. “Would you take this cream back to the fridge for me?” She hands me the pitcher.
“I’ll take the coffeepot, too,” I say. “And wash it out.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.” Quickly, she stands and lifts her briefcase. “I hope this board meeting is a good one. I hope all the financing comes through for The Center.”
I tell her that I hope that is the case, too.
As she leaves, she says, “Thanks, Deena. And please do consider the camping trip.” Then she’s gone, her tennis shoes making squishy sounds along the narrow hallway.
I am thinking about tents and saturated sleeping bags as I enter the kitchen with the pitcher and coffeepot in my hands. When I swing open the door with my shoulder, I see Zack. He’s standing in the arms of Rhonda. Her arms are snuggly placed around his neck. Their faces are inches from each other.
“Excuse me,” is all I can say. Balancing the coffeepot and pitcher in one hand, I open the fridge with the other.
The two pull away from each other and awkwardly look at me in silence. I shove the pitcher and the coffeepot onto a shelf in the fridge and exit as quickly as I entered.
As fast as I can, I walk to the bathroom so that I can be alone.
No, no, no,
my mind says over and over. I stand in front of the mirror and see my sad eyes, eyes that had looked so hopeful after the day I spent in the hospital with Zack. Of course he cares about someone else, I almost say aloud. Of course.
All those smiles at me, I took them the wrong way. All those conversations about me opening up my heart and sharing myself with the kids and with him. Those were just bullet points to pep talks he probably gives everyone. He only cares about the kids… and Rhonda.
I am faced with the reality that I am not special to anyone.
Not Lucas.
Not Zack.
I
bake a cinnamon breakfast cake just because I know this buttery delicacy will help brush away my fears. At least while I’m eating it. I can’t guarantee that it will erase all my insecurities. It’s not that big of a cake. I use the nine-inch pan from my good-bye party at the restaurant, and as I grease the inside, my mind wanders to the restaurant. I wonder what dishes are being prepared for tonight’s specialty. What I wouldn’t give for a plate of braised duck in orange sauce with a side of pasta drenched in tomato and roasted garlic.
I turn Vivaldi on high. If I were in my apartment in Atlanta, surrounding tenants would be banging on the walls, begging me to turn down the volume. Here, in the mountains, on my own little steep winding road, one advantage is that I will bother no one with my music. Except perhaps the owl.
While the coffee cake fills the cabin with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar, I brew some French roast coffee. Yolanda used to say that I knew how to make the apartment
muy magnifico
with my cooking, music, and coffee. I pick up my journal, sit on the lone bar stool by the counter, and write.
Grandpa Ernest’s cabin. August 30th. 6:10 p.m.
It’s okay, really. I let my heart out of its cage for a short time against my better judgment. I got stung, but hey, I’m still living. I’m making coffee cake and coffee, and the kids want me to go on a camping trip. So I’ve lost whatever it was I thought I had with Zack. So I’m not where I hoped I was in his sky. But Darren smiled at me today when I asked if he’d put the orange-raspberry glaze on the cake we made in class. Then he took the glaze and evenly dribbled it over the top of the cake, just like I’d demonstrated. Bubba told me I am a good teacher and Joy said I look like Grandpa, not old or anything, but kind. Charlotte (she is like a gorgeous doll, but very scared, I wish she’d talk more) suggested we make a peach pie—my favorite! Bobby told the class that, with all the food they have learned to make, we should open a restaurant, and we could become more popular than the Fryemont Inn.
I see prayers being answered.
It’s all okay. Really. Zack can be a friend. If he’s happy with Rhonda, then I just have to be happy for him. Who knows, maybe one day someone will come along for me. I probably still need time to heal, anyway. My legs and arms don’t hurt as much anymore, so my Extra Strength Tylenol bottle is still half full.
When I eat the coffee cake, I enjoy each comforting morsel. I can taste the butter, the cream, the vanilla, and the brown sugar—all are parts of an orchestra in my mouth.
Then I decide to make some peanut soup because I have a feeling I’ll be able to pick out all the flavors tonight.
After all that food, I’ll need to walk a few laps around the cabin.
R
honda spends time at The Center every afternoon. Although she’s assigned to Bubba, I note that Bubba is not her main concern.
Believe me, I am not in the business of stealing anyone from anybody. I have had that happen to me and don’t wish that pain on anyone. Besides, I’m allergic to men who break hearts, and I’m getting the feeling that that sums up every man.
I look at Jonas. He is checking the drain under my kitchen sink. I recall the time he retrieved the engagement ring for me. “Jonas? Have you ever broken anyone’s heart?”
He slithers his head from the drain and sits up to look at me. I wonder what he’ll say. He might ask for an explanation of what I mean. He adjusts his crimson bandana. “Oh, I carry superglue.”
I doubt he heard me correctly and get ready to repeat the question. Before I can, he says, “Superglue will fix anything. Superglue is durable.” His words sound like a commercial.
My smile breaks into a laugh. Jonas joins me. We laugh at what he just said, and then we laugh from hearing ourselves laugh.
I am relieved that he is feeling better. Everyone was concerned about his head injury from the fall off the church roof. Zack went to see him every day while he was in the hospital. They discharged Jonas with the warning to stay away from roofs. Zack told him to stick to pipes and drains, things that require only cupcake Band-Aids, not MRIs. Jonas said he’d miss the hospital, especially the kind nurses and the strawberry gelatin with whipped cream served at lunch.
Jonas eyes my camping gear, spread all over the living room floor. Although the trip is not for three days, I am slowly gathering the items I’ll need. That sure beats last minute running around. Jonas stands in front of the assortment of piles and asks, “Do you have a sleeping bag?”
“I do.” I bought it three years ago after I realized I needed something to replace the pink threadbare one of my childhood— Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The last time I used it I was at my apartment, preparing to leave Atlanta and venture to this unknown land. I breathe in and wonder what Yolanda is up to today. I could go for a succulent fried banana.
Jonas observes a large brown bag filled with groceries.
“Marshmallows?”
“I went shopping for the trip and got eight bags. I hope those are enough.”
“Eight bags should be good.” He tugs at his bandana. The Sharpie he sometimes keeps secured in the folds of the material falls onto the floor. “Eight bags is too much!” he cries as he bends down to retrieve his pen.
I laugh. “Well, at least we won’t run out.”
He continues to toss out the questions. “Flashlight? Pillow? Earplugs?”
“Do you want to join us, Jonas?”
He grins as he sticks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “No, no. Need a soft bed to sleep on. Doctor’s orders. Rest and relaxation.”
“Rest and relaxation, huh?”
“Yes.” He eyes me. “Is that funny?”
“No, I am sure it’s what you need.” I hope to get some upon returning from this camping trip. I doubt I’ll be able to get comfortable enough in a tent with others to get anything remotely close to sleep. Perhaps earplugs would be helpful.
“ ‘Take it e
eee
asy,’ ” Jonas starts to sing. “ ‘Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.’ ” When he finishes he breaks out with, “ ‘You better let somebody love you before it’s too late.’ ”
Only a few notes are off-key. He wants me to join him, but I shake my head. I don’t even sing in church. But I can appreciate how others have voices that stay on pitch.
Jonas belts out a few more lines, and I clap for him. He bows, bumps into the chair, and shakes his head. “I drop my pen. I trip. I am one clumsy dude.”
And charming and endearing.
“Deirdre, what do you think of my brother?”
“Everyone thinks Zack is great,” I say, an automatic reflex.
“ ‘You better let somebody love you.’ ”
I feel discomfort settling around me. I know where this is headed.
Jonas wastes no time in expressing his feelings. “You and my brother need to get married.”
“Whoa, Jonas! I don’t think we are ready for that.” Zack hugged Rhonda in the kitchen. I don’t tell this to Jonas though.
I don’t want to burst his bubble. He loves his brother, and he sees something good in me.
“Well, you can go out on a date first, I guess.” Then he sings another line from one of his favorite Eagles songs. “ ‘We may lose and we may win.’ ”
I am not ready to lose again. With certainty in my voice, I say, “If he asks.”
“You can ask.”
No, no, Jonas. I don’t chase guys. I protect my heart.
“You can invite him here for some soup.”
“Dinner here?” I think the fall off the church roof has done something to Jonas’s brain.
He notes my surprised reaction and says, “Or just the oil soup.”
“I don’t know…”
“He likes cake. Make cake for dessert.”
“What kind?”
“The soft one.”
Soft one? He must mean the velvet butter. “Velvet?”
“Make sure the soup is hot. You can taste the flavors. Taste all the flavors.” He gives me a wink. “Even the oil you thought the soup doesn’t have.”
I’ve never been one to try to find the way to a man’s heart by satisfying his stomach. Even though I am a chef, it seems too juvenile for me.
“And make sure you have music,” says Jonas.
“The Eagles?”
Jonas grins. “You got the picture.”
I know I shouldn’t but I say, “Jonas, I think your brother is interested in someone else.”
His reply is quick. “Rhonda? No, no.” He waves his hands in front of him as if to remove any such notion. “They went out to talk things over. Zack is like that. Zack cares about everyone.”
I know. Everybody knows that.
“ ‘Desperado,’ ” sings Jonas as he heads outside to check some pipes underneath the cabin, “ ‘why don’t you come to your senses? You’ve been out ridin’ fences for so long now.’ ”
A few minutes pass, and then he swings open the front door. “Deirdre?”
“Yes?”
“Your name is Deena.”
I smile. “That’s right.”
“My brother told me.”
He leaves and then opens the door again to add, “I guess I’m just not too smart.”
“Oh, not true,” I want to say, but he has already bounded out the door once more. Yes, you are smart, Jonas. You are smarter than over half of the people I know and your perspective on life is healthier than 99.9 percent of the population.
