The Memory of Lemon (13 page)

Maybe it was time to find out, or at least rule out the one possibility that concerned me. I suspected this was the start of the Luke Davis Reign of Psychological Terror.
You can't leave me if I don't want you to.
If so, it would end today when I filed for divorce and became officially separated.
Bring it, sleazeball.

I put on a clean white pastry chef's jacket and did a quick touch-up in the bathroom. At least I would look a little more professional when I saw my attorney.

As I drove west on Benson Street across the little bridge into Lockton that always gave me the shivers, I noticed that the SUV
was following me. He kept a few cars back from me on Mill Street, through Lockton, and then continued as Mill Street turned into Fairview Avenue.

What an exciting life I led. I was being tailed. I hoped Luke—or more likely Charlie Wheeler representing Luke—was paying this guy extra for boring duty.
Knock yourself out
.

I thought about going into a shop, then leaving through the back door and finding an alternate route to my attorney's office. But no. I wanted Charlie and Luke to know that I was seeing my own attorney. Why keep that a secret?

I slammed my car door with a little more vehemence than usual. I marched in the door with a little more purpose, startling the receptionist.

When she saw me through to Jonathan Billings's office, I sat down with a flourish, ready to sign a stack of papers and set the legal ball rolling.

“There has been a development, Neely,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, I know. I'm being followed this morning.”

His eyes widened. Jonathan was a slender, pale man with coal black hair that he surely had to lacquer with hair spray to keep it in such a perfect coif. His firm specialized in divorce. But it was never a confidence-building sight to see your attorney gulp.

“That doesn't surprise me. I just got this letter today.” He passed a paper across the desk to me. “It cites your prenup again. It reiterates that Luke could claim all property accumulated during your marriage if he can prove you've been unfaithful. Like your current residence. And the bakery.”

I was stunned. How had Luke and Charlie known to send the
letter here? If I didn't quite believe it before, I believed it now. I was being followed—in cyberspace, on my phone, in person. Why was Luke pushing so hard? The night we'd talked on the phone, he had sounded lonely, not angry. Why was he trying to take everything away from me?

“These photos also came today.”

Jonathan opened a manila envelope and took out several eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies.

I looked at them, one by one. Ben and me holding hands, walking into Boca for our ill-fated date. Me in my sexy dress. An intimate close-up of Ben's hand pressing the small of my back. The two of us clinking champagne glasses at dinner. Smiling for Charlie's camera.

The evening had started out so magically, it made my heart ache. There was nothing sordid here, just two people falling in love. The problem was that one of them was still married. And Charlie Wheeler was setting her up for a fall. A big fall.

“But I haven't done anything. And I'm filing for divorce.”

“Well, maybe not
today.”

SEPTEMBER 1948

MILLCREEK VALLEY

The Wanderer

“It's a lot to take in,” the newly bereaved man said.

Two deaths were a lot for anyone to take in, thought Dorothy Mooney.

Small boned with reddish blond hair and clear gray eyes, she sat across the large partner's desk from the beneficiary as he read and signed the stack of papers: the deed to the house, the bank account statements, the life insurance policy, and the inventory of the contents of the safety-deposit box. She also had a ring of keys for the Benson Street house, the car, and the detached garage.

Emmert's Insurance was in the same building as the man's attorney, Joseph Sand. Twenty-year-old Dorothy sometimes worked at the attorney's office when there was an overflow, like that morning, and not as much business for Emmert's. Mr. Sand
had explained everything to Mr. O'Neil and witnessed his signature of the will. Dorothy was completing the follow-up.

George O'Neil's curly auburn head bent over the papers, but Dorothy had noticed his frayed cuffs, the short and wide old-fashioned tie, the well-worn leather bomber jacket, his scuffed shoes, and his general air of being down-at-the-heels. Still, he seemed saddened at the sudden loss of both parents in an automobile accident. He looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older. No wedding ring.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas O'Neil had seemed a courteous couple. He worked on the railroad and she was a homemaker. They never talked about a son. Dorothy had thought they were childless, but here he was.

She leaned back in the wooden swivel desk chair as he read the documents, allowing her mind to wander. It was sort of a game, really. Seeing what flavor came to mind when she focused on him, what story she could make up to go with it. Dorothy imagined she would taste his late mother's pot roast or his father's favorite breath mint. And then would come a cozy family scene of birthday dinners or Sunday drives.

No, that was an unfortunate thought, Dorothy chided herself. A Sunday drive had been the cause of their deaths.

She started over. She relaxed.

George O'Neil
.

Something with a bitter edge, sort of an apple-like fruity middle, a burning finish. Bourbon. A twist of lemon.

Of course, he must be drinking at such a loss. But the flavor pulled her into a deeper place. Old resentments. She gazed out
the window, letting her mind wander, and in a few moments, the stories came.

“Where is the lazy son of a bitch?” A younger version of Thomas O'Neil in a railroad conductor's uniform walked into the kitchen, slamming the back door behind him.

“Now, Tom, don't get yourself all worked up again,” his wife, Grace, said as she mashed the potatoes at the stove. “Dinner's almost ready.”

“I told him to put the trash out in the alley this morning, and the trash is still by the back door. Now we'll have rats.” He slung his metal lunchbox across the room, where it hit the low windowsill and then clattered to the linoleum floor.

“Tom!”

He rammed his coat on a peg. Then barged through the door to the pantry where the medicinal whiskey was kept. He pulled a glass from the junk drawer and poured himself a slug, downed it, then another and another. He leaned in to the counter of the Hoosier cabinet where Grace kept the spices, sugar, and flour. The small stained glass window high up in the pantry wall sparkled colors on the back of the pantry door. But Tom didn't see them.

He heard muffled voices through the door. Tom squeezed the glass, trying to control his rage.

“You were supposed to take the trash to the alley before you went to school, George.”

“Sorry, Ma, I forgot. Jimmy was going to show me his Ted Kluszewski baseball card.”

“Well, your father is angry.”

“He's always mad, Ma.”

Tom slammed the whiskey glass down on the counter and stormed
back into the kitchen. He grabbed eight-year-old George by the collar and slammed him up against the board and batten wall.

George's green eyes bulged and his face grew red.

Grace pulled Tom off his son, and the boy slid to the floor. Tom elbowed Grace out of the way and struck George, leaving a white handprint on the boy's flushed cheek.

Grace sobbed into her apron.

Dorothy couldn't watch any more of this scene, which played in her mind like the black-and-white film noir she had just seen at the Emory Theater.

Poor George
.
What a rotten childhood.

When George looked up from signing the papers, she gave him a warm smile.

“When the dust settles, do you want to go out dancing sometime? Maybe the Friendly Cafe? They've got a good jukebox,” George asked a little nervously.

It wouldn't hurt to go out with him.
It might cheer him up.

“I love to dance,” she told him.

Neely

“Now my attorney wants a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer!” I shrieked.

“Calm down, girl,” Roshonda said. We sat across from each other in the conversation area of her office, four white leather club chairs arranged around a glass-topped hammered metal table. She slid a tall glass of sparkling water with a sprig of mint and a lemon slice across the table to me, along with a lemongrass-colored coaster. “So, the teacup poodle has a mean bite after all. But he bit you instead of Luke. You didn't pay him the extra money, did you?”

“I don't have fifty thousand dollars to throw at this. And my head is spinning from all this legal stuff. Now we have to go through arbitration. And if I file in Ohio, it will take longer because Luke lives in another state.”

“Well, did you really think this was going to be easy?”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course.” Roshonda reached across to me, her elegant, manicured, completely-in-control hand calming my shaking one.

I took a deep breath and a gulp of water.

“And you haven't heard the best part yet. I really could lose a big chunk of the settlement and maybe my house and business. I thought that was just cage rattling.”

“Well, you already knew about the prenup and how it left things to Luke's discretion.”

“Charlie Wheeler took photos of Ben and me on our date and we looked very cozy together. He just sent them to my attorney as another warning shot. And someone followed me over to Jonathan's office today. I don't know what Luke and Charlie are trying to do.”

She nodded, gravely considering the shifting landscape of my life.

“Has Luke seen the photos?”

“I don't know. I don't think he had seen them when I talked to him the other night.”

“Do you still have Ben's letter?”

I touched my chest. It was still there.

“Give it to me.”

I shrank back.

“I'm not going to read it. I'm going to keep it for you. I'm going to keep all of them. If Luke has someone following you, and someone hacking into your e-mail and phone, he could also have someone sneak into your house every so often. They don't need to be finding letters.”

“But why?” My shoulders sagged. I sat forward, my elbows on my knees, and pressed the cool glass of water to my flushed face.

“What's really going on here, Neely? Luke never struck me as a cheap, vindictive person. He's got plenty of money without going after what you've worked so hard to establish here. He knows Ben is a good guy. I never pegged Luke as the ‘if I can't have her, I'll trash her' type. I don't get it.”

“I don't, either.” I pressed my lips together.

We sat in silence. Roshonda leaned back in her chair, with arms crossed. She pressed her pointer finger to her upper lip, something she always did when she was pondering something.

My thoughts were going in circles, not finding a viable way out of this mess. But Roshonda suddenly sat up straight.

“It sounds like Luke and Charlie are playing good cop/bad cop. Luke appeals to your heart, Charlie scares you to death.”

Roshonda took a sip of her drink and tapped a manicured nail on the glass-topped table. “Here's the plan. Before you pay your attorney another dime, you have to find out what's really going on with Luke. You have to talk to him again. You have to go directly to Luke to get him to stop this.”

“How?”

“You call him and talk to him. As many times as it takes. Simple as that.”

She tapped a text message into her phone. “And I know people in the entertainment industry that I can discreetly ask for a favor or two. We have to know if Luke is up for some big commercial, a reality show, something where he has to have a certain image. Don't worry, Neely.” She raised her glass and toasted mine. “We'll get this fixed.”

I relaxed a little bit. I had a plan. It was a good plan. Instead of retreating, I was going forward.

“And what do I do about the fifty thousand dollars?”

“Well, don't look at me.” Roshonda chuckled, and then got serious. “Let's try this two-pronged approach first and then see what happens.”

When I walked across the street to the bakery, my step was much lighter than when I had trudged over to Roshonda's office an hour earlier.

“We got a few more graduation party orders today,” Maggie said as I came in. “Jett's working on the sugar cookie baskets.

“Cuban coffee again?” she asked. She sprinkled a little sugar in the bottom of my Tiffany-blue mug, then added the dark brew and a froth of milk before she handed it over to me. “How did the meeting with your attorney go?”

“Well . . .” I took a sip and let the sugar-calming magic happen. “It's going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.”

“Isn't it always? And speaking of complicated, John and I are going out tonight.”

“John?”

“The
Professor
,” Maggie growled. “I'm amazed that peer pressure still works. You better hope this date isn't a total disaster or we could lose our best customer.”

“Where are you going on a Thursday night?”

“A lecture on campus. Something about telomeres.”

My raised eyebrow said it all.

“Don't ask because I don't know, either. And then we're going for ice cream afterward.”

“You'll need it,” I said, patting her on the shoulder. “So how
bad can it be? First dates are always awkward. At least you'll be able to tell us all about the fascinating world of telomeres tomorrow.” I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Remember, he's a good guy who thinks you're really hot. And Roshonda's homework: You're a magnetic, charming, sexy woman.”

She rolled her eyes, handed me the stack of mail, and harrumphed back to the workroom to check on Jett.

There was another letter from my dad. I slipped it into my purse to read later.

If there ever was a night I needed my mom's home cooking, this was it.

I closed up just after six o'clock, grateful for a slow afternoon for once.

I brought a coconut cream pie, Mom's favorite. Coconut's hard, dirty, shaggy exterior didn't promise much. But when you cracked it open and then cleaned it up, it surprised you with the smooth white riches inside. In a coconut shell, this was my mother's mission in life—to tackle the litter, the dust, the stains, the residue of life and tidy them all up. Her sweet reward was that exotic state of everything-in-its-clean-place, always a mirage in the distance while she was living with Helen. Coconut cream pie fed her soul.

At our weekly dinners, I was in charge of dessert. Helen poured cocktails. And Mom, of course, made dinner. We all cleaned up the kitchen afterward. I washed, Helen dried, and Mom put away, even though she had a dishwasher. It was actually quite soothing, another reliable rhythm to my new life here.

As I drove past my old piano teacher's brick bungalow, I checked out her porch goose, dressed as Beethoven, complete with a tiny piano, the same outfit from when I was taking lessons.
Mrs. Elmlinger had recycled a bobbed wig to make Beethoven's unruly hair.

Thank goodness for things that never seem to change.

And I was doubly thankful when Aunt Helen handed me one of her obligatory whiskey sours when I walked in their door. Homemade lemonade and bourbon, our family's signature cocktail.

Helen and Mom, sisters-in-law, had settled into their Odd Couple living arrangement after I went off to college. Mom was a neat freak; Helen was a slob. But somehow it worked. Little rituals like Helen making the cocktails before a dinner of Mom's home cooking were part of the glue that held them together.

Helen looked different, more put together. She had colored her hair. She wore lipstick. A high-necked white blouse replaced her usual Fighting Irish sweatshirt and her jeans were of the skinny, not the mom, variety. The moccasins on her feet were a step up from tennis shoes, but still made allowances for her bunions. Maybe she had had a meeting today.

“You look a little stressed out, honey,” Mom said as we sat down to dinner, with maternal radar that was unerringly accurate.

“Busy day,” I said, sipping my drink.

“Did you file for divorce yet?” Helen asked, disregarding the kick I felt Mom give her under the table.

“Well, we started the proceedings. But we have to wait to file for a bit more. I just want this to be over with.” I sighed.

“Well, meatloaf always makes everything better,” Helen said, putting a thick slice on my plate.

Mom added a mound of mashed potatoes and gave me a helping of slow-simmered green beans.

We chatted about our day. Mom at the parochial elementary school, Helen at the sprinkler company.

I talked about my visit with Gran that morning. “She remembered Emmert's and her father driving a taxi. She even talked about George, the grandfather I never met. Why didn't anybody seem to like him?”

Helen looked at me, then at my mom.
Uh-oh.
“He died when I was six,” said Helen. “But from what I gathered, he hit the bars every night and then came home drunk and mean. I remember waking up once, thinking I was having a bad dream, but it was him yelling at our mom.”

“How did he die?”

“He was walking home drunk one night. They think he hit his head somehow. They found him in the creek under the bridge to Lockton. After that, Mom got her old job back at Emmert's Insurance and she never really talked about him again. I haven't even thought about him in years.”

So, Dad must have been eight, old enough to notice more than his little sister. No wonder he kept his drinking secret in high school.

After the main course, I cleared the plates, rinsed them out in the sink, and cut us each a slice of pie. Helen poured the coffee.

“Well, Claire, I've got some news,” Aunt Helen said when we sat back down. “I haven't even told your mother.”

Mom and I both looked up from our coconut cream pie.

“I have a date this weekend.”

“A what?” Mom sputtered.

“A date. With a man. You know, when two people go out to the movies or have dinner or something like that?” said Helen.

“Well, that's wonderful,” I said. “Who is he?”

“I met him at work. He's a plumber we use a lot for commercial installations. He just got divorced.”

“Well, he could be on the rebound. He could be trouble, Helen,” Mom warned.

“Don't worry, Cindy. I'm not going to bring him home here and make out on the couch or anything.”

“Helen!”

“Where are you going on your date?” I asked, taking us back to safer territory.

“There's a fried catfish supper at the VFW this weekend.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said.
A fried catfish supper and a lecture on telomeres. Be still, my heart.

When I got home, I took Dad's letter upstairs to my office to read. I settled into the oversized leather club chair with the ottoman, meant as a holiday gift for Luke, which I didn't end up giving him. I hated it, but it would do for now. And I reluctantly had to admit that it was comfortable.

Dad must have cleaned out the City Vue's stationery because this letter was several pages.

Dear Claire,

Thanks for writing back. I can't tell you what that means to me, how I look forward to your letters.

And the lemon cookies!

I don't know if it was the cookies or the print-outs you sent about indigo and blue hands and North Vietnam, but I feel like I'm getting closer to remembering what happened to me.

But here's what I do remember.

You wanted to know how I became a helicopter pilot.

A week after I graduated from high school—that was June 1968—I went to the Navy recruiting office and told them I wanted to be a pilot. They said I had to have a college degree and then apply. That wasn't gonna happen. So I went to the Army recruiting office. They said I could be a warrant officer, a rank in between enlisted men and commissioned officers. Basically, a fancy name for a helicopter pilot. A warrant officer was in charge of the helicopter and the flight to and from, but not the mission itself. The only hitch was I had to be eighteen to take the warrant officer flight test. I was seventeen.

I remembered Dad's senior photo from high school. The serious young man in a sport coat with a white shirt and tie. So young. So clean-cut. I didn't want to imagine what he looked like now after years of living rough. I went back to reading his letter.

I waited. I spent the summer at a lot of backyard kegger parties with my buddies, listened to a lot of Beatles and Rolling Stones. Drank a lot of beer. I worked at Hinky's, this crummy bar, where I washed glasses and served crappy hamburgers to the drunks. But the main attraction for me was that I could sneak all the drinks I wanted. At the end of the night, when the bartenders were too tired to notice, I'd pour off a little booze into my own bottle and sneak it home. I had a drinking buddy, this girl who was a friend of my sister Helen's. Diane Amici. We used to hole up in a neighbor's garage and pass the bottle.