The Memory of Lemon (14 page)

My dad. Drinking to feel better.

Just for the record, Diane Amici was not my type at all. We just drank. Mom always said that drinking alone is what killed my dad. I told Diane that if we drank with other people, we'd be okay. We were all wrong.

But back to the helicopter pilot stuff.

I had to wait a couple of months for an opening at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah.

Mom made our turkey dinner early because I started the Monday before Thanksgiving. November 25, 1968.

I loved flight school. There's no better feeling in the world than piloting this big ol' bird—you're making it fly with just a two-blade rotor on top and a smaller two-blade rotor on the tail. Everything below you is so tiny, so inconsequential. All your cares, all your worries, all your fears. None of it mattered.

But it could be scary as shit, too. You had to know how to get out of any situation. You'd be at the controls, up in the air, and your instructor would just turn the engine off. You had to figure it out damn quick. You prayed that you didn't screw up and get someone else hurt or killed.

I left for Vietnam on May 15, 1970. Another red-letter date because the countdown started from there. I didn't know that in Vietnam I would never know what day of the week it was. Friday was like Sunday was like Wednesday. But I always knew the date because everybody was counting down the days until their tour of duty was up. I couldn't wait to go and then, once I got there, I couldn't wait to go back home.

When we landed at Cam Ranh Bay, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Piss and rot and gunpowder all rolled into one. And then the heat and humidity like someone trying to suffocate you with a pillow over your face.

We had five days of training about Vietnam. It wasn't like World War II—D-day and tanks and take back territory. Our mission in 'Nam was search and destroy—locate the enemy and their supplies and take everything out, but not leave men on the ground to hold the fort. There was no fort.

I dropped troops into battle. I flew the wounded back to the base hospital. I dropped Army Rangers into Laos and Cambodia for reconnaissance missions. I flew Army brass up to Quang Tri and Khe San. After a while, I didn't ask myself if what I was doing was right or wrong. I just kept my head down and did my job so that nobody I knew got killed.

Simple as that.

You're the person I love best in the world, Claire. I don't want to burden you with this. Thank you for helping me understand myself.

Love,

Dad

Neely

The next morning, I found another bouquet under the wing of my front porch goose. Fragrant sweet peas and a letter in a sealed plastic bag wrapped around the stems. I quickly brought the bouquet inside and put the ruffled lavender blossoms in water. As my coffee brewed, I took the letter out of the bag and tried to make it lie flat, to no avail. With the letter in one hand and my mug in the other, I went into my parlor and curled up on the settee. As the pale light poured in the windows, I read Ben's letter.

Neely,

In a weird way, I like this old-fashioned courtship.

Maybe I am old-fashioned. I'm definitely more of a planner. But that doesn't mean I can't be flexible. I could make
adjustments on the football field. I can make adjustments in business. But for some reason, I have a hard time making adjustments when it comes to you. We almost get “there” and something always happens.

Hope everything went well at Billings's, but if it didn't, I will adjust.

There. I really like declaring my intentions. I said I was old-fashioned, didn't I?

So here goes.

I want us to grow old together.

Okay, maybe that's not going to sweep you off your feet, but that's not my style anyway.

I want us to have a home. Argue over whether my ratty old recliner goes in the living room or is banished to the basement. Bicker over who left the dirty dishes in the sink.

I want us to have a family. I want to teach our kids how to play soccer and how to drive. Remember when I taught you how to drive a stick shift? My neck has never quite recovered from the whiplash.

I want us to laugh.

I want to know that your face on the pillow will be the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see the next morning.

I want to hold you again. Sooner, rather than later.

Ben

The letter rolled up on itself again and I just let it go. I let the coffee go cold.

How I wished . . .

How I wished I didn't have to tell Ben about the exorbitant retainer, about the delay.

I went back to the kitchen and took my cell phone out of my purse. I had to get this settled with Luke.

Luke had two lines on his phone, one for business and the other personal, with Charlie micromanaging both accounts. Both lines had a 212 New York City area code. Charlie monitored sponsorship and media calls on the business line; Charlie also fended off—or paid off—the ladies who tried to make themselves permanent fixtures in Luke's personal life.

But I also knew Luke had another cell phone, one with a 513 Queen City area code, the one his mother always called. The one I had called the other night. That line was our “if anything happens” number, a way to stay connected, but sane, if and when the media camped out on our doorstep. He used to keep this phone permanently charging in an outlet in the corner of our Brooklyn brownstone bedroom; he didn't carry it with him every day. Since he didn't have this phone with him, he'd only hear it ring when he was at home and near the bedroom on the third floor.

I looked at the time. It was just after six a.m. For Luke, in the off-season, the night was still young. He could be out. He could be home but
unavailable
. He could be traveling. But I called him anyway.

No answer. I didn't leave a voice mail message.

Instead, I texted him:
I have someone camped out on my doorstep this time. Please call me.

I put the coffee mug in the dishwasher and went upstairs to my bedroom.

At my dressing table, I poufed my hair on top of my head, put
on lipstick, and spritzed myself with Chanel. I opened the buttons on my blouse to show a little cleavage. My skinny jeans were all right as they were. It felt a little silly to me, but I was doing my Roshonda homework. At the last minute. Right before school started.

I was imagining myself as a magnetic, charming, sexy woman. I grabbed the bottle of perfume and ignored my robin's egg blue–stained fingernails. I eased my feet into my tallest heels and sashayed across the hall into my office.

I sat down at my desk and spritzed my new stationery, thinking about what I needed to write to Ben. The news from Jonathan Billings the previous day hadn't been good.

Maybe by the time Ben got my letter in the mail, Luke would have called and this trying time would be behind us.

After Ben's latest letter, I couldn't let him down again. I couldn't give him this much bad news.

Maybe I needed to tell Ben that I was going to start dealing directly with Luke, the new plan that Roshonda had suggested. But then I didn't want Ben getting all protective and worried. I decided to save that disclosure for another time.

I settled back in my chair, picked up the pen, and conjured up an image of Ben. His sandy hair, tousled. His chiseled face with all the nicks and dents I loved so much. The scar above his eyebrow. His nose that would never be perfectly straight again. Stubble on his cheeks. His lips, so soft and yet so insistent.

His broad shoulders and muscled chest. His powerful legs. I imagined myself lying next to him in the dark, right before sleep, our faces almost touching. I imagined the kind of pillow talk we might have after making love.

Fond. Funny. Serious. Loving.

Planning our future.

And then I began to write.

Ben,

I loved the sweet peas and your letter this morning.

I have to say I like this old-fashioned courtship, too.

You can have your ratty old recliner in whatever room you want, as long as I get to have a claw-foot tub and a scented bath.

Put your nose here xxxxx for a preview. You can wash my back. Or better yet, join me.

For now, let's hold on to that.

Jonathan said there might be another complication if I try to file in Ohio, while Luke lives in New York. So he suggests we wait a while longer. This is so frustrating, I know, but I want to do this right. For Gran, for you, and for me.

Before you know it, we'll be at the Ballou wedding in Augusta, where both of us have every work reason to be. Maybe we'll find a way to sneak off before the bloodhounds follow.

I'm trying to be brave and patient and upbeat, but I miss you so, so much.

Yours,

Neely

I straggled into the bakery later than I had planned. “Here.” Maggie came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and
handed me a latte. “I asked for special guidance on this one, and I think you'll like what you see.”

I looked down at the milky foam on top of the latte and there it was: a wavy star.

“Is that a telomere, by any chance?”

She guffawed. “I actually fell asleep during the lecture and woke up leaning against John's shoulder. He had his arm around me. I don't know how I feel about that,” she said, stiffly.

“I think it's sweet. He didn't have his hand anywhere else, did he?” I teased.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Torrid romance and a preschooler don't go together.”

“Things to look forward to,” I muttered, and then pointed to the wavy star in my coffee. “Well, tell me what this sign means before my coffee gets cold.”

“It's your lodestar. The thing you know is true. All you have to do is keep it in sight, and it will lead you home.”

“You've been reading too much Martha Beck,” I said. My smirk was supposed to be ironic, but Maggie wasn't fooled. She patted my arm again.

“Ten minutes to opening.”

What was the one thing I knew to be true? I took another sip of my latte. The lodestar disappeared. I quoted Norb:
Damn.

“Where are you going on your next date?”

“John's taking all of us to the fried catfish dinner at the VFW tonight.”

“That was fast.” I whistled. “You'll have to check out Aunt Helen's new boyfriend while you're there.”

When Roshonda came into the bakery for her ritual caramel macchiato that afternoon, she had news.

“It pays to know people,” she said smugly.

My eyes widened. “Luke's up for a pizza commercial,” I guessed. She shook her head no. “Insurance?” No. “Luxury car?” No.

“Better than any of that. Much better.”

“An ESPN football series shot in preseason? You know, those in-depth looks at one team and how they fight adversity both personal and professional, blah, blah, blah?”

“You're close.”

“I give up.”

“I put a bug in someone's ear in L.A. She's looking for a new bachelor for network reality TV. You know—the guy who entertains all those hot young women and then chooses one by giving her a rose at the end?”

“I never watch that.”

“Well, you'll host a watch party for this one. My contact is very interested in Luke, providing that he is divorced and new on the dating scene by the time they want to film in February, after football season is over. The sooner he wraps up your legal proceedings, the sooner he can sign a TV
contract.”

Neely

On Monday, I stood in the baking area holding a tray with a dozen tartlets, which I had just brushed with an egg wash and sprinkled with sugar so they would bake to a golden, sparkly finish.

I hoped they tasted like Lydia would expect. She had sent me a barely readable copy of an old family recipe—Little Abigail's custard pie—very similar to one in Gran's recipe file. But Gran had crossed out
spicebush berries
and written in
whole allspice
. I thought a thimbleful was about a teaspoon or so.

I don't remember Gran ever making custard pie. It was usually lemon.

I LOATHE spicebush,
Mrs. Stidham had texted.
I think that custard pie is a bit homemade-y for a wedding of this caliber. I hope you're going to offer tarts like this
—she attached a link to a dazzling, free-form tart from a Michelin-starred restaurant in
the south of France. Too bad that sprays of fresh red currants, each little red fruit de-seeded with a goose quill, were not yet in season here.

But I was doing my best to dazzle, anyway.

For the authentic spicebush berries, I had had to call a boutique ice cream company in Columbus that I knew made a spicebush-flavored confection. The ice cream company had gotten its dried spicebush berries from Integration Acres in southern Ohio, so I called and ordered some, too.

What had probably taken Little Abigail a short walk in the woods to get had taken me several phone calls and a FedEx package.

These little tarts were like gold. They needed to go in the oven.
Now.

“You're breaking my concentration,” the usually unflappable Norb said, rather bluntly. “I have a system this morning, Neely, like I do every morning. Breakfast pastries as soon as I get here so they're fresh for the morning rush. Cookies and cakes next, then pie, so if the filling runs over, we have the bulk of the baking done before I have to shut everything down and clean out the damn oven.”

Damn.
He must be bothered. Norb never cussed.

“Sorry, Norb. It's my fault. I forgot to tell you I need these tarts for the final Ballou wedding meeting later this morning.”

Norb muttered something thankfully unintelligible as he expertly removed three trays of cookies to the rolling rack to cool and put another three trays in to bake.

“How long will those tarts take?”

“Thirty minutes. Tops.”

“Okay,” grumbled Norb. “When these cookies come out, I'll put your tarts in. Put them on this rack,” he said.

“Thanks, Norb,” I said, carefully sliding the tray on the top of the many-tiered rolling rack. In my mind, I did a fake salute, as in,
Aye, aye, Captain.
Norb was my
employee
. I was the boss. But everyone was entitled to a bad day and making Norb's bad day worse was not in my best interest. I was edgy enough as it was.

I walked to the front of the bakery and glared at May's display, arms crossed. After an all-work-and-no-play weekend of cleaning my house and tidying up the yard, with no message from Ben, I was ready for this godawful month to be over. Maggie and the Professor were dating. Even Aunt Helen was seeing someone. Jett seemed to be more attentive than usual to her phone, and in a good mood, which made me wonder if she had a crush on a boy at school.

Why couldn't I have a life, too?

I wanted to rip down the rhubarb-colored curtain, sweep all the carefully arranged goodies to the floor with one dramatic swing of my arm, and throw a full-on tantrum.

I was sick of strawberry and rhubarb.

I was sick of hard-to-please brides and their nouveau riche mothers who had it so good, but didn't seem to know it.

I was sick of being a good girl who followed the rules. I was sick of almost ex-husbands who could turn into reality TV stars. Sick of Ben suddenly dropping out of sight. Sick of my attorney demanding money for a problem I didn't create. Sick of anonymous men in dark SUVs following my every move outside the bakery.

The rest of the morning flew by as customers picked up their
graduation and holiday orders for Memorial Day weekend, which was early this year. Every time the door opened, Maggie looked up expectantly until the Professor finally came in for his usual breakfast of blueberry and lemon muffin and a coffee. He beamed when he saw Maggie.

By ten o'clock, the morning rush had ended.

I sent another text to Luke:
Let's part ways as friends. Fresh start for us both.

I was hoping that Charlie Wheeler, as Luke's attorney and agent, had heard from Roshonda's L.A. talent scout. Maybe Charlie would nudge Luke to end his marriage if it meant more money in their pockets. As Luke's legal wife, I was hoping to move from the asset to the liability category—fast.

With a lighter step, I went back to the baking area and grabbed the tray of tartlets, golden and flaky and sparkly with sugar. At least there was one thing that had gone right that morning.

I carefully packed them up in bakery boxes to take next door.

As I walked past my front porch goose, there was no bouquet of flowers, no letter. There hadn't been since last week.

I couldn't let myself feel deflated before Rainbow Cake's most influential wedding clients arrived, so I busied myself with brewing coffee and herbal tea. I arranged the tartlets on a tiered stand and set a stack of dessert plates and silver forks on the table.

Roshonda and Gavin arrived with their laptops. Lydia and Mrs. Stidham still seemed testy. We all sat in the parlor to go over last-minute details.

“We'll have the tent company ready to set up for the ceremony in the garden, but we won't actually put up the tent unless the weather forces us to,” Roshonda said. “This way, we can be ready
for anything. I've already hired a landscape service to tidy up the garden so it will be in pristine condition. We'll set up the rows of white chairs in front of the tobacco barn. You'll say your vows, Lydia—”

Lydia interrupted. “We won't be
saying
our vows,” she said, earnestly. “We'll be
playing and singing
our vows. We've written our own song.”

Mrs. Stidham looked blank. “I don't understand,” she said. “How is that going to work? You'll have on a wedding dress and a veil. You'll be holding a bouquet.”

“We'll have the instruments up there by the minister. I'll give the bouquet to Melissa to hold, and we'll play and sing our song,” Lydia replied, her blue eyes taking on a steely cast that I was now translating as
determined
. Much better than
obstinate
. “It's going to be all right, Mom.” She patted her mom's knee. “It will be wonderful. Even if I don't have a veil. I'm having flowers in my hair instead.”

Mrs. Stidham fanned herself with the menu card.

“Will you need microphones or speakers or anything like that?” asked Roshonda, making notes on the spreadsheet.

“Yes, I guess we will,” said Lydia. “We want everyone to be able to hear. We've been working on this song for a year.”

Mrs. Stidham cleared her throat. “Can you tell us just a little more about the song, sweetheart?”

“It's sort of bluegrassy. A ballad. About love that stands the test of time.”

What could we do but nod as if playing and singing your own vows was something we encountered every day?

But there was more.

“A few hours before the wedding, Christopher and his groomsmen are going to canoe across the river in a flotilla. Dave Pearce is going to organize it. To bring awareness to the Ohio River ecosystem. You know him, right, Neely?” asked Lydia, turning to me.

If Dave Pearce mucks this up for all of us, I will personally drown him in the treated effluent of the Mill Creek.

“Maybe they could paddle in special T-shirts, then get freshened up afterward,” I volunteered. I couldn't imagine anyone canoeing in a tuxedo, but, again, better not to assume.

“So, the groom's party will need their tuxes and dress shirts and shoes and Dopp kits ready in the hotel rooms,” Roshonda said as she made more notes.

“As long as they're dressed and ready to go on time, I don't have a problem,” Mrs. Stidham said. She looked as if she was going to say something else, but then thought better of it. She pressed her lips together.

“So here are the latest sketches of what the tobacco barn will look like inside.” Gavin bravely entered the breach. “We can't have open flames, for obvious reasons, so we'll use LED candles like this one.”

“And I think you saw the menu card,” added Roshonda. “We'll have that signature bourbon cocktail. The catering company is setting up the grills in back of the barn. We'll put up another tent back there for plating the food and cleaning up, so it will all go smoothly.”

“And the pie table?” I asked.

“We'll have tiered stands on long tables so people can come up and get whichever kind of tartlet they want for dessert,” said Gavin. “Lydia will cut the wedding pie at a round center table
in the middle of the barn, just like you would do for wedding cake. We'll have the pie on an elevated stand.” Lydia smiled. Her mother looked long-suffering.

“There's something else,” said Mrs. Stidham. “I know we talked about using the abiding cabin for an extra restroom, but it's so tiny and very basic, I'd hate to ruin the effect of the tobacco barn with a substandard restroom. Gene and I have been to a magical outdoor wedding and reception at a ranch in Sonoma and no one blinked an eye at porta-potties. We really can't have all the guests trooping in and out all night. I thought we might be able to get our hair and makeup done in my mother's abiding cabin, but there aren't enough electrical outlets. When we've finished getting ready at the hotel suite, we'll drive to the site and just wait in the cabin, ready to go, so no one sees Lydia before the wedding.”

“We'll hire porta-potties to go on the other side of the tobacco barn, so they're convenient.” Roshonda made another note. “Do you want an ice bucket of champagne and glasses in the hotel suite or in the cabin?”

“Both,” said Mrs. Stidham, clutching the menu card tighter. “We might need a little Dutch courage, or I guess that would be French courage if it's champagne.” She took a sip and placed her coffee cup back in its saucer. “Back to the cabins. You all feel free to use the abiding cabin, the one that has furniture. Stay there overnight if you need to. Sometimes bourbon cocktails are a little stronger than you think,” she said, eyeing us meaningfully. “I don't want you driving back late at night if you've had one too many. So if you end up staying, just close the door when you leave. Nobody in Augusta worries about locking up. I'll have my local cleaning lady take care of everything on Monday.”

“Is there anything else we haven't talked about?” Roshonda asked. “If not, it's time for pie!”

When Mrs. Stidham saw how pretty the tartlets looked, she eagerly picked up a plate. “I think this pie thing might work out just fine,” she said, bypassing the spicebush custard tarts for the free-form one that most closely resembled its Michelin-starred inspiration, with tiny strawberries on their stems and orange mint leaves. The problem with this little tart was that it looked fabulous, but you had to fussily pick it apart to eat it. But Mrs. Stidham didn't seem to mind.

Hey, at this point, whatever.

Lydia chose the custard tart from Little Abigail's recipe. “It tastes just like the ones Grandma Vangie used to make,” Lydia said after one forkful. High praise indeed.

“Let's try the lemon,” said Mrs. Stidham. It was another heirloom recipe with a simple filling of thin lemon slices, sugar, and eggs. She took a forkful—“Mm-mm”—and then passed the rest of it to Lydia.

“Another winner,” Lydia said.

“My grandmother made this pie,” I said. “It was my father's favorite.”

“And I'm all about the blackberry,” said Roshonda, “as long as I don't have blackberry seeds in my teeth when I leave here. But I like those little turnovers, too.”

“I suggest we narrow this down to five,” I recommended, “each a different color and pastry design and flavor.”

“As long as we have Grandma's custard, I can leave the rest up to you,” Lydia quickly chimed in. “If you want the fancy tartlet, we can have that, Mom.”

“Your father will go for the bourbon and chocolate, no question about that.”

Lydia gave her mother a level look that seemed to say a lot to her mother, even as it gave away nothing to the rest of us.

“We owe your father,” her mother sniffed.

“I was there, Mom. I know.”

“We found ourselves in a rather difficult position once,” Cadence said, twisting her napkin. “I don't know why I'm thinking about all of that now.”

Again, I got a flavor that started out as citrus, which I was coming to recognize as the flavor that signified a wanderer for this family. And then it morphed into an unpleasant lime flavor, citrus that was fake. Maybe a wanderer who pretended otherwise. A wanderer who was manipulated, backed into a corner. And then something in Cadence Stidham shifted. She dropped her guard. And I saw what had prompted it.