From Scratch (2 page)

“Yes. You know we’re still together,” I say. What my father isn’t aware of is “that boy” recently proposed and I accepted. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I haven’t been in the mood to listen to my father’s grumblings. I will tell him, just not right now when I want to strangle him.

My father crosses his arms. “Well, I get what you’re saying about . . . all that, but since you’re already here, you should reacquaint yourself with how we do things at the Spoons. Three weeks will be here sooner than you realize.”

“Dad,” I say, softening my tone. I move closer to him so that maybe he’ll see me—really see me—and finally grasp that I can’t do what he wants. “Please don’t ask me to do this. This place isn’t me anymore. You have Ernie, and I’m sure there are plenty of people around town who would love to help out while you recover. All you—”

He quiets me with a look—the one I received countless times as a child—that indicates if I don’t shut my mouth, I’ll be on permanent potato-peeling duty. I remember one time in high school when he put me on potato-peeling duty for a week because I came home six minutes after curfew. At thirty, I’m still scared of that look.

“The Spoons has been in our family since before you were born. I’m not trusting it to anyone else but flesh and blood. You’re still a Turner, even if you live in a different zip code.”

The firmness in his voice, his insistence, sets off an alarm in my head, and an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. “There’s more happening here than what you’re telling me,” I say, now certain that whatever is really going on is the real reason he called me this morning and why he wants me to manage the diner. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referrin’ to, baby girl. I’m having surgery in three weeks and need you here to run things. Simple as that,” he says, but I don’t believe him. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that my father is a vault of secrets. Whatever his true motivations, he won’t share them until he’s good and ready.

“I’ll work from Dallas until your surgery”—
or at least until I find out what you’re hiding
—“but that’s it.”

“We’ll see,” he says, then picks up another James Beard special from the window. I notice the slight limp in his stride as he delivers the dish to a little girl in pigtails spinning around and around on a stool taller than her. Maybe it is just his knee, and this whole thing is some convoluted way of bringing me home permanently.

Around me, the life of the diner goes on as usual. People crowd the doorway. Servers hurry by, carrying pitchers of sweet tea and delivering orders. Several patrons lounge in booths, rubbing their stomachs as clean plates sit discarded in front of them.

My gaze drifts to the dent in the counter where I banged a rolling pin after messing up a piecrust. I spot the doodles I scribbled on the wall in the prep area. The tile grout under my feet is stained from when I spilled beet juice.

When I refocus my attention, my father’s prattling on about how folks have been begging for my recipes. “Just the other day Gertrude Firestone commented how she misses your four-napkin Sloppy Joes,” he says, straightening a pair of salt and pepper shakers. “And none of the regulars like my version of your mother’s peach cobbler as much as yours.”

My heart drops to my stomach as anger rises up. It happens anytime my mother is mentioned. Someday I’ll stop being surprised by it.

I have few memories of my mother, each one fragmented and fuzzy, as if I’m seeing them through a glass Coke bottle. I recall skin that smelled like honeysuckle, the soft swish of her apron, and long, graceful legs gliding about the kitchen.

I used to miss her in a bone-deep aching kind of way. When I was younger, I’d imagine what her voice sounded like. Soft and gentle as a whisper? Or maybe bright and lyrical with hints of mischief. Either way, I’d pretend I could hear it in my head, keeping me company, guiding me. “That one looks delicious,” her voice would say, as I flipped through the pages of a cookbook. “Or maybe try the recipe with the clementines instead.” No matter the task, her voice followed.

At night, in the silence, I’d curl up in my twin bed and wish she were there next to me, combing her fingers through my hair and humming pretty sounds until I drifted off into dreams. It was easier than wondering what I’d done wrong to make her disappear all those years ago and never return.

But as I got older I realized I couldn’t miss someone I didn’t remember.

“Time to prep for the dinner rush,” my father says, ripping me from my thoughts. “Go get washed up. There’s an apron for you in the back room. The carrots need chopping.”

My chest tightens. Only my father can make me feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for is slipping away. I squeeze my eyes shut and force deep, steadying breaths into my lungs.

“You coming, baby girl?” my father calls over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

He expects me to follow. I don’t. I can’t. I may have been raised in this place, but that doesn’t mean I belong here now. Instead I make a beeline for the exit, careful not to knock into anyone or anything on my way outside. I don’t want to add another mark. I’ve already left too many.

TWO

I COLLAPSE ONTO
the rocking bench that’s adorned the diner’s entrance for as long as I’ve been alive. Terra cotta pots overflowing with flowers dot the sidewalk. Burying my face in my hands, I rub my eyes. Any moment now I expect my father to start hollering or storm out here to drag me back inside.

“Well, hell’s bells, if it isn’t Lillie Claire Turner in the flesh,” says a voice that immediately gets my attention.

My gaze locks on a familiar face twisting into a broad smile. “Wes!” He pulls me into a bear hug and swings me around until everything is a blur. A wave of nostalgia washes over me.

Wesley Blake may be my oldest friend, but most of the time he acts like a tormenting older brother. We share the same birthday—Wes two years older—and he never lets me forget it.

He moved from Tennessee into the house down the street from my father’s when I was four. After a misunderstanding over the ice cream truck’s last Creamsicle, we quickly became inseparable. Together we embarked on adventures in his backyard tree house, built forts using the diner’s tables and chairs, and dreamed of conquering the world. Wes has been a welcome thorn in my side ever since.

He also happens to be best friends with Nick.

Wes places my feet on the ground. I lean back and take a good look at him. He’s bigger, stronger, more solid than before, but his kiwi-green eyes, curly brown hair, and dimples are still the same.

“Damn, it’s good to see you, Jelly Bean,” he says in his slow, lazy drawl. Wes gave me the nickname when I dressed up as a tutti-frutti jelly bean for Halloween in fifth grade and it stuck. “What’re you doin’ here? I thought giraffes would learn to fly before I ever saw you back at the Spoons.”

“My father faked an emergency.”

Wes furrows his brow. “What kind of emergency?”

“He led me to believe he was being rushed into surgery when it’s actually scheduled for three weeks from now.”

“That’s typical Old Man Jack for you,” he says with a laugh.

I nod. My father’s like a whisk, always whipping up trouble. “But does he have to be so underhanded about it?”

Wes cocks his head to the side and gives me a sly grin. “You’re the dumbass who fell for it again.”

I scoff, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Come on, Jelly Bean. Jack’s been pulling these stunts for years. Remember when he made us volunteer at that high school bake sale while he went fishing? You were so pissed I think you actually grew horns.”

“Can you blame me?” I say. “He signed us up for that stupid thing after I specifically told him I’d rather eat liver. Then he conveniently forgot to mention it until the morning of the event.”

“At least we got a Chubby Bunny contest out of it.”

I laugh. “And then you threw up marshmallows all over the gym floor. Mr. Sherwood almost murdered you.”

“That’s better than the time we got kicked outta 7-Eleven for destroying the candy aisle. I thought for sure the owner was going to send the cops after us.”

“He did send the cops after us. We hid in your Jeep behind that Fancy Fingers nail salon.”

Wes shakes his head. “I forgot about that.”

“So what’s with the outfit?” I ask. He’s dressed head-to-toe in blue and red Southern Methodist University Mustang gear.

He flashes his dimples. “You’re actually looking at the new linebackers coach for the football team. Of course, you’d know this already if we talked more often.” He tugs on my earlobe until I slap his hand away. Then, in typical Wesley Blake style, he says with an exaggerated sniff and quivering lip, “We don’t call each other. We don’t write. My heart’s crushed, Jelly Bean.”

When I first moved to Chicago we kept in near-constant contact, but as time progressed and our lives drifted apart, our communications drifted as well. Now Wes and I only exchange texts and phone calls every so often; our last conversation was almost six months ago.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been too long.”

“It’s okay. I get it,” he says. “You can make up for it by eating a slice of pie with me on this bench.”

I laugh. Wes has never been one to hold a grudge, not even when I threw his favorite old-fashioned Leather Head football into White Rock Lake because he wouldn’t share his Starbursts with me. Instead, he waded into the smelly, murky water to retrieve the waterlogged mass, then apologized as he climbed out and offered me the candy anyway.

“Deal,” I say, smiling.

Bumping my shoulder, he says, “Stay here. I shall return with the goods,” then walks inside the diner.

Reclaiming my seat, I lean my head against the weathered wood and rock the bench back and forth, the old joints creaking. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of grass shavings mixed with freshly brewed coffee. Somewhere down the street a motorcycle engine rumbles to life.

Wisps of hair have escaped my bun and cling to the nape of my neck. October in Dallas is anything but cool. Some years autumn gets passed over altogether, jumping straight from a sweltering summer into a mild winter. The leaves never even have a chance to change color before the tree branches are bare and the surrounding lawns and sidewalks are crowded with their decaying remains.

The hinges on the diner door squeal as Wes’s head pokes out. I smile as he walks toward me with a piece of pecan pie in each hand.

“Scoot your butt,” he says, tapping my leg with his shoe.

I slide over, the boards scratching my skin. He plops down next to me, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds are forks scraping across porcelain and the steady creaking as we rock slowly back and forth.

The first time we ate pie on this bench was the day Wes’s parents finalized their divorce, a couple of weeks shy of his junior peewee football tryouts. He showed up at the diner, cheeks wet and shoulders slumped, and asked if I wanted to share something sweet with him. We built a triple-decker blueberry pie sandwich and layered each slice with homemade marshmallow crème and crushed-up Heath bars. We stayed outside for what seemed like hours, planning our next great adventure and wishing on shooting stars.

At least this part of our friendship has stayed the same.

“So Jack said you’re moving home,” Wes says around a mouthful of pie. “Is this because of his operation?”

I nod. “He expects me to run the diner while he recovers, which means forever. But there’s no way I’m doing that.”

Squinting up at the sky, I think of Drew and our Sunday strolls around Chicago. How we like to find cozy spots at Millennium Park and toss day-old bread for the birds roosting on Cloud Gate. The way we hold hands as we walk along the lakefront and watch the fireworks explode over Navy Pier. When we venture to Chinatown for a picnic in the Chinese gardens.

“At least think about it,” he says. “The diner could use some of your cooking.”

“I can’t move back here, Wes,” I say, keeping my focus on Drew, our life together, and the things I adore about him. His boyish good looks. How he opens car doors for me and always lets me pick dessert—even pistachio ice cream, which he hates. The way his body molds against mine when we curl up in bed at night. Falling for him had been easy, comfortable, like lounging in a hammock on a summer day with a cold glass of lemonade. “I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

I look at him, surprised he’d concede so easily.

“I think you belong here, Jelly Bean. But if you want to go back to Chicago, go back to Chicago.”

I sigh, mashing bits of crust between the fork tines. “What about my father? And the diner?”

“Listen,” he says, licking some crumbs off his finger. “Old Man Jack’s survived without your help these past five years. I imagine he can survive a few more.”

He’s right. Except we both know it’s not that easy, not when my father’s involved. My father’s the master puppeteer pulling my strings, and I have no choice but to obey.

We sit silently for a few moments, me pushing pecans around my plate until they resemble a four-leaf clover and him stuffing them into his mouth, polishing off the last of his pie.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m craving a cookie.” Wes pats his stomach. “Wanna split a chocolate chocolate chip?”

“No, thanks.”

Wes studies me as though I’m a math equation he doesn’t understand. “When have you ever refused a cookie?”

I shrug. Chocolate chocolate chip used to be my favorite, but now they taste too sweet, too decadent. Or maybe, like the diner, I’ve simply outgrown them.

“
Okaaay,
” Wes says when I don’t respond. “More for me, I guess.”

I laugh and pinch his side. “Maybe you should cut back before Annabelle complains about a muffin top.”

Wes flinches, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He picks at a small hole in the hem of his sleeve, his eyes glued to a smudge on the sidewalk. When he finally meets my gaze, I’m stunned by the grief written on his face. He takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself for something horrible.

“Annabelle isn’t . . . we’re not . . . didn’t she . . .” he says, fumbling over his words. “We ended things this past spring.”

The air leaves my lungs in a long whoosh, rendering me speechless. Wes and Annabelle are a modern-day fairy tale—childhood sweethearts hopelessly devoted to one another. Their edges fit.

Or so I thought.

Wes may be my oldest friend, but Annabelle has been my best friend since she sat next to me in Mrs. Hubbard’s fourth-grade social studies class with her Lisa Frank unicorn folders, all rosy cheeks and glasses and lace-trim ankle socks. We talk on the phone every week, but not once during our conversations did she ever say, “Hey, Lillie, remember Wes? That guy I’ve been slaphappy in love with since he held my hand on the Texas Star Ferris wheel in seventh grade? Well, we broke up six months ago. Kisses!”

Why didn’t she say anything?

“I’m sorry, Wes,” I say, biting my lip. “She never told me.”

He kicks a stray napkin with the tip of his shoe. “It’s all right. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I really don’t want to, either.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he closes it.

“I’ve got a good one for you,” I say, remembering the joke I heard from a little boy at the airport.

“Yeah?” I see his shoulders relax, the tension flowing out like salt from a shaker.

“A friend got some vinegar in his ear. Now—”

Wes clamps a hand over my mouth. “Now he suffers from pickled hearing.”

My jaw drops open. That weasel stole my punch line. “How did you . . . ?”

“Please, Jelly Bean. That was third-grade level,” he says with a smug smile.

“Fine.” I cross my arms. “Bet you can’t guess this one. Why did the sesame seed refuse to leave the casino?”

He taps his chin. “I give up.”

“Because he was on a roll.”

Wes laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn. I missed you. Those jokes never get old. Wait till Nick hears them.” His grin falters, as though realizing whose name he said. Nick, the one person we don’t talk about and the only one I wish I could forget.

A fist squeezes around my heart. I’ve been so careful, tiptoeing around Nick’s memories so as not to trigger them like land mines. But now they’re surging up, pulling me under—him, bleary-eyed and exhausted, dragging into our living room after another brutal shift at the hospital. Me, desperate and pleading for him to listen, tears tumbling down my cheeks. The two of us staring numbly at each other across a chasm so wide it could never be bridged. Nick’s angry words and my whispered good-bye as I walked out the front door, leaving him behind.

The images seem like snippets from someone else’s life.

Proof this isn’t home anymore.

Not for me, anyway.