From Scratch (7 page)

“Everything?”

I shake my head. “Only that you guys broke up.”

“I thought he would’ve told you sooner,” Annabelle says. “Every time you called I kept expecting you to bring it up, but you never did.”

“It’s been awhile since Wes and I have talked,” I say. “I guess this is why.”

She nods. When she doesn’t respond, I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m trying to understand why you didn’t tell me.”

Annabelle tugs on her seat belt and stares out the window, her eyes locked on a plastic shopping bag skittering along the sidewalk. “Because you never asked.”

My mouth drops open. That can’t be right. I think back to our conversations over the past few months and all the things we talked about—when her event planning company was featured in
InStyle Weddings,
how she adopted a cocker spaniel puppy named Finley, when she signed the papers on a newly built condo in the heart of Uptown.

The truth hits me like a slap across the face. I assumed Wes had been a part of those milestones, but all that time Annabelle had been alone and heartbroken.
And I had never asked.

“Annabelle,” I start, then falter. “I’m . . . I’m so . . .”

“I slept with someone else,” she says, her voice breaking. “Only once, but it was enough.”

My mind fills with questions. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that Annabelle would cheat. On Wes, no less. I want to offer support, but the words dry up in my throat.

She tells me she waited two months to confess, until the lies and the guilt became so unbearable that she spilled the beans one morning in the grocery store, smack dab in the middle of the frozen dinner aisle. Wes simply said nothing. Not when Annabelle cried and begged his forgiveness, right there by the Stouffer’s lasagna. Not when he stormed out of the store and drove away, leaving Annabelle to fend for her own ride home. Not even when he showed up at their rental house hours later and emptied his side of the closet into three suitcases and a duffel bag. He loaded his things into the back of his Jeep and left. She’s tried to apologize—attempt number eight being only a few moments ago—but Wes still refuses to even look at her.

“Is this why we’re at the bookstore?” I ask.

Annabelle rests her forehead against the steering wheel. “No. Him being here was the universe fucking with me.”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

Sighing, she straightens up and says, “We’d been fighting for a while . . . it’s just . . . what kind of couple that’s been together since they were kids isn’t married by now?” She sees me flinch and says, “Shit, sorry. You and Nick aside. I only meant that I’m thirty. It’s normal for me to want a husband and kids. Hell, most people already have both of those things by our age.”

“And what did Wes want?”

“Not that.” She shakes her head as if dislodging a memory. “He’s been dating a bit. I think he’s trying to punish me. I can’t blame him, but it still hurts so damn much, Lillie. When does it stop hurting?”

A lump forms in my stomach as I recall the fateful night five years ago when I stumbled off the plane in Chicago with my heart shattered into so many pieces I was sure I’d never be able to put it together again. How despite my best efforts to move forward and hold my head high, around every corner and down every street, Nick’s ghost haunted me, refusing to let me forget all we had and then lost.

I remember once when I was walking down Michigan Avenue on my way home from taking a final exam, I swore I saw Nick standing outside Crate & Barrel, in front of a window display outfitted with glittery ornaments and signs advertising Christmas sales. His cheeks were red and his breath escaped in clouds in the bitter cold and falling snow. Resting in his gloved hands was a steaming cup. As I crossed the street to approach him, I remember thinking how free he looked—so different from the man who ran his life like he conducted his operating room, with controlled, steady precision—and for a moment, I allowed myself to hope. That maybe he came to apologize, to confess how much he loved me and that he was a fool to let me go. That we could return to that cherished place where we were still two kids, counting the licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop. But before I could reach him, he was gone. A figment of my imagination.

“I don’t know when the hurt goes away,” I say, unsure if it ever does. Maybe the pain just scabs over until a memory, a chance encounter, a conversation causes it to crack open and spill out. My mind drifts to Nick in the Prickly Pear, the sound of his laughter, those piercing blue eyes, the expression on his face when he saw my engagement ring and the overwhelming sadness I felt. “But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a second chance.”

“Is that what Drew is for you?”

I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. Drew isn’t a second chance. He’s the bandage that made everything okay again. He’s easiness and warmth and comfort.

“Loving Wes has filled my whole life,” Annabelle says when I don’t respond. “I don’t
want
to let him go, but I don’t have it in me to fight for this anymore.”

I’m struck by an eerie sense of déjà vu, remembering how I uttered similar words to Annabelle one dreary afternoon five years ago. How I looked her in the eye and finally admitted aloud what we’d all already known—Nick and I had become strangers. Nothing like the foolish teenagers who used to crave each other in a crazy, addictive kind of way that is sacred to first love, back when our world was new and full of possibility and I still believed in magic.

But Wes and Annabelle aren’t us. They play hard and love harder. They’re scoreboard lights and packed-tight bleachers, Wes running down the football field and Annabelle cheering from the sidelines. They’re karaoke competitions, belly flops during Fourth of July pool parties, and coordinating Halloween costumes. Two people deserving of a different ending—a better ending—than the one I had with Nick.

“I think you still have some fight left in you,” I say, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “Wes will come around. Give him time.”

Annabelle sighs. “Forgiveness isn’t supposed to come with strings. Or retribution.”

No, forgiveness is to be given freely. Unapologetically.

But does it ever work that way?

SEVEN

JUNIOR LEAGUE HEADQUARTERS
is housed in a sprawling Classical Revival estate known as Hasell House, named after Sullivan Grace’s grandmother, former League president Harper Dell Hasell and the original Ms. Bless Your Heart, for her generous bequest to the charitable organization. With its soaring white columns, winged porticos, and Old Carolina redbrick siding, the Hasell House is where the ladies of Dallas’s social elite go to be seen.

I follow Annabelle through the wrought-iron gate and stroll along the paved path to the entrance. On the far side of the grounds, positioned under a cluster of trees, is a bronzed fountain with birds taking a bath. On the covered porch, rocking chairs creak slowly in the breeze as soft sounds from a piano float out the stately windows.

Inside headquarters, the late-morning sun fills the foyer, frothing up the walls like champagne and spilling onto the grand, sweeping staircase. On my right, in a floral wallpapered room, a group of League members chat around an oval table while working in an assembly line, folding papers and stuffing envelopes. A sitting room adorned with ornamental crown moldings, tapestries, and antique furniture opens to the left. Ahead lies a massive ballroom featuring an equally massive crystal chandelier.

Annabelle leads me past the staircase toward the tearoom, where League volunteers set tables with silver flatware and fine bone china in preparation for the afternoon service. Even though the committee meeting started fifteen minutes ago, Annabelle insists on dropping by the kitchen to grab some finger sandwiches, pimento cheese dip, and lemon poppy seed scones.

“If we walk in with snacks, Sullivan Grace is less likely to whip us for being late,” she says as we climb the staircase, a tray propped on her hip. “But stay away from the scones if you value your life.”

We stop in front of large wooden double doors with a sign that reads:
MEETING IN S
ESSION, RING BELL FOR ADMITTANCE.
Never one for convention, Annabelle uses the toe of her stiletto to give the doors two swift kicks.

“A simple knock would have sufficed,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.

“Too easy.” She winks.

A moment later, the doors crack open and a woman with hair more processed and yellow than American cheese appears in front of me.

“Who are you?” she asks with a southern drawl, dissecting my simple gray blouse and black pants, her nose wrinkled and lips puckered like a goldfish. I may have been offended if her expression weren’t so laughable. First my father, then Sullivan Grace, and now her? Apparently people in Dallas think I should be dressed for a debutante ball at all times.

Before I can respond, her gaze swings to Annabelle and the tray of goodies. Her face lights up like a child discovering a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. “Why, Annabelle, aren’t you the sweetest thing, bringing us treats and everything,” she says, opening the doors completely and ushering us inside.

Annabelle doesn’t even have time to place the tray on the sideboard before the woman attacks the pimento cheese, stuffing her mouth with crackers as she gabs on about the latest Junior League rumor circulating around town.

“Jesus, Bernice,” Annabelle mutters. “You’re allowed to take a breath between bites.”

“Bernice Rimes?” I say in surprise. “You look . . . older.” Shorter. Rounder. As in, nothing like the first runner-up to America’s Junior Miss pageant I remember from high school.

Bernice blinks, a finger sandwich hovering inches from her face, and finally her fish lips stop blabbing. Obviously Sullivan Grace didn’t tell her I was coming to this meeting or else she wouldn’t be staring at me like I’m a stranger. Then it hits her. “Oh my word, is that really you, Lillie Turner? I didn’t recognize you without all those bacon grease stains you used to wear.”

I force a smile and remember that Bernice has the IQ of a rubber spatula. Not even her father, with all his money and connections, could get her accepted to SMU. “Guess we both grew up,” I say, then grab some cucumber sandwiches before she inhales them all.

Bernice makes a
pffft
noise, then fusses with arranging the scones.

A throat clears behind me. An ominous silence settles over the room. Annabelle and I glance at each other and cringe—we know we’re in for it. We spin to face Sullivan Grace.

“Ladies, what do I always say about interrupting?” Sullivan Grace says in an imperious tone. “And about being punctual?”

Annabelle and I glance at each other again and grin. “Only the Devil’s allowed to be late,” we recite at the same time, then break into a fit of giggles.

Despite her pleasant smile, Sullivan Grace doesn’t seem amused. She eyes us up and down, shaking her perfectly coiffed head in admonishment. Around her neck are the heirloom pearls she never takes off, unless she’s using them to strangle someone. Like Annabelle and me in about two seconds. Before she has the chance, we slink away like scolded children.

Annabelle takes a seat at the far end of the table, while I sit in an open chair at the other end next to Paulette Bunny—Sullivan Grace’s closest friend and, as it so happens, a country club acquaintance of Nick’s mother. Time has been kind to her, though I suspect that is more a result of her marrying a plastic surgeon than genetics.

We exchange hellos and make small talk, which equates to Paulette bombarding me with questions:
What have I been up to? Is there a man in my life? How do I like living in Chicago?
I respond with short, vague answers. Finally she pats my hand and says, “I’m so thrilled to see you, sugar. Chicago has definitely agreed with you.” She leaves to refill her tea.

Glancing around the table, I spot an empty seat next to Bernice, who is wiping cracker crumbs off her wool dress. Annabelle catches my gaze, nods at Sullivan Grace spreading raspberry preserves on a scone, and mouths to me,
Told ya.
I smile.

As if she knows we’re talking about her, Sullivan Grace blots her mouth with a linen napkin and says, “Now that Lillie has decided to join us, let’s begin.”

I notice she doesn’t include Annabelle in that comment, like it’s my fault we’re late. Never mind that I didn’t agree to come to this meeting in the first place or that I have more pressing matters to deal with.

“Why is Lillie here, anyway?” Bernice pipes up, her southern accent sounding more pronounced. “She’s not on the planning committee. She’s not even in the League.”

“She’s here because she missed all the information sessions and needs to figure out what the hell is going on,” Annabelle says.

Bernice sits up straighter in her chair and says with a hint of condescension, “Well, I’m not sure her being here is appropriate. Committee meetings are supposed to be closed to nonmembers.”

“Would you give it a rest already?” Annabelle snaps. “Once Lillie’s had a chance to review her entrant packet, she’ll be excused and the meeting will continue on as planned. Happy?”

Bernice sets her jaw and looks away, shaking her head.

Sullivan Grace ignores the entire exchange and takes a sip of tea before launching right in. “Lillie, everyone here at the Junior League so appreciates your willingness to participate in this year’s Upper Crust competition, especially given the short notice.”

Annabelle snorts and mumbles under her breath, “Willing my ass.”

“Language, sugar,” Paulette says, tapping Annabelle on the shoulder as she passes by before reclaiming the seat beside me.

Across the table, Bernice snickers, a satisfied expression on her face. Annabelle opens her mouth to say something, but Sullivan Grace cuts her off.

“Ladies, may I finish?” Smoothing her pristine cardigan, her fingernails painted to pale-pink perfection, she continues, “As I was saying, Lillie, if only more people understood the importance of giving back to the community. All of us could learn from your example.”

I shift in my seat. “Thank you, but—”

“And we think it’s wonderful how
accommodating
you are to honor Jackson’s request to make Elizabeth’s summer peach cobbler recipe,” Sullivan Grace says, her voice escalating in pitch, as if she thinks using polite words to speak over me will somehow prevent an argument. “I know he is simply
thrilled
about it.”

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and find my center. “About that, Ms. Hasell. Like I said before, I’m flattered you want me to do this, but I don’t bake anymore.”

“You were this morning,” Annabelle says, an eyebrow arched.

I shoot her a look that could rival my father’s, but Annabelle’s expression doesn’t waver.

I sigh and turn to Sullivan Grace. “
Assuming
I agree to participate, I’d prefer to create my own recipe,” I say, thinking about all the amateur baking competitions I entered, all the medals hanging in my childhood room. How I developed every winning recipe in my father’s kitchen. Never once did I consider competing with any of my mother’s recipes. They were too private, pieces of her that never belonged to me.

After a pregnant pause where Sullivan Grace tugs at the strand of pearls around her neck, she says, “Lillie, dear, your insistence to try something new is admirable . . .”
Bless my heart.
“However, I’m afraid the date to change an entry has passed.”

I lean forward. “Surely you can make an exception since—”

Sullivan Grace only peers at me.

“Why?” I ask. “Why the insistence for me to do this?”

“Because that’s what Old Man Jack wants,” Annabelle says with a shrug, as though that explains it.

I shake my head. “Not good enough.”

“Apart from last year, Jackson has been a part of the Upper Crust since its inception five years ago,” Sullivan Grace says. “His medical situation prevents him from competing this year, so he hopes that you will continue the tradition.”

“Fine. I get that,” I say. “But not with the peach cobbler.” Just because my father prefers to live in a reality where my mother didn’t disappear doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same.

“Lillie, this isn’t about your mother. Stop complicating things. Old Man Jack selected that recipe. He’s no longer able to make said recipe, and like Sullivan Grace said, the date to change an entry has passed.”

I sit back in my chair, stunned. Annabelle has always been direct, but this time her tone is different. Almost angry. The room goes quiet. Bernice and Paulette have been silent this whole time, and now they’re both studying the table like it’s the most mesmerizing thing in the world.

Sullivan Grace clears her throat. A tightness settles around her eyes that doesn’t match the smile still plastered on her face. “Right, right. Excellent. Now here are your entry forms, dear,” she says, extending a stack of papers in front of me. “Please pay special attention to the competition guidelines and rules. A disqualification wouldn’t suit.”

I pick up the packet my father so graciously filled out for me. While I flip through it, Sullivan Grace explains the rules. I want to tell her not to bother. Instead, I keep my mouth shut, listening to Sullivan Grace prattle on about how each entry will be judged on taste, appearance, and creativity by a panel of industry experts and how the winning recipe of each category will be eligible for best in show and showcased in the
Junior League of Dallas Park Cities
Cookbook
. The ultimate winner will earn a feature in
D Magazine.

She finishes by saying, “You’ll be competing in the fruit desserts category. And you’re in luck because Jackson has already raised
and
exceeded the donation requirements for the event, so all you have to worry about is perfecting Elizabeth’s recipe. And winning of course.”

“Oh, is that all?” I question sarcastically.

Sullivan Grace presses her lips in a thin line. “Yes, well—”

Without warning, the heavy double doors burst open, followed by someone uttering apologies. My stomach drops as I place the voice and realize why my father’s attorney, Roger Stokes, seemed so familiar yesterday. His daughter has arrived.

Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes sweeps into the room without a care for anyone else. Still gorgeous as ever, with a statuesque body even runway models envy—tall with long, slender legs, red hair that tumbles down her back in waves, and fair skin without a trace of freckles—she’s fiery hot candy and knock-you-naked sexiness and the bane of my existence.

“Excuse my tardiness. Traffic is atrocious today,” she says, fanning herself. A black ostrich Hermès Kelly bag swings from her forearm. “But here I am.”

Here she is.

Margaret moves around the table, kissing everyone lightly on the cheek. When she embraces Annabelle in a full-blown hug complete with an extra squeeze at the end, I nearly choke on a cucumber sandwich. Arching an eyebrow, I give Annabelle a look that says she has some explaining to do. Annabelle only shrugs, as if to say,
Don’t blame me. I didn’t ask for her to do that.

Then Margaret’s gaze lands on me and she stops in her two-thousand-dollar Christian Louboutin high-heeled tracks. She seems about as happy to see me as if she discovered her Chanel sunglasses are fake.