by Sandra Lee
“Ken, I am barely keeping up with the orders for the production program on our Web site. That’s paying the bills right now. The cupcakes are a great promotion, but it’s not like we run a café.”
“Would a café make us more money, if we had one?” Tim asked from across the room. Unless the discussion was literary, Tim tended to stay on the edge of conversations, then swoop in and make the most insightful comments of all. He was pecking away at his laptop, looking up occasionally over the top of his glasses.
“Cafés have a literary history. Hemingway wrote at a café in Paris, the Closerie des Lilas. Which reminds me to order A Moveable Feast.” He dove back into his laptop to make a note.
“Tim, you are brilliant. We’ll do the math. Grace, you’d do the baking. This is potentially genius. A café in the Book Nook Barn!”
Tim raised his hand. “Reality check. We just got through with a HUGE renovation. And we can’t just drop a café in from the sky, you know. There’ll be code. Health department. We don’t have a kitchen, or a dishwasher, or—”
“Details, details. Of course, Tim. All that’s true. And thank you for setting the tiller. But, really, we don’t need to get the Iron Chef in here. We just need a few cookies and cakes. And tea and coffee. And scones. And muffins. And…” Ken stalked around the room, his eyes flickering from one imagined possibility to the next. When Ken was onto an idea, he was like a heat-seeking missile.
“To do the actual baking, we’d need to lease a commercial bakery space,” Grace said firmly, remembering the explosion in her mother’s kitchen and the Junior Girl Scouts. “And I’d need a helper. There are two teams involved with something like this—selling during the day and baking at night, plus everything in between.”
“I wonder if we could put a kitchen in the basement,” said Ken.
“That would be expensive,” Grace added. “Commercial stoves cost a lot, even used. There’s plumbing.” That point quieted the room for a minute. “Let’s think about it,” she said. For once, Grace realized that there was too much going on in her head to make an impetuous decision. There were so many things to consider. Cupcakes were the least of them. Still, the idea was tantalizing. It would give her a real role, working with Ken and Tim. And an additional revenue source. But it meant baking. A lot of baking.
Leeza’s video had made Grace realize that she’d spent way too much of her life wishing for things to be different: that Brian would be there forever for her; that Leeza would not die; that Von could save her; that her daughter would be a perfect princess; that it was Grace’s mother’s fault she was so unhappy. None of those things had turned out to be the case, yet she had acted on all of them, making life decisions, as if they were facts cast in concrete. This time, Grace vowed, she would figure out who and what she wanted. Grace looked around at the beautiful space they had all created. The crystals in the chandelier twinkled, like tiny, living stars. The Book Nook had survived trial by fire and emerged transformed into something so much better—the Book Nook Barn. So would they all.
What to wear to your ex-husband’s wedding is not a question they discuss much on those etiquette advice columns, not even a bridezilla TV show, probably because it’s a question most women would not rush to contemplate, and is rarely offered. Grace was different. Having put off choosing an outfit until the last minute, she’d panicked. With the entire contents of her closet spread across her bed, she’d realized she was in trouble. Emma’s burnt-burgundy maid of honor dress was hanging on a hook, and she stood with her arms crossed, shaking her head. “Oh, Mom,” she said mournfully.
It had, of course, taken Ken to come up with a solution. “As your escort, I feel compelled to intervene. I had a feeling this would happen.” With that, he’d produced a beautiful navy blue lace dress that he’d asked Roberto to FedEx from the wardrobe of The Lost Ones.
“It was one of the pieces that was wrecked when you spilled the blood. The stain never came out, so Roberto said they were going to pitch it anyway. It was white, but I dyed it in the tub and covered all the stains,” he said, tossing it onto the pile on the bed. “I had to dye it twice to get it this dark. Tim will kill me when he sees the tub. Don’t thank me, just put it on. It’s a wrap dress, so it fits almost anybody. Now about that hair…” He’d ripped out a magazine picture of a loosely arranged chignon. “One ponytail, three hairpins, pure gorgeousness!”
And so Grace had ended up walking up the aisle of Brian’s wedding, not as the bride, but as the mother of the bridesmaid, wearing, as Ken, noted, something borrowed and something blue. Heather, a petite brunette in an off-the-shoulder white mermaid-style gown and layer-cake veil (“Oscar de la Renta,” whispered Ken), was preceded by her sisters and Emma, looking beautiful in her dress, a baby calla lily in her hair. Bringing up the rear, as ring bearer, was Feather, who wore a tiny black bow-tie collar and a satin pillow strapped to his back, causing Ken to dig his elbow into Grace’s ribs.
As Grace observed the vows, she felt as if she were watching another person, yet another Brian, certainly not the Brian she had loved and married all those years ago in a courthouse ceremony, her wearing a two-piece maternity dress with an elastic-waist skirt, because he hated formalities. Then, the wedding lunch had been at Dairy Queen. Now, there was a seated dinner in the club’s ballroom, with about eighty guests. There were canapés, champagne, a seated, four-course luncheon, and a string quartet.
The worst moment had been the receiving line, when Grace had looked into Brian’s eyes. There was no hesitation there: He had chosen his path and was proud of it. Proud of the club, the woman in the Oscar de la Renta dress, the cushion-cut diamond ring he’d put on her finger, proud of himself. He was now Mr. All This. The wedding was clearly a symbol of his success, plowing over all his failures with Grace. And so she’d kissed this stranger who now lived in Brian’s body on the cheek and whispered the required “Congratulations.” She’d offered a hand to Heather, who congratulated her on Emma, beaming, “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”
“So grow your own,” Grace wanted to say. Instead, she just nodded and smiled.
“We’ll keep in close touch on everything involving Emma,” Heather promised. “I know she can’t wait to be a big sister!”
Grace murmured pleasantries, and the moment was over. After the bride and groom danced together, and Brian danced with Emma, the toasts began. As soon as she heard glasses clinking, Grace turned to Ken. They nodded to each other and slipped out of the ballroom. Emma would be staying overnight at the loft with Grandma M., who would drive her back to New London the next day. There was nothing to do but leave.
“Well, that was fun, and Bether is official,” Ken said as they headed up the long stretch of 94 toward Wisconsin. “But what about your cute fireman, Grace? What’s going on with you two? Why didn’t you bring him to the wedding of the century?” Ken looked at Grace. He had a point. It was a fair question. Mike and Grace had been spending a lot of time together, and it had been a long time since the not-dating stage. Things were getting serious between them, but Grace still wasn’t entirely sure what was in her heart. She’d been hurt by so many men that she wasn’t quite comfortable yet with putting everything on the line, even if Mike was different.
“Oh, things are going so well. Why subject him to Bether? Besides, I knew you’d have more fun. Mike doesn’t really care for clubs and fancy events.”
“Hmmmm. OK, Grace, I’m going to let you slide this time, but you better get your mind straight about what you want. Mike’s a nice guy, but even nice guys can’t wait around forever, girlfriend.”
As they passed the Schaumburg cutoff, Ken announced, “We’ll stop at the Brat Stop.”
“That sounds great!” Grace agreed. It was a tradition to stop at the Brat Stop—home of the best brats on the planet. Ken always had his with mustard and sauerkraut, and Grace always had hers the exact same way.
Thank goodness, some things never changed. They still thought so much alike. It was not surprising, then,
that while they were wiping mustard from their mouths and ordering second brats, Ken and Grace came to the same decision—they had to open the café.
If she were being completely honest with herself, Grace would admit that there were times when she came within an inch of packing up and going back to California. It was emotionally exhausting to be in New London, to deal every day with the ghosts of her past. Everywhere she turned, there were reminders of her father, Brian, Von. But there was also Emma, which more than tipped the balance, and the new future they were creating together. This future, Grace reminded herself, would be Emma’s past. She owed it to her daughter to make it a good one. And she thanked God every day for Ken.
The reborn Book Nook Barn had quickly resumed its mantle as the favorite spot for the town’s young moms. Halloween had been a hit, with the porch draped in spiderwebs and Ken’s scary pumpkins lined up on the steps, candles glowing. Emma had written a special Halo’s Halloween story and her reading at the Kids’ Corner, with Sara on her lap, had strollers stacked out the door.
As the weather got colder and the days grew shorter in November, and the moms in the park and the tourists trickled off, business fell off a bit, but the opening of the café after Thanksgiving and the upcoming holidays promised to bring back the numbers. Claire’s Junior Girl Scouts were creating artwork for a special “local gallery” area Tim had designated along one wall. As they hung the framed pictures, Claire turned to Grace. “You know, I don’t have much of a gardening business in the winter,” she said. “I’ve been helping out at the law firm, but frankly, that’s not very creative. Could you use some extra help with the café? I think I’ve got the cupcake part down.”
Could she! Suddenly Grace had a “staff.” After one meeting, Claire had created a detailed project management spreadsheet and a work-flow chart that mapped the trajectory of every cupcake from birth to digestion. Claire turned out to be a great partner, because she was all the things Grace and Ken were not: organized, neat, and detail-oriented. Better still, she’d offered up her own double Viking range as backup until the commercial ovens were installed in the basement of the Book Nook Barn.
Construction had begun on the gazebo, with a dedication date set for the second week of December. The structure itself was simple enough, but the wiring for the sound system and electricity had to be installed before the ground froze. The plan for the build-out of the café was to close down the Book Nook Barn for as short a period as possible before Thanksgiving while the counters were installed upstairs and a commercial refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher that met the code requirements were put in the basement. Mike planned to do most of the work with his off-duty firehouse buddies.
It wasn’t easy juggling two jobs, Grace thought, but it would be a while before the café turned a profit, and meanwhile she now had real backup from Claire. Grace was also developing a Web site for the cafe, including recipes. Every evening, Grace and Lorraine sat in front of the recipe box and ran through the recipes, culling and editing to adapt quantities and numbers, and trying to figure out the best rotation. It felt good to be doing this together. Each recipe brought a comment from Lorraine, or a memory, and Grace filed these away in her mind. Someday, she thought, she would tell them to a grandchild. She started writing the stories down, and Emma was scanning them to keep a record. It was ironic, Grace thought, that this recipe box, which had caused her so much pain for so many years, was now the source of so many good things. Inspiration, history, heritage, love—all of those were in the box, not just recipes.
The kitchen table was littered not with cupcake ingredients but with calligraphy pens, markers, little tags, and string, to tie a label around each cupcake. “This is crazy,” Grace thought. Searching the Web, she found a resource to make the labels in quantity. A small victory for efficiency. One task down, dozens left to go. She hit “Save” and closed her laptop.
“I am beggin’ you!” yelled Halo from his cage.
“Take it easy, Halo.” She opened the refrigerator, scooped out some mashed potatoes from a small bowl, heated them, and put them into his cage. “What a drama queen you are, bird!” Grace could not believe how they spoiled this bird. But then, this was not just any bird, but their Halo, the feathered superstar that had his own online fan club. Artie had even offered—actually, pleaded—to fly Emma, Ken, and Halo back so Halo could make a guest appearance. It turned out that Artie had been so enamored of Halo that he’d bought a pet cockatoo for himself and tried it out in a scene. The bird, aptly named Vampira, had clamped down on Artie’s ear with a viselike beak, drawing the first real blood that had been seen on the set, and that had been the end of that. “Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that,” Ken had laughed.
As Grace cleaned up the table and organized her materials in a large tackle box—a holdover from Hollywood—she was feeling a bit off because Emma was going to Chicago for the weekend. Brian would be picking her up straight from school. Emma didn’t need to take anything but her books, because right after the honeymoon in Bali, Heather had taken Emma shopping at Water Tower Place for a complete “Chicago wardrobe,” right down to a new toothbrush, which Emma kept in her room at the town house. That night, the plan was for Mike to take Grace to the bowling alley for pizza and a few games.
Grace heard a car pull up in front of the house. Mike was early. Or maybe she was late; she’d lost track of time. “I hope you don’t mind if I take a quick shower and change,” Grace called out over her shoulder as she heard the kitchen door open. Be right back. Make yourself at home. Mike would be fine. He was used to letting himself in and making himself at home. She dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs, pulling off clothes on her way up. She took a fast shower, threw on fresh jeans and a soft V-neck sweater, grabbed a lightweight suede jacket, wrapped a thin plaid pashmina around her neck, and swiped on some lip balm. She shook out her hair and peered into the mirror. Her tan and freckles had faded and there was no sign of the California girl. Yes, it had happened. She was a soccer mom. Oh, well. Mike knew what he was getting. Ready or not. Taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried back into the kitchen.
The plan was bowling and pizza, but when she got into the car Grace noticed a fluffy blanket and thermos. “Isn’t it a bit dark for a picnic?” she asked.
Mike kept his hands on the wheel, looked at her, smiled, and mysteriously said, “Not tonight.”
Mike drove them just outside of town and parked the car. Grace was confused; they seemed to be stopped in the middle of nowhere. Mike opened her door and took her hand. He pointed to the night sky. There was a full moon and a million twinkling stars. The sky was beautiful. There was a chill, but not too much. Mike wrapped the blanket around Grace’s shoulders and led her toward the trees.
Grace didn’t know how Mike had arranged everything, but there in the woods, just at the bank of the Wolf River, was a canoe. He helped Grace in, handed her the thermos, and pushed the boat away from shore. They were away from the lights of town, but the full moon glistened off the water, providing just enough light to navigate. The air was still and, except for the occasional sound of water dripping from the paddle, Mike’s strokes were almost silent. After a little while he stopped paddling and let the river move the boat lazily along. He took the thermos from Grace, poured something into a mug, and offered it to her. Grace could smell chocolate and peppermint.
“Ummmm, this is wonderful, Mike.” The hot chocolate warmed her from the inside and the peppermint schnapps made her feel a bit giddy. Mike moved with expertise across the boat and held her while they floated downstream, taking turns drinking from the mug, enjoying the peace, the shadows of the trees cast across the river and the moonlight. Leaning against Mike’s chest, she could hear his gentle, steady heartbeat. Mike was dependable, but he was a surprising man too. It was the best date Grace had ever been on.
“Fork. Spoon. Knife.” Grace felt like a surgeon directing a scrub nurse during an operation, and, indeed, she was conducting a delicate operation on Miss Ha
visham. She peered up, perched on a ladder underneath the huge, drippy chandelier, calling out directions to Ken, below, for implements to hang among the crystals. As part of the addition of the new café area, he’d come up with the idea of hanging tableware from the chandelier—“uniting the literary with the culinary,” as he put it. He’d found some stray pieces of old silver at a flea market and strung them with clear fishing line. Grace’s job was to tie them on, one piece at a time.
The countdown to the café opening was on, full tilt. Carefully chosen simple white plates, cups, mugs, and glassware had been set up on the new built-in barn-wood shelves along the wall behind the new counter space. Tall stools had been purchased to pull up for quick bites. The refrigerated case had been installed, the dishwashers were in the remodeled basement, and the inspection was tomorrow. If all went well, the café would open two weeks before Christmas, in time for all the holiday festivities. Ken was racing around town with a punch list, pulling together all the last-minute details, picking up the menus from the printer, and distributing flyers with a free cupcake offer.
The silverware made tinkling noises as it jangled against the crystal. When the last piece was hung, Grace climbed down the ladder, Tim flicked on the lights, and they stepped back to survey their handiwork.
“Miss Havisham has had a facelift,” he proclaimed.
“Dickens would be proud of the old girl,” Tim agreed. They high-fived. Tim was turning out to be the most stable relationship Ken had ever had, Grace thought. There was never any drama in Tim’s life; he’d even taken the fire calmly in stride. “You should have seen him,” Mike had reported. “He got onto the ladder like he was walking into his living room.” It was a perfect fit for a drama queen.
The Recipe Box Café sign was ready to be hung over the counter inside. The plan was to frame it with tiny white Christmas lights and cutlery to match the chandelier. The name itself had been the result of a family brainstorm at Lorraine’s kitchen table. Emma had been flipping through the recipe box, pulling out cards to scan so they could create an online file that could be accessed at any time. “I wonder if Great-Grandma over in Sweden ever imagined that her recipe box would go to America and that her recipes would make it into cyberspace,” she said, giggling.