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 w
ant 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.
The feeling is mutual.
I muster up a weak smile and a hello. It’s the best I can do.
The floozy doesn’t reciprocate. “Why are you here?” Her words come out like a hiss. “Shouldn’t you be in Chicago proving you’re more than where you came from?”
Oh, the nerve of this harpy.
Maybe it’s how she still can’t be cordial, even after all this time. Maybe it’s the way she’s always flaunted her status and smug superiority, merely tolerating those deemed beneath her. Or maybe it’s the hard glint in her gray eyes that shows she’s still bitter that someone like me, with my misfit upbringing and grease stains, beat someone like her, prom queen, cheerleading captain, president of Kappa Kappa Gamma. That even though she was never in the running in the first place, despite her old southern money and family ties, in her warped, jealous, pretentious mind, I stole the one person she wanted most—Nick.
Whatever the reason, I feel like goading her.
I stand. “Haven’t you heard?” I say with a smile so phony it would make Sullivan Grace proud. “The committee was filling me in on my duties regarding this year’s Upper Crust competition. You see, I’ve agreed to participate. I figure it’s the least I can do since I’ll be in town for a while.”
Margaret narrows her eyes, her lips pursed. “A while?”
“For several weeks, at least. Isn’t that fantastic?” I say, my smile growing bigger. “And if my father gets his way, I’ll be back here permanently.”
I don’t wait to see my words register on her face. With a surge of adrenaline and something close to conviction, I lift my chin, walk out of the room, and descend the grand staircase, wondering what in the name of tangerine marmalade I just got myself into.
EIGHT
OUTSIDE AND AWAY from the commotion of the meeting, the covered porch is calm and quiet except for the faint rumbling coming from behind me, disturbing the solitude.
I turn to find Nick conked out in a rocking chair in front of the open windows. His head is slumped against his shoulder, lips parted. A small snore escapes each time he inhales. Figures. I should have recognized that sound. A baseball cap is draped over his knee, and his disheveled hair moves gently in the wind. The way his body sags in the chair reminds me of a rumpled dish towel. I notice the purple crescents underneath his eyes are more pronounced than they were at the Prickly Pear, as is the stubble lining his jaw. Another late night at the hospital, I gather.
For a second, I think he’s here to see me, to make peace after our confrontation yesterday, but then decide it must be simply coincidence. He’s made it clear he blames me for the destruction of our relationship. Perhaps he’s running errands for his mother and dozed off, or maybe he’s picking someone up. Whatever the reason, in his relaxed, unruly state, he appears out of place napping on Junior League’s covered porch in the middle of the day.
Minutes pass while I wait for Annabelle to materialize from the meeting. Nothing. I sigh. I guess I’m going to be here awhile longer, so I may as well make myself comfortable.
Biting my lip, I consider my options. There’s the obvious choice of the empty rocking chair next to Nick, though I’d rather not. The sunny grass near the flower beds seems inviting, but it’s probably wet and swarming with gnats. Maybe I should go back inside, but another run-in with the floozy may end in disaster. Or I could wait in the car . . .
What the heck is wrong with me?
With a calm, collected manner, I pull my shoulders back and claim the chair next to Nick. Rocking slowly back and forth, a breeze tickling my arms, I take in my surroundings. Birds cut across the sky and swoop down to the glinting bronze fountain, splashing in the water before soaring up again. On the other side of the wrought-iron fence, two women push strollers as they jog down the sidewalk. Peeking over the trees, I see the historical neon sign of the Inwood Theatre in the distance.
Next to me, Nick stirs. His eyes flutter open but quickly close. Within seconds, his breathing is deep and steady again. He looks so peaceful, the way his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. I can’t remember the last time I saw him like this—vulnerable and without life’s expectations weighing him down. I wonder if he still listens to the rain forest setting on the sound machine to lull him to sleep after a grueling hospital shift. When I moved to Chicago, it took six months of restless nights before I could sleep soundly without that annoying machine.
Nick stirs again, shifting his body toward mine. The movement pulls up his T-shirt to expose a flat stomach and a thin line of hair that vanishes into black boxer briefs. My skin prickles, and I have an overwhelming, crazy urge to touch him there, to feel his hard muscles beneath my fingers. The way I used to, only back then my mouth followed everywhere my hands would explore. Warmth spreads through me as I remember the low, smooth rumble of his voice when my lips skimmed across his skin. The hiss that escaped from between his teeth when my tongue slid along the places he craved most.
I shake my head, erasing the memories like an Etch A Sketch, and concentrate on something other than my twitching fingers and the heat pooling in my belly—a garbage truck lumbering down a neighborhood street, dogs barking, the daytime traffic hum.
When I look back, Nick is awake and staring at me with puffy eyes. There’s an intensity in them, holding mine captive. A thrum of electricity courses through my veins as his gaze rakes over my face, the length of my body. His eyes flick to my bare finger, where my diamond ring should be. If he’s surprised it’s not there, he does nothing to indicate it. The air around us feels charged with energy.
“Chicago doesn’t have this,” I blurt. My mouth has taken on a life of its own. “The openness. The humidity that sticks to your skin. Cheerwine floats at Mr. Vincent’s Fountain Shop.”
“What does it have?” His voice is raspy from sleep, and a shiver travels down my spine at the sound of it.
Swallowing, I say, “Snow. Lake Michigan. The best Ital
ian beef sandwich you’ll ever have.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to decipher something in them. He clears his throat and says, “The Upper Crust is right around the corner. You better start practicing now. It may be a competition for charity, but it draws the attendance of some culinary heavy hitters.”
“How’d you even know about the Upper Crust?”
A smile pulls up the corners of his mouth. “Jack hasn’t shut up about it, among other things.”
An ache expands in my chest that fills my empty spaces. Even after everything, how can Nick stay close with my father and discard me? Growing up, Nick practically lived at the diner or at my father’s house. He had a designated seat at our kitchen table and his own list of chores. That changed, of course, when Nick started medical school. But still, their relationship remains intact.
“Are you making peach cobbler?” Nick asks.
“I think you already know the answer to that,” I say, focusing on the way the sun haloes the trees, how the leaves shimmer in the golden glow.
He studies me, his mouth set in a line. “Is it because it was hers?”
I suck in a breath at his words—the same ones I said to him that day in my father’s kitchen a lifetime ago, when I still had my innocence and I believed cooking was a special potion that could fix anything.
Silence stretches between us.
The wind picks up, whipping my hair. “Ouch,” I say as something catches in my eye. I blink rapidly, but the object won’t budge.
“Let me see.” Nick groans when he sits up. The wooden boards creak under his feet as he comes to crouch down in front of me. His knees brush against mine. He’s close enough that I can smell his scent—cedar wood and soap and hints of citrus. I hate how good he smells. “Tilt your head back and look up.”
I do as he says. He holds my chin in one hand, and with the other, inspects my eye. His calloused fingers feel rough against my skin. Goose bumps pop up on my arms.
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