Only my father doesn’t need to say anything more because I finally spot it. My eyes bulge out and my mouth drops open as I absorb that my rental has been hazed worse than a pledge during initiation week. The car has been covered in so many rolls of cling wrap I can’t discern the black paint underneath. Hundreds of fudge cookies are glued to the plastic, melting in the sun. Colored balls like the ones in the pit I used to jump into at the local family entertainment center are bursting out of the sunroof—the only part of the car still exposed.
Wes better run, at lightning speed and far, far away, because when I find him I’m going to rake him over a hot bed of coals.
TEN
I PARK MY truck on the street and stare at the building adorned with gaudy neon letters and blue awnings that was once a sanctuary for me.
Every Blue Plate Special and candid photograph on the wall holds reminders of a childhood that has drifted away. Turner’s Greasy Spoons is where we congregated—Nick, Wes, Annabelle, and me—on Friday nights after the Highland Park High School football game. It’s where Nick tried, and failed, to teach me to drive a stick shift; where my father caught Wes and Annabelle making out in the stockroom after-hours; where the four of us ran around the vinyl booths and laminate tables as children, playing tag and hide-and-seek.
Ghosts of me. Ghosts of them.
I sigh and climb out of the truck, my legs sticking to the cracked leather seat.
Despite the odd afternoon hour, the diner is bustling with activity, though I notice it’s mostly an older crowd taking advantage of the early bird dinner menu. At a booth near the windows, a group of ladies with silver hair play spades, cackling louder than necessary, probably a result of the hearing aids they all wear.
I catch a glimpse of Wes sitting at the counter devouring a double portion of cowboy casserole, today’s Blue Plate Special, that’s like a shepherd’s pie but with Tater Tots instead of mashed potatoes and a down-home country flair. It’s another recipe inspired by one of my high school newspaper columns that paid homage to the potato, the king of root vegetables.
“Don’t you work?” I say, flicking Wes’s ear.
Swatting my hand away, he looks at me, then over his shoulder toward the front windows, then back to me. “Fueling up before practice,” he says through a mouthful of food, the words garbled. “Homecoming game’s coming up.”
Through the kitchen window, my father grins and waves. He’s sporting an apron with dancing clams on it, though it obviously failed to perform its most basic function because the right side of his Rangers T-shirt is splattered with yellow splotches. There’s a faint lipstick mark on his cheek, and I wonder when Sullivan Grace stopped by for her daily diner visit.
On the prep counter in front of him is a four-quart storage bin filled to the brim with ground spices. I watch as he leans the container on a corner edge and measures out a palmful before dumping the spices onto some hamburger meat browning on the stove. Standing next to him, Ernie sautés onion and garlic in a cast-iron skillet.
I hop onto the stainless steel counter and steal the forkful of casserole hovering inches from Wes’s awaiting mouth.
“If you value your life, you’ll surrender the utensil,” he says at the same time my father shouts, “Baby girl, get off of there. People gotta eat.”
I roll my eyes, jump off the counter, and hand the fork back to Wes. He swallows the bite without chewing and moves the plate away from my reach.
A moment later, another plate of cowboy casserole, fresh from the oven, the cheese still bubbling, appears in the kitchen window. The vivid scents of cumin and chili powder hit my nose. My stomach grumbles. Ernie gives me a knowing smile and nods, touching his forehead as if tipping a hat.
Grabbing the steaming dish and some silverware, I take a seat on the stool next to Wes. We eat in silence, which is fine by me because the casserole is so delicious I’m shoveling it down as though I haven’t eaten in a week.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Wes’s shoulders are slouched and there’s an uncomfortable expression on his face. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened at the bookstore, if he regrets the way he acted, his harsh words. Then I remember Annabelle’s confession, that he was the one betrayed, and I wonder how much Wes is hurting, how lost and angry he must feel.
The silence stretches so long that when Wes finally speaks, I nearly fling my fork across the counter in surprise. “It’s nice to see you driving Big Blue again.” The mischief in his voice is unmistakable. “It suits you. Better than that ridiculous thing you were driving.”
“It’s funny you should mention that.” I glance at him sideways. “An interesting thing happened last night.”
“Really? What’s that?” Wes says, tossing a wadded-up napkin on his empty plate, looking everywhere but at me.
“Yeah. Apparently the Keebler Elves have a vendetta against me.” I spin on the stool to face him. “They covered my rental car in Saran Wrap and used spray adhesive to stick E.L. Fudge cookies all over it. You can imagine the mess I discovered this morning, especially since the chocolate centers had melted.”
Wes twists his lips, as though he’s suppressing a smile. “That’s rough, Jelly Bean.”
I sigh, long and overdramatic. “It took me four hours, two garbage bags, a vacuum cleaner, and a trip to the auto detailing place to get the car looking like new again.”
A laugh bursts from his mouth, the sound like the pop of a can of crescent rolls. “I hope you catch those little guys. I hear they’re fast.”
“Actually, I was thinking you could help me.” I put my elbows on the counter and rest my chin in my hands. “That’s a pretty extreme prank, if you ask me. Almost like it was payback for something. I mean, those elves spend their days baking cookies in a tree. Can you think of why they may have done this?”
“Nope,” Wes says with a toothy grin. “But whatever you did, it must have really pissed them off.”
“Hmm. Do you remember that teeny-tiny, completely harmless joke involving a tub of Vaseline and some cereal?”
“You mean when you and Annabelle mutilated my Jeep?”
“Oh please. We didn’t ruin anything. It was those cute little gnomes, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. You offended them with your pathetic attempts at making Rice Krispy treats for Annabelle’s birthday,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as I remember how protective Wes had been over that car. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. If I remember correctly, you were out for blood after that.”
“Jelly Bean, you pulled pranks on everyone around here, not just me. Any one of those people could have done it. Like Mr. Oswald over there,” Wes says, pointing to a frail, elderly man with a big nose and even bigger ears fighting with a packet of sugar. “He’s held a grudge against you for years after you TP’d his house by mistake.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure it was him. You should warn him I plan on getting revenge,” I say as my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see Drew’s name lighting up the screen. I cringe, but before I can silence it, Wes says, “How’s the boyfriend?”
“Fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I shove the phone back into my pocket.
Of course Wes notices my tone, and of course he won’t let it go. “Just fine?”
“He’s great,” I say. “Better than great actually.”
“Very convincing, Pinocchio,” he says, tapping the tip of my nose. There’s a curious twinkle in his eyes. “Your cheeks are doing that flushed thing they do when you get uncomfortable. I’ve got a hunch there’s something else going on.”
My stomach sinks as I realize he may already know about my engagement to Drew if Nick tattled on me, but as I study Wes’s face, searching for a sign, something about his expression tells me he is still in the dark. Nick hasn’t mentioned it. And why would he? I no longer register anywhere on his importance radar.
“So did you two finally move in together or what?” Wes asks.
“It’s possible,” I say. It’s been two months since Dre
w bowed out of the lease on his apartment and was added to mine. We’ve even discussed adopting a puppy from a rescue shelter, but with my demanding work schedule I barely have time to feed myself let alone care for an animal. It’s why I have plants.
“I’m happy for you, Jelly Bean. It’s about time you found someone who could tolerate your cup habit,” he says with a smile, referring to my tendency to leave near-empty glasses scattered around for days rather than putting them directly into the dishwasher when I’m done with them.
“Hey!” I punch his shoulder. “I’ve gotten better about that.” Kind of.
“I’m joking,” he says, ducking out of the way before I can hit him again.
“If you two are done being Chatty Cathys, you might want to think about making yourselves useful. I need an extra set of hands around here,” my father calls from the kitchen.
“No can do, boss.” Wes rises from the stool and tosses some cash on the counter. “I’ve got a hot date with some future NFLers and a football field.” He turns to me, squeezes my arm, and says, “It’s all you, Jelly Bean.” He starts to leave, but pauses. He meets my gaze and looks at me like he wants to say something else but can’t find the right words, so we stand there for a moment in silence. Finally, he says, “Annabelle wanted to get engaged.” His voice sounds bitter, almost angry, so different from the Wes who was laughing minutes ago. “She’s wanted to for a few years, actually.”
“And you didn’t.” It’s a statement, though it should be a question.
“I couldn’t,” he clarifies. “I wanted to give her that. Hell, I wanted it for myself, but I . . . couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he sighs and says, “I’ve seen how marriage can destroy a family. I’ve seen two people who once promised to love each other for the rest of their lives now only communicate through lawyers and email. I’ve seen parents force their child to take sides and then get upset when the kid chooses the wrong one—or worse, when he refuses to pick at all.”
I recall Wes telling me a story about one Thanksgiving during college when he and Annabelle went to dinner at his mother’s house. His father called right as they arrived, and when Wes explained where he was and how he couldn’t talk, his father fired off a string of passive-aggressive comments about being disappointed in Wes for his choice of company. To aggravate matters further, all throughout the meal, Wes’s mother made equally biting remarks to Wes about his decision to spend Christmas in Tennessee with his father’s side of the family. Wes ended up walking out.
“I’ve seen the worst, Jelly Bean, and I won’t repeat their mistakes,” he continues. “I guess Annabelle thought that gave her permission to do what she did.”
I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “Wes, you know it wasn’t like that for her. It’s obvious you both still care. Why don’t you talk to her?”
“Because . . .” He trails off, shaking his head. “Because.”
Growing up, I knew he carried the burden of his parents’ divorce on his shoulders, but until now, I never realized how much it had affected him—how it still affects him—and how his relationship with Annabelle has suffered because of it.
“I guess love makes you chickenshit sometimes, huh?” Wes says, ripping me from my thoughts.
I shrug and give him a small smile. I want to tell him that love can also make you brave. That it has the power to heal as well as destroy. That you can build a world of dreams around it.
But I can’t say any of that.
I HUG WES good-bye with the promise to see him later at the Tipsy Teakettle for trivia night and step into the empty hallway that connects the two bathrooms, where more of my framed newspaper columns stare back at me.
I take out my phone and dial Drew’s office number. He picks up on the third ring.
“There you are,” he says, warm and sincere. “I called you a bit ago.”
A rush of guilt surges through me. About the way I purposely screened his call. About seeing Nick again, how his presence has me twisted into tiny knots. About how I’ve kept that part of my past a secret from Drew.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “I was chatting with an old friend.”
“How are things going there?” There’s a creaking sound, and I picture Drew leaning back in his desk chair, gazing out his office window that overlooks Lake Shore Drive. “I haven’t heard back from you.”
Drew’s tone is concerned, not at all angry, and the guilt flares up full force again. We usually email or talk at least once throughout the day, exchanging take-out dinner ideas, stories about annoying coworkers, and gripes about the stresses of our jobs. But since returning to Dallas, I haven’t been able to find the right words to respond to his messages. How am I supposed to explain Wes and Annabelle and all they’ve been through, all that we’ve been through together? How am I supposed to explain Nick and everything we meant to each other before we meant nothing at all?
How do I explain any of that?
Instead I say, “Everything’s about as expected. My father’s up to his old tricks as usual.” I tell him of my plan to manage the diner’s back-of-house operations from Chicago.
“That’s a great solution,” Drew says. “Is your father okay with it?”
“I’m not giving him an option,” I say. “Kingsbury Enterprises has asked for me personally to lead the next phase of their product launch, and Thomas Brandon has guaranteed my promotion if it’s successful.”
“That’s fantastic, babe,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s a huge opportunity for me. For us.”
As I fill him in on the details, the casual, easy way we are with one another slips back into place.
“So listen,” Drew says after I’m finished. “Since your dad will still be in recovery mode, maybe we can spend Thanksgiving in Dallas this year.”
An anxious feeling churns in my stomach. I clear my throat and try hard to keep the warble out of my voice as I say, “What about Madison in the fall?” Drew’s parents relocated to Wisconsin a few years back to be closer to his maternal grandparents, an adorable couple who recently celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary. We haven’t seen them since the move, but Drew keeps them apprised of the happenings in our lives, engagement included.
“You’ve already met my family. It’s time I meet yours,” Drew says. “We did things a little backward, so I can’t ask your dad for permission, but this way I can still ask for his blessing. Properly.”
“Okay,” I say, reminding myself that it’s not Drew’s fault I’ve kept my past and present separate. “We’ll celebrate Thanksgiving in Dallas with my father.”
“Good, because I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Remember when you looked into getting married at the Shedd, but they were booked solid for the next year?”
He’s talking so fast I don’t have an opportunity to answer.
“Well, yesterday after work, some of the other associates and I went to this networking event hosted at the aquarium,” Drew says. “After all the accountants cleared out, I got to talking with one of the aquarium’s event managers. I told her about us, that we’re newly engaged, and how we want to get married at the Shedd but there aren’t any openings. And it was fate, Lillie, because she told me they had a cancellation for the third Saturday in February and asked if we wanted that spot, so I took it.”
My heart is pounding, echoing in my ears. I can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stand there in the hallway by the bathrooms, frozen like a ghost crab caught under a flashlight. He decided on a wedding date without consulting with me first? I mean, I know we had to pick a date eventually, but it seemed like something we would decide together, when the time was right, not on a whim because a particular date at a particular venue became available. I should feel thrilled we got that slot at all. And I am. Really. I’m just shocked, too. I guess I assum
ed there would be more time to prepare—February isn’t that far away.
“We can discuss the logistics with your dad over Thanksgiving. I know he refuses to come here, but we’re getting married, so I know he’ll make an exception,” Drew says.
Since I’ve been living in Chicago, my father has visited twice. Once for my first Christmas in the city and the second for my MBA graduation. Both times Drew and I weren’t dating yet. My father chose to drive the thousand miles because he refuses to board an airplane—“I ain’t gettin’ on no contraption that can fall outta the sky”—and when he returned to Dallas from the last trip he swore he’d never do the grueling trek again. So far he’s kept his word, and I doubt even my wedding will change his mind, especially since Drew isn’t exactly my father’s pick for my ideal husband. But maybe meeting Drew will show my father just how easy we fit together.
“So what do you think?” Drew says tentatively, all traces of his earlier elation gone.
He’s so sincere, so hopeful. I imagine Drew rubbing his earlobe as his leg bounces three times in quick succession—his telltale sign that he’s nervous—and I realize how foolish I’m being. Drew wants to marry me, not someday when his parents approve or the stars align or when he can carve out some time in his busy schedule, but soon.
My mind drifts to the evening Nick proposed. Dressed in gray slacks and a striped collared dress shirt, he took me to our secret spot at Montgomery Park. Under the canopy of oak trees, sun spilled like honey through pockets in the dense cover. Leaf shadows patterned Nick’s face. A checkered blanket was spread out on the ground, candles securing the edges. Nick guided me into the center and bent down on one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Taking my left hand in his, he looked me in the eye and asked me to marry him, promising to cherish me forever.
As Nick drove us to a celebratory dinner afterward, our fingers intertwined, my ring sparkling in the light of the setting sun, I thought of all the happy, hopeful moments in store for us: exchanging vows among family and friends, waking up beside each other every day for the rest of our lives, growing old together. Buying our first house, then filling it with all those things that would make it a home. Blocking out the world as we touched and kissed and lost ourselves in each other. I thought of the mundane things—grocery shopping, fighting the daily grind, arguments about replacing the toilet paper roll or taking out the trash—we would share as we settled into married life.
From Scratch Page 9