From Scratch

by Rachel Goodman

  I tuck the blanket tighter around him, then grab his hand. “How are you feeling?”

  He says nothing. The room fills with the noise of medical equipment beeping, whirring, humming. When my father does respond, the words fly from his lips. “Baby girl, you need to get Ernie on the phone and confirm the Spoons hasn’t collapsed.”

  “I was already there this—”

  “Remind him that all floats are half price until closing.”

  “Dad.”

  “Tell Ernie he needs to get the pumpkin mac and cheese in the oven by three o’clock or else it won’t be ready in time for the dinner rush.”

  I lean forward and say his name again, firmer this time.

  “Then you need to help him prepare the—”

  “Dad!” I shout, then soften my voice. “You could have died.”

  He blinks, momentarily stunned. “Nonsense,” he says, recovering quickly and patting my hand as though placating a child. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I shake my head. My father has always been too stubborn, too prideful, to the point that it’s a detriment. Standing, I pace in front of the windows and peer out at the world below. In the reflection of the glass, I can see my father watching me, a wrinkle between his brows.

  A knock on the door makes my heart jump like water droplets in hot grease. Dr. Preston strolls in. “How is my happiest patient today?” he says, a stethoscope around his neck. He nods and smiles when he sees me, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other just like his son. An orderly trails after him, carrying a tray.

  “Never better, Doc. Never better,” my father says, wincing as he struggles to sit up.

  “Easy,” I say, propping the pillows behind him.

  The orderly sets the tray on the bedside table and removes the plastic cover before exiting. My father sniffs at the bowl of chicken broth and pokes at the blob of green Jell-O. “Doc, I ain’t touching no food that resembles sea foam salad and probably tastes just as questionable.”

  “Then it appears that starving yourself is the only other viable option because from now on your middle name is Nutritious,” Dr. Preston says. He performs a physical examination, listening to my father’s chest, inspecting his incisions, checking his tubes and vital signs.

  My father grumbles something about convincing the nurse with the pretty green eyes to sneak him pancakes later.

  Dr. Preston scribbles notes on a chart, then spends the next ten minutes explaining to my father the severity of his prognosis and his updated treatment plan. I write down Dr. Preston’s instructions word for word, even though he already outlined all of this to me yesterday.

  “Do either of you have any questions or need me to go over anything again?” Dr. Preston asks.

  I tell him no, while my father continues grumbling. A voice crackles over the PA system, requesting Dr. Preston’s presence in the OR immediately. “My apologies. If you’ll excuse me,” he says, then dashes out of the room.

  “We have quite the journey ahead of us to make you healthy again, Dad,” I say after the door clicks shut.

  “I don’t know why everyone’s got to be such dream crushers. Even Nick’s sayin’ I’ve got to lay off the mashed taters.”

  “Nick was here?” I ask, surprised, but then, of course, Nick would visit my father. No matter what Nick’s feelings are toward me, my father is still hugely important to him.

  “Sure did. Stopped by earlier,” my father says. “He seemed more exhausted than a coffeepot after the morning rush hour. If you ask me, that boy’s been working too hard—” A violent coughing fit racks his body, the sound echoing off the floor and walls.

  I reach out to rub my father’s back, but he waves me away. “I’m fine,” he says once the coughing subsides. He draws in a ragged breath. “No need to baby me.”

  I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists. Doesn’t my father understand that if he doesn’t regard his condition with the severity it deserves he may never witness my wedding day or cradle a grandchild in his arms? Doesn’t he know that his death would destroy me?

  “I won’t survive it if I lose you,” I say. “Do you realize that?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, baby girl,” he says, back to poking at the wiggling Jell-O. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  “No, Dad. This is serious,” I say as heat floods my cheeks and tears sting my eyes again. “You’re sick. Pretending otherwise is selfish and careless. Mom already left. Please don’t leave me, too.”

  My father frowns. Deep lines are carved in his forehead. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

  His silence speaks for both of us.

  MY FATHER FALLS asleep a short time later, and I sneak quietly out of the room. As I turn to grab a chair in the waiting area, I spot Annabelle at the far end of the corridor, a fruit bouquet and a bundle of balloons in hand. With everything that’s happened, it’s hard to believe it’s only been a day since I last saw her. When Annabelle notices me, she hesitates for a second before continuing her path down the hallway.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the Ritz Carlton for the Upper Crust run-through?” I say, which is also where I’m supposed to be.

  “Sullivan Grace and Paulette Bunny are handling it.” Annabelle shifts the fruit bouquet in her arms, causing the purse on her shoulder to slide to her elbow. After a beat she says, “We promised each other no more secrets and I broke that. I’m sorry, Lil.” The apology catches me off guard. Coming from her, those words are as sacred as an heirloom bridal gown.

  I pull her into a hug. “Me, too. I’m glad you’re here,” I say, squeezing her shoulders as I lean back to look at her. “My father’s sleeping right now. You hungry?”

  Annabelle wrinkles her nose. “For hospital food?”

  “Coffee?”

  She nods. I wait while she slips into my father’s room and drops off the goodies inside the door.

  We make our way to the café in silence. After ordering our drinks, we sit at an open table near the atrium market, beside a nurse slurping soup from a thermos. The air smells faintly of stale cookies.

  “I need to know why, Annabelle.”

  She rips open a packet of artificial sweetener and pours it into her large Americano, avoiding my gaze. “Because Old Man Jack asked us not to.”

  I furrow my brow. “And you listened to him?”

  “He’s your father, Lillie. Of course we listened to him. He said he’d tell you in his own time, on his own terms. We had no choice but to respect that, and don’t lie and act like you wouldn’t be angry hearing about his situation from anyone other than him.”

  Annabelle’s right. My father owed me that. If only he wasn’t such a professional at being evasive or wearing his pride and stubbornness like one of his beloved plaid shirts.

  “I see you’ve been spending time at the diner.” She jerks her chin at the bits of waffle batter on my shirtsleeve. “I’m glad.”

  Biting my lip, I say, “I couldn’t leave Ernie to fend for himself. Some of the regulars are worse than rabid foxes.”

  Annabelle smiles, eyes bright, and I wonder if she can sense there’s more I’m not saying—that the desire is still there, simmering under the surface, threatening to spill out.

  I wrap my hands around the paper cup to warm my fingers. “So you and Wes,” I say. “What’s happening there?”

  Sighing, she takes a sip of her coffee and says, “I don’t know . . . We’re talking, I guess. He says he’s not sure if he can ever trust me again, which I know is justified. At the same time, how can I trust that he’ll change? What if we somehow find a way to put my infidelity behind us and he still doesn’t believe in marriage? What then?”

  “Annabelle, no,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t let a defeatist attitude like that infect the progress you’ve made with Wes. You’re the one who told me not to play the victim or give up.”

  She stirs more sweetener into her coffee. “Sometimes it’s easier to dish out the advice than accept it.”

 
We’re quiet a moment. Then with her usual abruptness, Annabelle changes topics. “The album release party at the House of Blues is in a couple of days. You’ll be there, right?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea . . .”

  Arching an eyebrow, she asks, “Why is that?”

  Inhaling a deep breath, I launch into the events of the past twenty-four hours. I tell her about what happened between Nick and me in my father’s kitchen, about his confession regarding Margaret. I tell her about Drew showing up unexpectedly and Nick storming off, about me permanently ending things with Drew and me quitting my job in Chicago.

  Annabelle’s mouth drops open. I can see her processing my words. Finally, she slaps the table so loud people turn to glare at us. “Shut up, you little hussy! Are you still on birth control?”

  “Annabelle!” I hiss, glancing around, a fake smile glued to my face. “Yes. Now shhh!”

  She snickers to herself. “Damn. Is it wrong that I’m proud of you? Well, not because you screwed over Drew.”

  I cringe and take a sip of my vanilla chai latte. The liquid burns my throat.

  “But because it’s been years since you’ve acted so bold,” she continues. “Do you regret it?”

  “Which part?”

  “Any of it.”

  “Hurting Drew, yes. The rest . . .” I shrug.

  Annabelle hits the table again. “I knew it.” Her expression grows serious. “Lillie, you need to come to the album launch party.”

  I want to protest, but the imploring look in her eyes and the edge in her tone force the words back.

  Besides, what more do I have to lose?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE HOUSE OF Blues is like a skillet of jambalaya with its rustic, southern vibe and juke-joint charm. There’s flavor in every aspect, from the crazy-quilt curtains framing the stage, to the custom-painted murals and funky patterns covering the walls and ceiling, to the folk art and exotic furnishings adorning the music hall. The mass of fans, radio personalities, music reporters, and photographers crammed into the space add extra spice.

  A bartender hands me a pint of Shiner Ruby Redbird, garnished with a lemon wedge. I squeeze the juice into the glass and take a long pull. The sharp kick of ginger and tangy grapefruit hits the back of my throat and fills my whole mouth. The Randy Hollis Band must have pulled some major strings to get this particular beer on tap for their album launch party. It’s typically a seasonal selection available only in the summer months.

  Rising on tiptoes, I peer above the crowd. I lost track of Annabelle an hour ago. Since I got here, she’s been rushing around like a crazy person, coordinating vendors, answering questions, fixing last-minute catering problems. Near the entrance, I spot Margaret chatting with some suits. I wonder if they’re from the band’s management company. In front of them, the guys sit at a table, autographing copies of Resolution and snapping photos with adoring fans.

  “Need a boost, shorty?”

  I turn. Wes stands off to my side, hands stuffed into his pockets.

  “No. But I could use some company,” I say with a smile, hooking my ankle around a bar stool leg and sitting down. “Care to join me?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Jelly Bean,” Wes says. After he orders a Ruby Redbird for himself, he sinks onto the open stool beside me and we lapse into silence, allowing the buzz around us to do the talking.

  “I visited Old Man Jack this morning,” Wes says after our beers are half gone.

  “He told me.”

  “So he gets released tomorrow?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Heaven help us.”

  “Listen, Jelly Bean. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about Jack. I thought for sure he’d told you about his condition and that’s why you came back. Then when he started in on you managing the diner, it became clear you still didn’t know. He said he’d tell you in his own time, and when he didn’t, I guess I sort of felt like you deserved more than hearing about his condition from anyone other than him. I think parents owe their children that—”

  “Wes.” I set a firm hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Really. I understand why you didn’t say anything. It wasn’t your place.”

  His shoulders relax. “What do you say we go park ourselves on one of those couches along the wall? I think the show’s about to begin.”

  “I get the cushion near the armrest,” I say, nudging his side.

  “Not on your life,” he says with a wink.

  We weave through the swarm of bodies. As I move around a server balancing trays of empanadas and mini pulled pork sandwiches, Nick steps squarely into my path. From the startled expression on his face, I gather he didn’t expect to run into me at the House of Blues, even though he knows I was invited. Maybe he didn’t think I’d actually attend. For a second we stand there, a silent impasse. My chest tightens.

  “Hi,” I say when it’s clear he’s not going to. My voice sounds strange, not like my own.

  “Hello, Lillie,” he says finally.

  The way Nick looks at me makes me feel stripped bare like an exposed nerve. I’m tingling all over. My mind floods with white-hot images of him bracing me against the wall, thrusting inside me, watching as I come undone around him, when there was nothing but skin between us. Then I remember his harsh words after Drew surprised me, and the tiny firecrackers exploding inside me fizzle out.

  “What’s up?” Wes says. “The big night’s here, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Nick says. He backs up a pace, raking his fingers through his hair that is in desperate need of a cut. It’s even wilder than usual, as though he stuck a fork into an electrical outlet, which he dared me to do when I was twelve. His eyes dart around, and I wonder if he’s searching for Drew, or maybe he’s simply planning his escape route.

  “Listen, man, we were about to snatch some ass real estate over there, if you’re game,” Wes says, gesturing to the couches along the wall.

  I glance at Wes. Does he know what happened between Nick and me? A lump forms in my throat.

  “Thanks, but I need to deal with some things,” Nick says. “I’ll see you guys later. Enjoy yourselves tonight.”

  I want to ask him to stay. There’s so much that demands to be said, but before I can get the words out, Nick disappears into the sea of people as abruptly as he appeared. The squeezing pressure in my chest amplifies.

  Wes turns and stares at me, a question in his eyes. I shake my head. This isn’t the time to explain.

  The overhead lights flicker and dim. Cheers erupt around us. I look at the stage to see the Randy Hollis Band taking their places behind well-loved instruments. Karl throws several guitar picks into the audience as Jason twirls his drumsticks and Tim’s bass riffs reverberate throughout the room. Gripping the neck of a Gibson Les Paul electric guitar, Matt saunters up to the microphone, a grin illuminating his whole face.

  “How you feeling, Dallas?” he says as the opening guitar-driven strains of “Shadows and Dust”—the first track off Resolution—fill the House of Blues. He’s answered by a chorus of whistles and hollering.

  By the time Wes and I fight our way through the crowd, the couches are all occupied and it’s standing room only. We find a spot near the side of the stage and join in with the other fans singing along to the lyrics. Purple, yellow, and blue stage lights pulse as bodies sway and dance to the beat of the music. Arms wave in the air. The band rolls right through the set with “Autumn Green,” a hard-rocking country track that highlights the raw, earnest emotion in Matt’s lead vocals, and then straight into “Concrete Rodeo.”

  “We want to thank y’all for coming out tonight,” Karl says when the song comes to a close. “Years ago we were four guys tinkering around in a college apartment. We used to play in bars around town and give away our independent records for free with dreams of someday selling out stadium shows. Now we’re actually making money off those records and that pipe dream is becoming a reality. We’re no longer a bunch of fairy-tale chasers. We’ve captured ours, thanks to y’all’
s support.”

  Shrills from the audience grow even louder. Camera flashes bounce around in the darkness.

  “We’ve spent the majority of our careers lugging gear to club after club, holding down multiple jobs to make ends meet, tearing relationships apart with our hectic schedules,” Matt cuts in, swapping out his electric guitar for an acoustic one. “The past few years have been a whirlwind for us. We’ve achieved some big milestones—landing a major record deal, hearing our music on the radio for the first time, debuting on the Billboard country charts with our single ‘August.’ We’ve also experienced personal heartbreak—death, cheating, divorce, drugs. All this terrible life shit that no one prepares you for.”

  A couple of guys wearing T-shirts with staff written across the chest bring out stools, guitar stands, bongos, and shakers.

  “When we went into the studio to record Resolution, we knew we wanted to reflect all that, to reach deep inside and explore all those warring emotions,” Matt continues. “So, naturally, we had to work with the best in the business. Lucky for us, one of our closest friends, who was going through some of the same crap as we were at the time, happens to be one helluva songwriter. And, lucky for y’all, he’s here tonight and has agreed to play a set with us.”

  Wes elbows me and shouts in my ear, “You ready for this, Jelly Bean?”

  Squinting at him, I yell back, “Ready for what?”

  Wes grins and jerks his chin toward the stage.

  I follow his gaze to see who everyone is going crazy for. I try to process it, but I can’t. My brain has vacated my body. It’s like converting recipe measurements doped up on cough medicine, it’s that impossible. There’s no way Nick is walking across the stage carrying my father’s old Taylor acoustic guitar, no way Nick is claiming the empty stool between Matt and Karl and adjusting the microphone, no way Nick is throwing the worn leather strap over his head and tuning the pegs.

  Only it is him, seeming completely in his element, right there on that stage.

  “Let me introduce you to our buddy Nick Preston, one of the best damn songwriters in country music,” Matt says, slapping Nick on the back. “Please give him a warm, Randy Hollis–style welcome.”