The Season of Silver Linings

by Christine Nolfi

  After last night’s conversation with Philip, she’d spent bleak hours pacing in her apartment. Sleep came in short snatches. When the first glimmer of daylight crept in beneath the drapes, she gave up all pretense of sleep and grabbed a quick shower.

  From behind her, she heard Millicent say, “Oh, I do hope we’re allowed to sneak into the cinnamon buns before the waitresses carry them off to the Sunshine Room.”

  “Of course.” Jada reached for a knife, cut two doughy squares. Depositing them on a plate, she asked, “Would you like coffee before we begin? I’ve just made a new pot.”

  “That would be lovely. Black, please.”

  The retired historian looked happy this morning, her green eyes bright and alert. For once, she’d dispensed with the stodgy blazers that were the backbone of her wardrobe. She’d chosen a nubby sweater instead, in a bold azure hue. The typical brown slacks were traded in for white jeans.

  Jada returned from the coffee station with a steaming cup. “Look at you. Dressing down today?”

  “I’m going for a relaxed look.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Does it? I suppose I’m turning over a new leaf.” With a disapproving glance, she poked at the bandanna hastily tied around Jada’s unkempt curls. “Did you pull an all-nighter? You look like a doctoral student who’s been up until the wee hours preparing to defend a dissertation.”

  “I dressed in a hurry.” Frustration and resignation had compelled her to grab clothes at random once she’d decided to start the workday early.

  “I’d ask if you were up late tending to a sick child, but you’re single.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep,” she admitted.

  Revealing the contents of last night’s discussion was off-limits. The observation brought a sudden twinge of guilt. Even if Millicent did reveal a family connection to Philip’s late wife, the conversation would lead nowhere. Philip expected Jada to lie on his behalf. He considered it necessary to protect Fancy.

  Was the historian related to Bodi? In her bones, Jada already knew the answer. Which led her back to the dilemma that had kept her awake for most of the night: Which claim took precedence? Philip’s desire to bar his late wife’s family from any contact with Fancy? Or Millicent’s right to lavish affection on a small child, the newest member of her family line?

  Learning of Bodi’s death would come as a terrible blow. Discovering she’d left behind an engaging, beautiful child would provide a salve for Millicent’s heart.

  Millicent eyed her with concern. “Why are you running on fumes?” she asked pointedly. “Is one of your parents ill?”

  “My parents are fine. Dad’s a little cranky after a visit to the dentist—par for the course. He hates going to the dentist.”

  “I don’t blame him. The moment a dental drill starts whirring, I get heart palpitations.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are you coming down with a bug?”

  Calling to the sous-chef, Jada handed off the sheet of cinnamon buns. After the woman walked away, she confided, “I had a difficult conversation with a friend. We don’t see eye to eye on a particular subject.”

  “You’d like to persuade your friend to agree with your point of view?”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “With enough perseverance, anything is possible. People become adamant out of fear. The more they’re frightened, the more they stick to their guns. You’re convinced your position is the correct one?”

  Receiving advice from the woman who was the source of the quarrel seemed a ridiculous irony. “I’m sure it is,” Jada murmured, touched by Millicent’s eagerness to help.

  “Well, then.” An air of authority lifted her chin. It was easy then to glimpse her as she’d once been, a professor holding court in front of a classroom of students, generously imparting her wisdom to the next generation. “Use calm logic to state your case. Don’t get emotional. People rush to fear and hate, or other low emotions, in an instinctual way. Elevate the debate by stating the facts dispassionately. Once you’ve stated your case, allow your friend time to consider the merits of your argument.”

  “I’ll try,” Jada promised, although she didn’t hold out much hope.

  Philip wouldn’t revise his opinion. The scars from his marriage ran too deep.

  “I’m rooting for you.” Dismissing the subject, Millicent gave her another thorough—and thoroughly kind—appraisal. “Young lady, you do look exhausted. Should we reschedule?”

  The suggestion was tempting. Without a baking lesson hampering the morning schedule, there was a chance of finishing in the kitchen soon. She still had the dress fitting with Cat at eleven this morning, and, later in the afternoon, Penelope and Norah expected her to stop by Penelope’s house. They’d finished sewing the flower girl dress. Today Fancy would receive a last fitting to adjust the hem. Linnie was also going over.

  Somewhere in between all the tasks that would occupy her day, Jada had hoped for a few minutes of downtime in her office. Dozing behind her desk held a strong allure—but it was a fantasy she quickly dismissed.

  A fizzy atmosphere snapped around Millicent. Already she’d polished off the two cinnamon buns like an antsy child itching to race outside to play. The baking lesson, which provided her with ample time to sift through Jada’s past, seemed the highlight of her day. It was cruel to steal the time away from her.

  “Don’t you have a recipe you’d like to prepare, something one of the Sirens gave you?” Jada asked. There was a good chance the Sirens had divined the historian’s amateur baking skills and offered a simple recipe.

  “You’re sure we should proceed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Millicent produced the recipe card. “I would like to give this a whirl. It’s unusual. Do you have fresh rosemary on hand?”

  Rosemary.

  Jada stilled, then found her voice. “We use the herb in several dishes—standard fare on the Sunshine Room’s dinner menu.”

  “We’ll need one tablespoon, finely minced, for the batter.”

  “May I see the recipe? If this is an Italian yeast bread, I’m afraid we don’t have time to make it this morning.”

  Millicent laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of trying a yeast bread. This is much simpler.”

  She placed the recipe on the counter between them. Jada scanned Penelope’s familiar cursive streaming across the card stock. She gave a soft gasp of surprise.

  Rosemary Butter Cookies.

  During the Christmas season, Penelope made the cookies in large batches. She arranged them in a swirling pattern inside hand-decorated tins she gave out as holiday gifts. Everyone from the staff at the local post office where her son Ozzie worked to many of the longtime employees at the Wayfair, like Mr. Uchida, received a tin. The recipe was a Riddle family tradition, handed down through the generations. Jada had only made the recipe once—on a day she remembered vividly.

  Emotion spilled through her as she picked up the card.

  “What is it?” Slowly, Millicent set down her coffee mug. “Is something wrong? I can’t tell if you’re ready to laugh or cry.”

  Jada blinked away the tears. “I’m surprised, that’s all.” She gave a watery smile.

  “What’s surprising about a cookie recipe?”

  “Penelope rarely shares the recipe. Frances is the only one of the Sirens with a copy. She lobbied for years before receiving it.”

  “How intriguing.”

  “According to Penelope, one of her ancestors brought the recipe from England in the sixteen hundreds, on a ship bound for the colonies. Not on the Mayflower, but soon after. On a ship named the Fortune, I think.”

  “Good heavens. I had no idea Penelope gave me something dear to her heart.”

  “When did she give you the recipe?”

  “A few days ago. We were in Gift of Garb, chatting.”

  Jada wasn’t aware she’d left the inn’s grounds since arriving in late March. “You visited the consignment shop?”


  “I was feeling stir-crazy and went for a walk. I didn’t stay in her store long. I was preparing to leave when Penelope mentioned there was something she wanted to share with me.”

  “Consider it an honor.” Jada chuckled. “Don’t tell the Sirens you have the recipe. They’ll hound you for a copy.”

  “You’ve never made a batch?”

  Pulling herself together, Jada framed an explanation that wouldn’t reveal too many details. “I’ve made the cookies once before, with a teenager who worked at Penelope’s shop. She’d hurt Penelope’s feelings and wanted to bake an apology gift. I doubt Penelope was aware the girl had copied down the recipe.”

  Lost in the memory, Jada recalled Bodi shifting from foot to foot beside the counter, in nearly the exact spot where Millicent now stood. Her lemon-colored hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her arresting blue eyes pooling with tears—depression swamped her whenever she regretted a wrong she’d inflicted. How she’d carefully shaped each cookie, placing it on the baking sheet with her spine curving beneath the weight of her remorse. A halting litany rose from her lips: Bodi couldn’t explain why she kept stealing from the cash register.

  As they mixed the cookie dough, Jada had felt a sisterly connection, as if her reassurances could turn Bodi’s life around. Working together in the sweet-smelling kitchen, she’d actually believed her affection held the power to heal the psychic wounds Bodi carried.

  Millicent was saying, “Penelope mentioned the troubled kids she likes to hire. An admirable pursuit. We need more adults willing to step in whenever a young person strays from the path.”

  Remembering Bodi’s tear-stained face, Jada said, “When we were baking the first batch of cookies for the apology gift . . . the girl admitted she could never decide if she loved or hated rosemary. It is an unusual ingredient for cookies.”

  “I’m not indecisive. I can’t wait until the first batch comes out of the oven.”

  “You like rosemary?”

  The question floated between them, unbound. Then a secret agony, blended with the most exquisite joy, crept across Millicent’s features.

  Beneath the nubby fabric of her sweater, a gold chain glimmered. Lifting the necklace out from its hiding place, Millicent stroked the oval pendant dangling from the chain. Large and heavy, the pendant was composed of thick gold. It was valuable and clearly cherished.

  She held the pendant out for Jada’s inspection. Drawing close, Jada studied the fine detail.

  Stamped into the gold was a familiar image. A sprig of rosemary, the spiky leaves etched with impressive skill. The herb Bodi, less than a year before her death, wasn’t sure if she loved or despised. The same rich green herb Penelope tucked inside a sachet, as if to provide Jada with a talisman to resolve a burden from the past.

  Astonishment swept through Jada. “I don’t need to guess your favorite herb.” She chuckled.

  “No, you don’t.” Reverently, Millicent caressed the grooves etched into the gold. She returned the pendant to its hiding place. “I love rosemary.”

  Devotion softened the sweet declaration. It hinted at a deeper meaning than mere enjoyment of a pungent herb used in savory dishes—or the odd cookie recipe. But the historian did not elaborate. Instead, she picked up the recipe to review the ingredient list.

  Following her cue, Jada collected everything they needed, including a handful of fresh rosemary and a pound of butter. For several minutes, they worked in companionable silence. When the timer dinged, announcing the first batch was ready, Millicent spoke again.

  “Jada, I want to tell you something.” A stark note colored the words. “And ask something as well.”

  “All right.”

  “I lost someone like the teenagers Penelope works so hard to help. A young woman, barely out of high school. She ran away. I loved her very much. I’ve spent years following a wretched number of false leads. I still haven’t found her.”

  With jerky movements, Jada reached for the spatula. “When did she run away?” A sickening wave of anxiety rolled through her. She already knew the answer.

  “A little over seven years ago.”

  Millicent hesitated, her eyes skittering across Jada’s face. She appeared to be waiting for Jada to pick up the story.

  When Jada remained quiet, the historian continued in a nervous rush. “At first, she’d pick up if I left a dozen messages on her cell phone. Our conversations never lasted long, but I got the impression she moved from one city to another—at first. She had enough money to last a week or two. How she managed afterward, I have no idea.”

  So Bodi was originally from Chicago. Had her grandfather and Millicent cared for her? Were Bodi’s parents totally out of the picture? Struggling beneath the questions swirling through her, Jada walked to the oven. Numbly, she removed the first sheet of cookies.

  When it became obvious her voice had deserted her, Millicent added, “Two months after she left Chicago, she cut off contact. Afterward, I began hiring detectives to search for her whereabouts. There were years when I suspended the search, after growing tired of the disappointment. Then I’d start again.”

  The scents of butter and sugar perfumed the air. The cookies slid off the sheet easily. But the slight tremor in Jada’s knees was traveling swiftly past her ribcage and into her arms. A cookie slid off the spatula. It broke in pieces at her feet.

  She’d begun to pick up the pieces when Millicent took her hand firmly. Their eyes met.

  “I hired the latest detective in February,” the historian continued. “He found several news items about the Wayfair. I doubt I would have stumbled across this place otherwise—but everything fits. She didn’t leave many clues once she broke off contact, nothing specific about where she’d gone. She did mention landing in a small Midwestern town. She struck up a friendship with a young woman who worked at a country inn. She wouldn’t share the name of the town.” The conversation was affecting Millicent too, and she planted a steadying hand on the counter before adding, “Jada, her name was Bodi Wagner. Bodi Elizabeth Wagner. Do you know her?”

  Pausing, she waited for Jada to fill in the rest. On the other side of the center island, a waiter hummed quietly. He filled a row of glasses with orange juice.

  Dizzy, Jada couldn’t draw a breath.

  Frustration welled up on Millicent’s face. “The woman Bodi met at the country inn—she was African American. A pastry chef named Jada, in her twenties at the time. I never learned her surname. Bodi wouldn’t reveal it.” She cut off, gulped down air.

  A perilous silence descended between them. A waitress swept into the room with a handful of breakfast orders. Bacon sizzled on the grill as the cook took the orders from her fist.

  Millicent’s face turned stony. “I believe you know the rest.” She clasped Jada’s wrist. “And I’m begging you. Will you please tell me what you know?”

  Chapter 15

  “It’s okay, Norah. Jada will help me.”

  Taking care not to prick her fingers on stray needles protruding out of the cloth, Fancy balanced the pincushion on her palms. With dainty steps, she moved past the sewing machine and stacks of fabric dominating one end of Penelope’s living room. The dress swished appealingly as she approached. From the kitchen, the rattle of plates announced that Penelope and Linnie were nearly finished preparing dinner.

  Setting her iced tea aside, Jada sat on the floor to complete the task of pinning the two-tier hem. Despite her sorrow over the encounter with Millicent that morning, she managed to put on a cheery front. A necessary precaution. Like most children, Fancy was finely tuned to the emotions of the adults around her.

  Jada tacked a smile on her lips as she carefully pinned the hem. The bottom layer of purple satin fell in a bell-shaped pattern to Fancy’s ankles. Stiff crinoline underneath gave volume. Over the satin, Norah had sewn a layer of shimmering tulle in a scalloped design. The bodice of pale taupe and an oversize bow in back provided elegant touches. The final design was a gown befitting a princess.

&
nbsp; Jada sent the Siren an appreciative glance. “Norah, you’ve outdone yourself. I had no idea you were such a talented seamstress. After you quit walking the New York runways, why didn’t you pursue a career in fashion design?”

  From the kitchen, Linnie shouted, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. If someone had let me in on the secret, I would’ve asked Norah to design my wedding gown.”

  “A bridal gown is more than I can handle,” Norah called back to Linnie. Settling on the couch, she told Jada, “I didn’t pursue a career because my first husband swept me off my feet. Incredible timing—he waltzed into my life right after I quit modeling.”

  “He didn’t want you to work?”

  “Doubtful he would’ve cared either way. He was in international banking. We spent much of our time jetting to Europe and Asia.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’ve traveled the world.” Jada was glad for an uplifting stroll through Norah’s fascinating past. A better choice than silently ruing the way she’d let Millicent down. “How did you end up in Sweet Lake?”

  “Husband number four. He wanted to leave the rat race behind and retire in the country.”

  Fancy wrinkled her nose. “You sure like a lot of boys.” At the tender age of six, she made no attempt to hide her disapproval.

  Norah waved off the censure. “One day soon you’ll revise your opinion regarding boys. When you do, I shall remind you of a time when you found them all despicable—except your father and Uncle Daniel. You will not be amused when I remind you.”

  “I hate boys.”

  “A passing phase. One day, you’ll find a boy you can’t live without.”

  Lifting her shoulders to her ears, Fancy channeled her singsong voice. “I don’t think so.”

  Grinning, Jada instructed her to hold still. She started pinning up the hem for the satin layer. “We still have to discuss your shoes for the wedding,” she reminded Fancy. “We can’t wait forever.”

  “Why can’t I wear my purple sandals? I love them.”

  “Linnie bought three new pairs of shoes for you to choose from. Once you decide, she’ll return the others to the store.” The taupe ballerina slippers were Jada’s favorite, but she knew not to interfere with a big-girl decision. “You promised to pick shoes this week. Forget about the sandals, and anything else from your dress-up wardrobe. You must pick one of the pairs of new shoes for the wedding.”