The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship

by Shirley Jump

  “I have this hummingbird in my yard, and I wanted to feed him,” Bridget said. Because she really did need help and she wasn’t about to chirp. She hadn’t felt chirpy in a long time, hell, maybe ever.

  “Hummingbirds are something I know a little about. Blue jays and wrens, not so much, which is why I’m hedging my bets with a double purchase.” The man held up the two different feeders in his hands. “My mom is into birds and I thought I’d get her something for her birthday. She’s got me out there almost every day, helping her fill those feeders. I swear she keeps half the bird population of Dorchester from starving. She says none of us gave her any grandkids, so she’s got to love something.” He shook his head. “I’m rambling on, answering questions you didn’t even ask.”

  “Well, if I ever want to know about blue jays and wrens, I’ll”—Bridget smiled—”ask your mom.”

  He laughed, a hearty, deep laugh that seemed to well up from inside him. “That’s the smartest option. But you mentioned hummingbirds. Those I can help you with. When we were kids, she had a lot of hummingbirds in the house we had on Upland Avenue, and it was my job to fill the feeders twice a week.”

  She looked closer at him. He was about her age, with salt and pepper hair and dark green eyes, but nothing that spoke of acquaintance. Dorchester’s neighborhoods were mini small towns, everyone stacked on top of each other in towering triple deckers that lined the streets like pale tin soldiers. But this guy didn’t look like anyone she remembered. “You grew up on Upland? I lived on Park. My mom still has the house there.”

  That smile again. “We were neighbors.”

  “You don’t look familiar.”

  “Ah, probably because I was shipped off to Roxbury Latin for school.”

  The all-boys school in West Roxbury was rated as one of the top five private schools in the Boston area. It was one hell of a step up from the noisy, crowded public schools Bridget and her sisters had attended. She wondered how his parents had afforded the tuition.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.” He put one of the bird feeders on a nearby shelf and then extended his right hand. “Garrett Andrews.”

  She shook his hand and realized it was the first time she had touched a man since her husband had died. It was weird, but nice too. Garrett had a firm, warm handshake, over a second after it began. “Bridget Masterson…uh, O’Bannon. No, Masterson.”

  His grin quirked. “Are you in WitSec or something?”

  “WitSec?”

  “Witness protection. Considering you’ve forgotten your last name.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that. I just…well, my husband just died and well…” She shook her head. Why was she telling a perfect stranger all of this?

  “I’m sorry.” His gaze softened. “My wife died two years ago. When something like that happens, it’s as if your entire identity is ripped away. Who are you, when you’re just one of a half?”

  “Exactly,” she murmured, and then turned back to the feeders. “So…hummingbirds?”

  He took the change of subject in stride. He stepped forward and waved a hand across the displays, like one of the models on The Price Is Right. “Okay, you have a few options here. Your standard hourglass shape with the red base, which I don’t recommend because bees and wasps are attracted to these little yellow decorative flowers. And it doesn’t have much in terms of a rain or ant guard.”

  “I have to worry about all those things?”

  “No. Just get a feeder that does it for you.” He picked up two other boxes. “How many hummingbirds do you have coming to your yard?”

  “I’ve only seen one. I think it’s the same one.”

  “Could be. They can be pretty friendly little things.” He held up the first box. “This one hangs from a copper swing and has a weather shield. That’s really just a plastic umbrella. You can put it in a tree—”

  “I don’t have a tree close to the house. Is there something I can put on the window maybe? He seems to really like my kitchen window.”

  “This one would be great for that.” Garrett handed her another box. A quartet of happy hummingbirds swarmed the feeder while a family watched from inside, all wearing delighted smiles. Buy the Window Wonder Feeder, the box said, and your family will be entertained for hours! “It’s got a weather guard, a removable ant moat, and holds eight ounces of nectar.”

  She turned the box over. “Nectar?”

  “Hummingbirds drink sugar water. You can make it yourself or”—he gave her a long glance—“if you’re not up to that yet, this stuff is already mixed.”

  She took the red liter bottle from him and scanned the label. “I just pour this in and that’s it?”

  “Well, not exactly. You have to clean the feeder a couple times a week. Wash it well, so it doesn’t get any mold in it. Then refill it and check it every day or so to make sure there’s still some nectar in there.”

  She had yet to get her act together enough to do laundry. The whole thing seemed daunting, overwhelming. “That seems like a lot to worry about. Maybe I should forget it. Or wait until a better time.” She reached to place it back on the shelf.

  Garrett put a hand on the box, stopping her. “I know right now that even the simple act of picking out a shirt to wear takes more mental energy than you think you have.”

  Her eyes started to burn. She flicked her gaze to the tiled floor.

  “But this will be good for you.” Garrett covered her hand with his own. His touch was tender, understanding. Like they were the only two in the world who knew this foreign language of widowhood. She didn’t move her hand, not right away. For a second, she let the empathy wash over her, rush in to fill the gaping holes in her mind.

  “I don’t know.” She slid her hand out of his, pretending she needed to brush a hair off her forehead.

  “I do.” He reached in his jacket pocket with one hand and then slid a business card between her fingers. “There’s my number. Text me, email me, call me, any time of day, if you want any tips on hummingbirds or if you just want to talk about how this whole thing sucks.”

  “I…I…”

  “I’m not trying to hit on you. I’m trying to help.” He gave her that smile again and nudged the box toward her chest. “Buy the feeder. Hang it up. Because it’s okay to let a living thing depend on you again, Bridget.”

  EIGHT

  Colleen O’Bannon folded dry dishtowels neatly into thirds, pressing the edges down with her hands as she stacked them on the kitchen table. When she was done, she pulled freshly laundered curtains out of the basket and started ironing them.

  She told herself this was long-overdue spring cleaning, but she knew the washing and folding and ironing was much more. Cleaning and pressing allayed the worries in Colleen’s gut, pushing them to the side for a moment.

  The dinner the other night had been a disaster. After Bridget left, everyone else had hurried through the meal and petered out soon after. What Colleen had envisioned as a nice evening, a way to bring Bridget out of that self-imposed prison she had created in her house, had ended up as a giant mess.

  Bridget didn’t understand. Didn’t see how easy it could be to slip away from your life and let the shadow of a tragedy blank out everything else. To take one bottle of wine to bed one night and then, just a week later, be sneaking two into the bedroom. And still not finding peace in that cold, empty space.

  Colleen hung the pressed pair of white cotton curtains on the rod above the kitchen window and then turned back. Her gaze landed on the empty spots at the table. First, the one at the head where her Michael had always sat, then to each of the other four chairs, once filled with four daughters who kept her house full of lively chatter and bright laughter.

  Abby is alive and well and the one who should be here.

  Bridget’s words haunted the edges of Colleen’s thoughts. A sense of failure filled her whenever she thought of Abby, the daughter who had walked out of her life three years ago and stayed away.

  Colleen suppos
ed she should reach out. But in her mind, she saw nothing she had done wrong. She’d merely tried to help her daughter, and Abby had rebelled like a toddler refusing to eat broccoli. If anyone needed to apologize, it was Abigail.

  Colleen ran her hand along the back of the chair, and for a second, she could see Abby’s short brown hair, hear her infectious laughter, see her telling a story with hands that waved as wild as a storm. Abby, so unlike her sisters, her mother. Closest to the father the girls had lost too young. Was that when Abby had begun to pull away?

  Colleen prided herself on treating her four daughters the same. Certainly, she’d had high expectations, but what mother didn’t? The girls should know everything she had done, everything she was doing today, was for their own good.

  When a twig grows hard, it is difficult to twist it. How many times had she heard her mother say those words? A soft upbringing would have left her girls unprepared for life. Yes, she’d done the right thing. And someday, Abby would appreciate that. Bridget too.

  Colleen gave the chair a final tap and turned back to the ironing. The pile towered over the laundry basket, hours of work that would probably last until Colleen’s legs began to wobble. Maybe it would be enough.

  NINE

  The chocolate cake had squashed down into itself in the center of the round pan like a rejected lump of coal. Flour, sugar, and cocoa powder speckled Bridget’s granite countertops, coated the white stand mixer, and dusted the floor. The acrid smell of burned batter hung in the air, reluctant to leave even after Bridget had opened two windows.

  She checked the bird feeder, and it was as full today as it had been the day before, and all the days before that. Even the hummingbird had given up on her ability to make food.

  For weeks, Bridget had been feeling…unhinged. Lost. Her husband was gone, her life was a mess, and she couldn’t even manage to feed a bird smaller than the palm of her hand.

  Bridget yanked a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, uncorked it, and took a long gulp straight from the amber neck, telling herself eleven was the new five o’clock. She perched on the edge of a bar stool, clutching the bottle with both hands.

  And cried.

  Beside her, the answering machine kept blinking larger and larger red numbers. Deadlines for her column had come and gone, several times over. The stack of mail had grown three inches. On top of the pile of unpaid bills sat one opened envelope and the half-read letter inside. Instead of dealing with all of it, Bridget tossed a dishtowel over the whole mess and took another swig of wine.

  “What the holy hell did you do?”

  Bridget turned and saw Nora standing in the kitchen, holding a bright red Tupperware container. “Baked a cake.” The words hung off the edge of a sob.

  Nora took two steps forward and peered down at the mess on top of the stove. Her nose wrinkled. “It looks more like a football that got run over by a school bus.”

  “Probably tastes like that too.” Bridget took another swig of wine and let out a long breath. Was this what her life had come to? Drinking in the morning and crying over ruined baked goods? “I think I forgot how to bake, Nora.”

  Her sister’s green eyes softened, and a smile curved across her face. “Nah, you just forgot the baking powder.” She pivoted, pulled open the pantry door, retrieved a small container, and held it up.

  “How do you know I forgot that?”

  “Because you, dear sister, may be an amazing baker, but you pretty much create a crime scene every time you make anything.” Nora swept her hand over the dishes and ingredients scattered down the long counter. “I see everything but baking powder in this…mess.”

  Bridget sniffled. Good Lord, her kitchen should be condemned. She was a mess, in more ways than her countertops. She thought over the steps in making the cake earlier. “You’re right. I did forget it. I guess I thought I knew the recipe by heart and…didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re entitled to forget something once in a while. You’ve had a stressful few weeks.”

  Bridget snorted. “You can say that again.” Maybe she should be easier on herself, lower her expectations and stop feeling so stressed by the lawn and the bills. Her husband had died only two months ago. Life didn’t automatically restart after something like that.

  “Not to mention how you pissed off Ma.” Nora let out a low whistle. “No lie, she’s wicked pissed. Still.”

  Which was why Bridget hadn’t checked her messages or her texts. She’d heard the pings stacking up, one after another. In the weeks since that debacle of a dinner, her mother had left a steady stream of messages, all saying pretty much the same thing: You better call and apologize to your mother or you’re going to be struck by lightning. “Maybe that means she’ll stay out of my life for five minutes.”

  Nora snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve never known Ma to stay out of any of our lives for five seconds.”

  Bridget’s gaze went to the window. The primroses waved their happy white faces, barely visible now above the overgrown lawn. A few months ago, she’d thought she had her life all figured out. Her future as aligned and neat as the flowerbeds. In an instant, all that had changed, the straight lines dissolving into wavy, blurred routes that all seemed to lead nowhere. “What am I going to do, Nora?”

  For years, Bridget had lived on this island of just her and Jim. But the last two months had left her adrift, lost, craving the bonds she’d had when she was young. The four O’Bannon girls, always together, walking to school like a gaggle of geese, crowding around a jigsaw puzzle and whispering in one of their rooms long after lights-out.

  Nora took Bridget’s palm and closed her fist over the box of baking powder. The sisters’ gazes met and held. “All you have to do is start over.”

  “What if I can’t? What if—”

  “What-ifs are like bees in a hive,” Nora said. “All they do is keep on buzzing so you don’t notice the sweet honey of life.”

  Bridget laughed. Nora had said just the right thing to yank Bridget off the edge of a good self-pity party. How many times had she heard those words when she was young? They hadn’t quite made sense then, and they still didn’t now, but the saying brought a wash of warm memories with it. “Gramma had some weird sayings, didn’t she?”

  “Weirdly true, and weirdly still in our heads three decades later like one of those earworm songs. You can’t worry about the what-ifs, Bridge. They’ll only drive you batshit crazy. Trust me, I know.”

  A hint of something more lingered in Nora’s words. Bridget tried to reach for it, but her brain was still a muddy thing, and she let it go. Maybe all the wine was making her overanalyze things.

  Nora slid onto the second bar stool and plunked the Tupperware on the counter. “And in the meantime, while you’re trying not to worry, I brought comfort food.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s another casserole. I could feed all of Ethiopia with what’s in my fridge.”

  “Nope.” Nora peeled back the lid. “Kraft macaroni and cheese.”

  Bridget grinned and inhaled the warm scent of pasta drenched in cheddar cheese sauce. In an instant, she was taken back twenty-plus years. “Oh my God. The forbidden fruit.”

  “Still the best mac and cheese in the world, though if Ma ever found out we said that, she’d have a nervous breakdown and cut us out of the will.” Nora tipped the container in Bridget’s direction. “Want some?”

  The boxed macaroni was shiny and tempting in all its powdered, processed, fake yellow goodness. Bridget couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged. Jim had seen some documentary on food one day and pronounced they would no longer eat boxed or canned food. Within a week, Bridget had been so sick of salads that she’d snuck out to Taco Bell and devoured four steak wraps in the parking lot, hunched over in her front seat like a heroin addict.

  “Hell, yes, I want some of that.” Bridget grabbed two forks, handing one to Nora. They dug in at the same time, as if they were nine and seven again and sharing Hillary Colber
t’s lunch in the shadows of the brick elementary school.

  They sat like that for a moment, eating in silence, until the container was half empty. “God, that stuff is good. Still my favorite meal, even if it comes out of a box.”

  “Mine too. I blame it all on Ma not letting us eat school lunch,” Nora said. “Maybe if we’d had more junk food, we would have appreciated the homemade manicotti she packed in our lunchboxes.”

  “Homemade manicotti in your lunch box is never cool,” Bridget said. “I always felt like such a dork.”

  “Thank God Hillary’s mom could barely cook.” Nora swallowed a bite of the yellow pasta, then got up, retrieved two glasses, and divvied up the wine. “She was more than happy to take our lunches and give us hers.”

  “I still think we got the better end of the deal.” Bridget ate another giant bite of macaroni and cheese. It settled in her stomach like a warm blanket, comforting, familiar. “So, why are you here, besides checking on my baking failure?”

  Nora fiddled with her fork. “I…I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what?”

  “I was an ass when you came into the bakery two months ago, and I should have said I was sorry earlier. I’ve just been…stressed. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard to come back.” Nora sighed. “God, some days I think I’m just like Ma.”

  “First, you are not at all like her. And second, there’s nothing to forgive. I was just as much at fault for telling you off. I’m just…a mess right now.” Bridget swirled the wine, watching the amber liquid roll and tumble in the goblet. That ache for her sisters grew but she knew she wasn’t going to ease that—or mend the fences between them—unless she started to open up. “Turns out you were right. I kinda need to get my shit together and find a better job than a column that barely pays enough to buy groceries.”