The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship

by Shirley Jump

  “You girls were young,” her mother said. “What would have happened if I broke down?”

  “We would have known you cared,” Bridget said. That we weren’t alone. That it was okay to fall apart once in a while. That we didn’t always have to put on the “I’m just fine” face and keep chugging forward. “That Dad dying broke your heart as much as it did ours.”

  Her mother pursed her lips. “Grieving is best done in private.”

  Bridget sighed. Her mother was an impenetrable wall. Why did she even bother trying to carve out a chink? Bridget grabbed the last leftover chocolate peanut butter cake and closed it in a box. “I gotta go.”

  “Look at those bills,” her mother called behind her. “You’ll be glad you did.”

  Bridget got in her car, started the engine, and turned left, toward home. Toward bills and voice mails and questions. That rip tide was still pulling at Bridget, trying to drag her away from the safety of shore. Her throat tightened, and every breath seemed harder to draw.

  What she needed, more than a drink, more than a check, was that steady voice of calm and reason that had eased her nerves before her first day of school and the time she fell off her bike and when a hurricane blew through Massachusetts. Her father, holding her tight and whispering in her ear.

  You are strong, Bridget. And when you don’t feel strong, rely on your sisters.

  The bills could wait.

  A half mile down the road, Bridget came to a stoplight, and instead of staying in the middle lane to go straight, she darted into the left lane, making a squealing U-turn and earning a honking ragefest from the drivers behind her.

  She drove through Dorchester, past the brick buildings that cemented Codman Square, and down Norfolk to the edge of Mattapan. Just two miles from the center of Dorchester, the town had separated itself from its neighbor in the nineteenth century. The ads for jerk chicken and sushi and chili dogs spoke for the ethnic melting pot that made up quirky, unique Mattapan. The town was as colorful as its inhabitants, bright yellow restaurants nestled beside orange apartment buildings and blue gas stations.

  Bridget turned onto a small side street and wrangled her way into a parallel parking space. On the corner sat a three-story brick building, a converted mill with palladium windows and a silent towering smokestack.

  She debated for a long time, keys in hand, then finally grabbed the box, got out of the car and ducked into the building, past a woman walking out with a Pomeranian dressed in a purple raincoat. The stairwell smelled faintly of Indian food and burnt popcorn. As she emerged on the third floor, she heard the muffled sounds of an argument.

  Bridget tightened her grip on her keys, even though she was alone in the hall. At the door for 3-B, she pressed the doorbell and waited. The low sound of the TV went mute, followed by the soft patter of footsteps on the wooden floor, the snicking of a trio of locks unlatched, and then the door opened.

  Abby stood on the other side wearing a pair of dark blue fleece sweatpants, a BU sweatshirt, and a pair of Mickey Mouse socks. Her hair was shorter now, colored a black so dark that it shimmered in the light. Abby’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. “Bridge.”

  “Hey, Abby.” That was all Bridget had. She’d come here with no plan, no agenda. And as the voices down the hall rose in volume, becoming shouts, Bridget began to wonder why she’d come here at all.

  “Sorry. The Joliettes are fighting again,” Abby said. “It’ll be over faster than it started, and then they’ll be having crazy, loud makeup sex.”

  “Oh.” Bridget wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  The discomfort stretched between them, with neither saying a word. The Joliettes went on arguing, but all Bridget could catch were snatches of the conversation. You never tell me…I can’t talk to you…why is the chicken burned? The quintessential American love story—after the vows were exchanged.

  “You…uh, want to come in?” Abby said finally.

  “I just came by for a second. To see how you’re doing.”

  “You drove through Boston, during rush hour, to stop by for a second?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

  Abby laughed. “Well, at least you haven’t changed. As brutally honest as ever.”

  Three years of harsh words, still clutched in a tight fist between them. She could turn around and leave, go back the way she came. Her shoes, flat, easy Keds broken in by years of wear, half turned toward the stairwell.

  She shifted the box in her hands. “I…I brought cake.”

  “From the bakery?” Abby licked her lips and drew in a breath. The scent of chocolate and peanut butter danced on the air, a note above the Indian food cooking down the hall. “I haven’t had cake from there in…forever.”

  “I know.” Bridget held the white cardboard box between them like a peace offering. And maybe it was—dessert to smooth this rubble-filled path.

  “May I?” When Bridget nodded, Abby leaned forward, untied the red string, and peeled back the white lid. She rose on her toes and peered into the box. “Oh my God, that looks amazing. Did you bake it?”

  “Yeah.” Bridget let out a long sigh. Yes, she’d returned to the bakery, even though she’d vowed a hundred times never to go back to work there. They’ll hurt you, babe, Jim had said.

  But in the end, Jim had been the one to hurt her. By dying too soon and spending too much. “Turns out Jim didn’t have any life insurance, and I…don’t have any money, so I went back to work. I even had to borrow from Ma.”

  Abby grimaced. “Oh man. Did that make you feel like you were seventeen again?”

  “Yep. Complete with the lectures.” Bridget rolled her eyes. “God, I half expected her to give me a curfew.”

  Abby laughed. The commonality of dealing with Ma narrowed the gap between them by a millimeter. Then Abby sobered and took a step back. “Well, thank you. For the cake, and for coming by.”

  The door was going to shut. Bridget’s Keds still pointed toward the exit, to the land of Avoidance and Procrastination she’d been in for so long. When had she become this woman afraid of confrontation? Who walked away and acquiesced?

  She’d done it for so long now that she couldn’t seem to find another way. It seemed easier to sidestep the issues than to tackle them, a skill she’d perfected in her marriage. Keep going forward, stuffing the feelings and fears into some dark place, because leaving them in the light meant dealing with them. Only when her mother infuriated her did some of the old Bridget arise—the woman who had been strong and confident and opinionated. But now she stood in Abby’s hall, forcing herself to stand in place instead of bolting for the exit.

  Abby bit her upper lip, and her green eyes glistened. Was she feeling the same as Bridget? Unsure if she should take the risk to reach out? Afraid of being hurt? Rejected?

  “Bridge…” Abby’s voice trailed off, and a pained look filled her face. In that moment, Bridget could see the younger sister who had crawled into her bed on a stormy night, clutching her favorite blanket. Abby had curled up on Bridget’s pillow and listened to Bridget make up stories about pirates and princesses and mermaids until the storm passed and the skies calmed.

  Hadn’t enough time gone by? Was she really going to hold this grudge for almost half a decade, like her mother had with Aunt Mary? Or let the storm play out until they finally got to the other side of calm?

  “You came but you didn’t stay,” Bridget blurted out, the hurt rolling through her syllables. “I thought of all days, you’d…you’d be there for me.”

  Abby dipped her head, and a black wing of hair swung in front of her eyes. “Yeah. About that…I’m sorry. I should have been. It was just…with everyone there, I chickened out and I didn’t want to cause a scene at the funeral. So I left, and I meant to come by and see you and talk to you, but I was afraid…”

  “Afraid I wouldn’t open the door.”

  Abby nodded. Bridget nodded too. She knew that fear. It was what had kept her from going to apart
ment 3-B for three years.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Abs, and frankly, I couldn’t care less who said what or why or when.” Three years apart, and she realized she truly didn’t care why she and Abby had stopped talking. She didn’t care about Abby’s lifestyle—hell, she’d never cared about that. What Abby had said at the wedding still stung, but Jim was gone, and maybe none of that mattered.

  Either way, they were a family. Families fought, families hurt each other, but families also made up, and it was high time Bridget did that with Abby.

  She took a step closer to her sister. “If I’ve learned anything these last few months, Abby, it’s that life is short, and I don’t give a shit about some argument we had. I just…” Bridget drew in a breath and thought of those nights after Dad died when she and Abby had whispered across the small divide between their beds, of that nervous opening night of the school play when Abby had told Bridget a silly joke, of all the times Abby had been there, and all the times Abby hadn’t and Bridget had wished she was. “I miss my sister.”

  “Oh, Bridge, I miss you too.” Abby’s eyes flooded but still held that wary edge, like a stray afraid of being abandoned again. “But you know, you have two spare sisters. You don’t need me.”

  “I need all three of you. But especially you. We were so close, Abs. Best friends. I…I don’t know what to do without you in my life. I need you to be there to yell at me or hug me, or tell me to stop watching so much Netflix.”

  Abby parked her fists on her hips and feigned a glare. “Stop watching so much Netflix.”

  Bridget laughed, and her feet shifted toward the door, toward her sister. “Remember when Charlie Phillips broke up with me? You came home and found me sitting on the floor of our room, eating directly out of a tub of—”

  “Breyer’s Rocky Road,” Abby said.

  “I’d eaten probably half of it, sobbing all over my spoon. You got down, took the spoon away, and—”

  “Told you to stop hogging all the ice cream because chances were one of us was gonna have a bad day and need it.” Abby shook her head, a smile on her lips. “I forgot all about that until you mentioned it.”

  Bridget shrugged and gave Abby a crooked smile. “Sometimes we just need a sister to show up at the right time.”

  Abby’s smile trembled. “Yeah, sometimes we do.”

  The Joliettes had stopped screaming. Silence for a moment, then the slam of a door. Abby glanced across the hall and motioned behind her. “Uh…unless you want to hear Mr. Joliette telling Mrs. Joliette what he wants to do to her in graphic Italian, you should come in. Jessie’s here, and I’d like you to meet her.”

  This wasn’t just Abby opening the door and letting Bridget into her apartment; it was her letting her sister into her life, into the world she had kept secret from everyone else. The significance wasn’t lost on Bridget. “I’d like that.”

  Abby led Bridget into the apartment, glancing back every few seconds as if to make sure she was still following. The third-floor apartment had two-story ceilings, hardwood floors, and two palladium windows that started at the molding and stretched up ten feet. There was a window seat across from the white granite kitchen and a bright spray of red tulips on the counter. The entire space was light and bright, minimalist yet welcoming.

  A blonde sat on one of the bar stools, her long hair swung across her face like a curtain while she read the paper. She looked up at Bridget’s entrance and smiled. She had a wide smile, with a slight gap between her front teeth. Her gaze flicked to Abby’s, and the look in her eyes softened, the smile brightened, before she turned her attention back and put out a hand. “You must be Bridget.”

  “And you must be Jessie.” Bridget extended her right hand, balancing the box in the other. The two other women exchanged another glance, and in that second, Bridget saw one thing—

  Love.

  It was the way their shoulders relaxed, their smiles eased, their eyes held. Something private and deep charged the air between them, and for a moment, Bridget was jealous. Had anyone ever looked at her like that?

  She brushed off the thought. Her marriage to Jim may not have been lovey-dovey, and certainly hadn’t been perfect, but it had been happy for a time.

  A whisper started in the back of her mind. If he loved you and was so happy, then why didn’t you know about the life insurance? The bank balance? If you loved each other and were so happy, why were you thinking of—

  No. Jim was dead. Thinking about those things led nowhere good.

  “So, what do you do for work, Jessie?” The most inane question ever, but it silenced those whispers.

  “I’m a literature professor at Brown,” she said. “Specifically literature of the eighteenth century.”

  Bridget thought of the last book she’d read. Somehow, admitting she’d gotten swept up in the latest Stephen King novel didn’t sound so impressive. “Sounds like a great job. I work part-time for the Globe. I have a column on baking that runs every Sunday.”

  “I’ve seen it.” Jessie nodded toward Abby. “Abby’s shown me. She’s quite proud of you.”

  “Really?”

  Abby shrugged. “Yeah.”

  That surprised Bridget. She’d often wondered if, in those years when Abby had cut them off, she’d also cut off her family in her heart and mind. She turned to her sister. “And I hear you’re doing great things at Williams-Sonoma.”

  “It’s sales. Not rocket science.”

  “You added a Cooking with Abby workshop every weekend. I saw it listed in the paper. I thought of going, but…”

  “You should have,” Abby said.

  “Yeah,” Bridget said softly. “I should have.”

  A moment of silence extended between them, built on a tenuous, fragile moment. Jessie glanced at Bridget and Abby and then got to her feet. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m dying to try some of this cake. It looks amazing.”

  “If Bridget baked it, I guarantee it’s going to be the best cake you’ve ever eaten.” Abby pulled a knife out of one of the drawers and grabbed three dessert plates. She sliced up the cake, and the three of them sat around the bar and dug in.

  Bridget watched her sister eat that first bite. Anticipating. Hoping.

  Abby’s eyes closed, and she let out a soft moan. “Oh my God, this is so good,” she said. “You have no idea how much I miss working there and being your taste tester.”

  Jessie took her own first bite, and the reaction mirrored Abby’s. Her brows arched in surprise. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about it being the best cake I’ve ever eaten. I could literally eat just this for the rest of my life.”

  Abby laughed. “Try working at the bakery. It was so tempting to just stuff our faces every day.”

  Bridget speared a bite of cake with her fork. It wasn’t perfect—she’d lost a little of her touch and would need to tweak the moistness of the batter—but it was damned good, if she did say so herself. “Why don’t you come back? Ma’s buying the bread from somewhere else, and I know she’s not making much, if any, profit off of it.”

  “Bridge, it’s not as easy as just walking back in, and you know it. I threw your wedding cake across the room and told Ma off in front of the entire family. Not to mention, I called you a bitch and told you that you were marrying a cheating asshole. I think I burned that bridge.” Abby shook her head. “No, I nuked it.”

  Jessie glanced at Abby. Some unspoken communication whispered between them. Jessie nodded and picked up her plate. “I’m going to eat this out on the balcony. It’s such a gorgeous day.”

  When Jessie had gone outside, Bridget pushed her plate away. She’d lost the desire for the cake. “She’s nice.”

  A slow smile curved across Abby’s face, and her gaze strayed to Jessie, sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs, her knees drawn up to her chest. “She’s incredible. She dragged me back from the edge when I was…in a really bad spot.”

  “I’m glad.” Bridget steepled her hands and studied the gold flecks
in the white granite. They sparkled and danced in the glow from the overhead lights, almost like they were winking at her. “You and I really fucked things up, didn’t we?”

  “No, I did. I never should have gone off like that.”

  “I never should have threatened to tell everyone about you. I got so mad when you said that about Jim, and I just…lost it.”

  That whispering voice in her head wondered if Abby had been right. If Jim had loosened the reins on the budget and checkbook, Bridget would have seen this financial sinkhole coming. She could have prepared. Spent less. Saved more.

  Don’t believe them, Jim had said a thousand times. They’re just jealous of what we have. How you and I can be an island unto ourselves.

  Now Bridget was stranded on that island, and the only lifeboat she could take was attached to her mother. In her head, she cursed Jim for not telling her, for leaving her in the dark. But the truth was, she’d been in the dark about Jim and her marriage for a long time before he died.

  “I think you’re brave, Abby,” Bridget said. “You’re living your life, true to who you are. Sometimes I wonder if I truly did that. Ever.”

  “But I am chicken, Bridget,” Abby said. “I haven’t told anyone in the family about Jessie. In fact, we’re supposed to get married in a couple months. Now she’s put it all on hold until I tell my family about her.”

  “You’re getting married?”

  Abby held up her left hand. A square-cut diamond surrounded by tiny rubies sparkled back. “Yup.”

  Bridget leaned over and drew Abby into a hug. Her sister smelled of orange blossoms and almonds, the same shampoo she had used for as long as Bridget could remember. It made her think of that last time, when Abby had been crying and Bridget had hugged her, and how much she had missed that scent over the years. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Are you really?”

  Bridget drew back. Abby’s green eyes swam, and Bridget’s heart broke for all the hurts they had piled onto each other, all the words they hadn’t said, all the years they had missed. “I saw how you looked at her when I came in. And how she looked at you.” A tiny bit of envy ran through her, and for the hundredth time in the months since Jim died, she wondered if she’d convinced herself of a reality that had never quite existed. She’d been too busy looking at the primroses to notice the weeds right in front of her. “You know, I thought I knew everything when I got married. I thought I could tell other people about love and forever and finding the right person. But not once in my married life did Jim ever look at me like that, and I don’t think I ever looked at him that way either.”