by Melody Anne
“Have a seat, dear,” she says, tapping a chair like she’s patting out dough for scones.
I roll my eyes, grab a yogurt, and kick the fridge door closed before dropping into the spot next to her.
“So, how angry is he?” I say, peeling back the foil lid, careful not to tear it. I mold it into a U-shape, creating a makeshift spoon. It’s easier than dirtying a utensil. Plus it’s economical. And maybe there’s a teeny-tiny part of me that wants to goad Sullivan Grace with my poor table manners.
“What were you thinking, Lillie?” she says, adjusting the Rolex adorning her slender wrist. “Jackson is beside himself. I haven’t seen him this upset since—” She cuts herself off, the words she didn’t say—since your mother left—floating between us.
Stifling a grin, I imagine my father huffing around the diner, the vein popping out of his forehead, hollering about how I’m grounded to a month of potato-peeling duty for this stunt. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. It’s still a dessert with peaches in it,” I say, then scoop some yogurt into my mouth.
Sullivan Grace presses her lips in a thin line and tugs at her pearl necklace as she watches me slurp down my breakfast. Even when she’s angry, she’s still a picture of poise and grace. “That isn’t what this is about, dear. You know how particular Jackson is about his Blue Plate Specials. You can’t change something that important without discussing it with him first. The regulars plan their week around those dishes. Several patrons even walked out this morning when they discovered there wasn’t any cobbler.”
“Did anyone even taste the strudel? People may like it better,” I ask, licking off a strawberry chunk stuck to the foil spoon.
Sighing, Sullivan Grace shakes her head, her expertly blown-out hair swishing with the movement. “I understand you have some . . . reservations about the diner and the Upper Crust,” she says, crossing her legs at the ankle, “but I think it would be in everyone’s best interest to resolve those lingering issues as soon as possible. Your disrespectful behavior simply won’t suit. All this added stress is bad for Jackson’s well-being.”
My chest tightens. “I would never intentionally hurt my father or do anything that would threaten his health. Never. I’m aware that he’s getting older, that he’s sick,” I say, recalling the harsh sound of his cough, his run-down appearance, the limp in his step. “But you know what my mother did, how she just tossed aside her family as if we were nothing. Why would you or my father want me to compete with her peach cobbler recipe? How could you both be so cruel as to expect that? Because it doesn’t make sense to me.” There it is—the crux of the issue. What I desperately need explained.
I cut my gaze away, out the kitchen window. At the house across the street a little girl is learning how to ride a bicycle. Straddling the rear wheel, an older man with white hair and bushy eyebrows slowly guides her forward until she gains enough momentum to pedal on her own.
When I look back at Sullivan Grace, her eyes have softened. A sad kind of smile flits across her face. She squeezes my hand, and to my surprise, there’s a tenderness in her touch I’ve never felt before. A lump forms in my throat.
“You really haven’t figured it out yet have you, dear?” Her voice is sincere but also cautious. “I thought by now you’d realize this isn’t about Elizabeth. It’s about you, your life, the choices you’re making. Jackson only wants what’s best for you, and it’s time you accept—”
She’s interrupted by my cell phone vibrating on the table between us. Thomas Brandon’s name flashes across the screen. Crap. With all the insanity that happened yesterday I didn’t send him the sales forecasts and market analyses I promised.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hasell, but I need to take this call. It’s important.” Swiping the phone off the table, I rush out of the kitchen. “Hello, Mr. Brandon,” I say, the stairs moaning under my feet as I climb them two at a time.
“My inbox is still empty,” he barks, once again jumping over basic pleasantries.
Always one to state the obvious.
“Yes, I know. I apologize,” I say, stealing into my room and booting up my laptop. “There were several circumstances beyond my control that prevented me from submitting the information you requested in a timely fashion. You’ll have everything by close of business today.”
“I’ll be frank. Your recent mishaps are not instilling much confidence,” he says in his normal no-nonsense voice. “I’m rather concerned about your dedication to this project, and if you’re treating it with the seriousness that it deserves.”
Irritation floods through me. After everything I’ve sacrificed for this job—the long hours and late nights I’ve spent at the office, the weekends and holidays I’ve given up—the least he could do is grant me an iota of leeway. I’m well aware I haven’t been putting forth the effort required to successfully execute the Kingsbury Enterprises account, but it’s not as if I’ve been purposely slacking. Since arriving in Dallas everything has been all twisted around. Sure, I could have returned to my father’s house after leaving the diner yesterday to complete the items for the product launch instead of attending trivia night, but I think I’m allowed a break every once in a while, a night off to hang out with friends I haven’t seen in five years.
“I assure you, Mr. Brandon, that isn’t the case,” I say in my most professional tone. “The Kingsbury Enterprises account is my number-one priority.”
Except, even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. Already my mind is spinning with thoughts of my father and his surgery, Sullivan Grace and the Upper Crust, Nick and all our history and . . . well, Nick—really, what the heck was that kiss at the Tipsy Teakettle? I shiver as I remember his hoarse voice in my ear: Fuck, you feel good. I shake my head. We’d been caught up in the moment and the memories. That’s all.
“You’re one of my top performers, Lillie, which is the only reason I’m not ripping you off this project right now. If something like this happens again, you’re done and Ben will take over. I’ve told you what’s at stake for you and the firm. You’ve been warned.” Thomas Brandon says this in a way I assume is meant to sound threatening, but rather, reminds me of everything I’ve been striving toward, everything I have to lose. “Now in addition to the items you owe me, I need you to prepare a presentation outlining the various branding strategies we’ve developed.”
I spout off a string of “Yes, sir” and “I understand” and “I’ll get it all to you right away,” as I tell myself that I’ve worked too hard to jeopardize my career now. Yet after the call ends and I start on the various tasks, the usual thrill and drive I feel when tackling a project are strangely absent.
It doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
“BABY GIRL, WHAT’S this I hear about you makin’ a mess of my pretty office?” My father pokes his head around the doorway, eyes wide as they bounce around the tiny room.
Papers litter the floor. Crowding a corner are cardboard boxes overflowing with three-ring binders that have seen better days, ripped file folders, and grimy office supplies. The rusted, olive-green filing cabinets that used to flank the matching desk have been emptied and thrown in the Dumpster. Standing in their place are the replacements I purchased at Office Depot this afternoon after I sent off the items I owed to Thomas Brandon, along with everything needed to finally organize the diner’s files. I’ve delayed it long enough.
“I’m not making a mess of anything,” I say, crawling over to a dry-foods catalog and flinging it onto a pile. “I’m categorizing.”
“What’s the purpose of all them dots?” he says, pointing to the stickers beside my feet.
“I’m developing a color-coded filing system for you,” I say. “Yellow dots are for daily sales figures. Green dots are for purchase orders. Red dots are for employee payroll information. Black dots are for distributor and supplier invoices. Blue dots—”
“Now hold your horses, baby girl,” my father says, stepping into the office. “There ain’t nothing wrong
with my old system.”
Blowing strands of hair out of my face, I sit back on my heels and stare incredulously at him.
“Everything was how I liked it before. How am I ever goin’ to find—”
He breaks into another coughing fit, as loud and wet as before, his whole body hunched over. I rush to his side, the spark of worry now a full-fledged flame. He grabs on to me, using my weight to keep his balance, until finally he draws in a ragged breath and the hacking stops.
I wrap an arm around his waist to hold him up. “Dad, that sounds like it’s not getting any better.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine now,” he says, his voice raspy and weak. My father pats my shoulder and straightens his back. “Some episodes are worse than others. This was a bad one.”
“How long have you had that cough?”
He twists his mustache, and wrinkles line his forehead. “I dunno. About five months, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My father scratches his jaw and says, “It’s only become bothersome recently. Plus I knew you’d be coming home for the surgery. No need to worry your pretty little head unnecessarily. I promise I’ll discuss it with Doc, ask if he can adjust my meds again.”
I study him, noticing he seems more rested today, despite the cough. Still, I don’t want to take any chances. “Maybe you should visit the emergency clinic before it shifts into something more serious. There’s one not far from here.”
“I ain’t goin’ there,” he says. “The people at those places don’t know their ass from their elbows. I’m waiting for my appointment on Halloween and that’s that. Now, as I was saying before, how am I ever goin’ to find anything with you messing up my organization?”
I sigh. Always so stubborn.
“How about this,” I say, clearing some space on the floor. “Why don’t you let Ernie deal with the dinner crowd and join me instead? That way after I’m back in Chicago you’ll know where everything is.”
I expect him to tell me no, that his bum knee can’t handle the strain and I’m crazy for even contemplating something other than managing the diner. To my surprise, my father unties the apron, cracks his knuckles, and says, “All righty then. Show me what that one-hundred-thousand-dollar MBA bought you.”
“That’s it? No complaints about my job or Chicago?” It’s weird. I thought I’d be happy about him not challenging me. Maybe it’s that I’ve waited so long for him to accept my life in Chicago, show genuine interest, that now his acquiescence feels underwhelming.
“Baby girl, when are you gonna learn that sometimes it’s easier to placate you than listen to your nagging.” He pinches my nose as if I’m four years old, inviting him to be a guest at my cupcake party.
Rolling my eyes, I slide a stack of purchase orders over to him. For the next few hours we work in tandem, sorting papers and recycling others, marking folders with dot stickers, then filing everything away. I discover that while the diner’s records are disordered and, in some cases, incomplete, it’s not as bad as I originally suspected.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Course you can,” he says, fighting with the plastic on a new package of dot stickers. “You know you can always ask me anything.”
“You used to be so meticulous about everything, the diner, the house, almost to a fault. Now it’s all so . . . run-down.” I gesture to a patch on the wall where paint is peeling away. “What happened?”
My father blows out a breath and says, “I ain’t a spring chicken anymore, baby girl. It’s getting harder for me to keep up with everything, is all. That’s why you’re here, to set me straight as spaghetti.”
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I wish he would’ve told me all this sooner. I could have arranged help for him, ensured he slowed down and didn’t work such long hours slaving in the kitchen.
“Do your old man a favor and help me with this, will you?” He tosses me the now-mangled package of stickers. “It’s the least you can do after that phyllo and peach whatchamacallit disaster.”
“It wasn’t a disaster,” I say, walking over to the desk and rifling around in the drawers for a pair of scissors. “In fact I thought the dessert tasted delicious, even with my bias.” While I finished my tasks for Thomas Brandon, I baked the dish in the fridge and ate several portions of the strudel.
My father grumbles something about how it’s still no peach cobbler.
“So you served it?” I say as I cut through the plastic and hand him back the stickers.
Peeling off a yellow dot, he places it on a folder with last week’s sales figures and says, “Course I did. You left me without much choice after that stunt you pulled. Gotta give the guests something to satisfy their sweet tooth.”
“And they loved it.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, because I know it to be true. “Which is great news, because I’m competing with it for the Upper Crust.” There. It’s out in the open now so it doesn’t surprise him on the day of the event.
My father frowns, the creases around his eyes deepening. “Well, baby girl, I know it’s a dessert that’s got peaches in it, but you’ve always had this talent for creating something from scratch, something that’s uniquely yours. So I don’t know why you’d submit a dish derived from a superior recipe, but that’s your decision, I guess.”
That’s what my father doesn’t understand. Under the confines of the competition guidelines, the deconstructed strudel is something uniquely mine.
It has to be good enough.
FIFTEEN
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I push open the shiny black door to B is for Beholden, Annabelle’s wedding and event planning company. As I step inside, I’m immediately greeted by decadence. A pair of wing chairs and a sofa adorned with Ikat throw pillows welcome clients, and a chevron rug and a faux bamboo coffee table anchor the space.
In an alcove off the main area, Annabelle sits at a white-lacquered desk, stacks of papers, sticky notes, and Red Bull cans cluttering the top. Framing her on each side are two identical desks, though they’re much tidier. They must belong to her assistants, Nora and Ruthie. A phone is propped between Annabelle’s ear and shoulder as her fingers fly across a computer keyboard. She smiles when she sees me holding up a large paper bag from her favorite Tex-Mex joint and motions that she’ll only be a couple more minutes.
While she finishes her conversation, I roam around. Framed accolades from local and national publications hang on walls painted silver sage. Built-in white bookshelves lined with magazines, invitation sample books, and fine-art wedding albums from past events flank a tall doorway that leads to a room brimming with party decor ideas and linens in various textures and patterns.
By the time Annabelle joins me in the main area, I have set up a picnic on the floor using a checkered tablecloth I borrowed from one of the racks.
“Holy hell,” she says, kicking off her heels before flopping down beside me, legs stretched out in front of her. “I’m so hungry I swear the caterer could hear my stomach rumbling through the phone.” Grabbing one of the Styrofoam containers, she opens the lid and inhales the spicy scent of barbacoa tacos. “Thank heavens for chipotle peppers in adobo.” She takes a giant bite as chunks of shredded beef fall out of the corn tortilla.
I laugh as I doctor up my tacos with jicama-mango slaw and guacamole. “I can’t believe how much your place has grown,” I say through a mouthful of food. “It really looks fantastic.”
When Annabelle entered the industry out of college, she worked for Simon Ross, a slave driver who had a wedding planning show on TLC and whose clientele consisted exclusively of Dallas’s most elite, until she gained enough money and experience to break out on her own. At first, she operated the business out of her rental house. But after landing a few high-profile clients and earning a feature in Martha Stewart Weddings, her reputation soared and she was able to make the leap to the Dallas Design District, where she firmly established herself. Now she’s one of the most sought-afte
r wedding and event planners in the area.
“Thanks,” she says, licking her fingers. “We expanded last year, but it’s still too cozy. We’re drowning in clients. I really need to hire another assistant.”
While we eat, we chat about inconsequential things—what we should do for Halloween and the new deep-fried desserts that are all the rage at this year’s Texas State Fair. I fill her in on the big promotion I’m in line for at work. She tells me about how her company is organizing the album release party and private concert at the House of Blues for the Randy Hollis Band and that, of course, I’m invited and must come, no excuses.
I’m scooping some black beans and rice into my mouth when Annabelle catches me off guard and says, “So you and Drew are engaged.”
My stomach drops as the realization sinks in that I accidentally let that bit of news slip during my tirade against Margaret.
“Which is rather interesting,” she continues with a pointed stare, “because the last I heard you weren’t ready for the relationship to progress to that stage.”
I cringe. It sounds so much worse when she puts it like that, especially after what happened with Nick at the Tipsy Teakettle. My mind floods with images of his mouth on mine, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hips pressing me into the truck while my hands explored. I shake my head, dislodging the memory.
“Well I’m ready now.” My voice is so strained I barely recognize it. I clear my throat. “And you never mentioned your breakup with Wes. That isn’t an excuse or a reason for not confiding in you sooner, but I’m not the only person who hid things.”
Annabelle sighs. “So that somehow makes it better?”
“No,” I say, shuffling mango pieces around with the plastic fork. “Of course it doesn’t.”
“When did we start keeping secrets from each other, Lil?” she asks. Not accusatory or mad. Just . . . sad.
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. “When life got bigger than the both of us, I guess.”