First and Again

by Jana Richards

  Bill jerked his head toward Bridget. “This girl can cook. Why can’t she run the restaurant?”

  All eyes turned to her and she wriggled under their scrutiny. “No, I’m not running the restaurant.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, I don’t know how long my daughter and I will be staying.”

  George sighed wistfully. “It sure would be nice to have a restaurant again. I have to drive all the way to Bismarck for a decent meal since the Harvest Moon burned down.”

  The others nodded, looking expectantly at her. She shook her head.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not opening the restaurant. I’m just doing this lunch for Jack Davison’s guests so that my daughter can ride horses at his ranch. This is a one-shot deal, that’s all.”

  She looked into six pairs of disappointed eyes. Seven, counting her mother. She felt like she’d just told a group of five-year-olds there was no Santa Claus.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Don said after a few moments of silence. “I’ll take you over to the nursing home tomorrow and introduce you to Martha. If anybody can tell you how to bake a tasty pie, it’ll be Martha.”

  She reluctantly agreed, not wanting to insult Don and the others by refusing to go. But she wasn’t convinced a ninety-one-year-old woman could help her.

  She was the only one who could help herself.

  * * *

  Despite the cool weather, Bridget’s palms were sweating as she opened the door to the hair salon. When she stepped inside and closed the door, she looked across the room, her gaze meeting her sister’s. Celia’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  “Hi.” Her scissors hovered over her client’s head, a little girl of about five. The child and her mother were her only customers. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I seem to recall an offer of a lousy cup of coffee.”

  She tried to make light of her first visit to her sister’s shop, but inside her nerves jangled. She’d been in the wrong and it was up to her to make amends. But there was no guarantee Celia would even speak to her, let alone forgive her.

  Celia’s mouth quirked briefly in a smile. “The coffee’s always on and it’s always lousy. Help yourself while I finish up with little Miss Kelsey here.”

  She fixed herself a cup of coffee as Celia finished cutting the child’s hair. While she waited she looked around the shop, noting the modern decor and up-to-date equipment. She was surprised by the almost spa-like feel of the place. Bridget shook her head. What had she expected, curling tongs heated over an open fire? Psychedelic ‘60s wallpaper? But still she was taken aback by a hair salon that wouldn’t be out of place in San Francisco.

  Little Kelsey’s haircut was soon finished and for being such a patient customer she was rewarded with a strawberry lollipop. Kelsey and her mother left a few moments later, the lollipop firmly planted in the child’s mouth.

  “Cute kid,” Bridget said after they’d left.

  “She’s one of the good ones,” Celia said with a smile. “At least she’ll sit still for a bribe.”

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and then sat on one of the black leatherette chairs in the waiting area, watching Bridget expectantly. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  She cleared her dry throat. “I want to apologize to you, for the accusations I made, for not believing you. I’m so sorry, Celia.”

  “I know you are.” She put down her cup. “I had such high hopes when you moved back. I’ve always wanted us to be friends but on your very first night in town it became painfully clear that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “I don’t make friends easily,” she said. “I never have.”

  “I know. You have a hard time trusting people. Even me.”

  Bridget wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t something she liked to admit about herself.

  “You’re right. Trust isn’t something that comes easy for me.” She set down her own coffee cup, still half full. “I won’t take up any more of your time. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I’ll see you around.”

  “You’re welcome to stop by anytime,” Celia said. “Mom told me you’re experimenting with apple pie. Maybe you can bring some over for a taste?”

  She blinked at her in surprise. After what she’d accused Celia of, she was surprised at the olive branch her sister offered.

  “Sure, I can do that. Hopefully my next pie will be better than the first.”

  “I hope so too. See you soon.”

  “Bye. See you.”

  Tears stung her eyes as she walked back to the motel, but for the first time in days she felt hope.

  * * *

  Don Williamson picked up Bridget the next morning in his ancient half-ton truck. They drove the short distance to the nursing home where his sister-in-law Martha lived.

  As they approached the front entrance, several elderly residents taking in the early October sunshine eyed them curiously. An old man stuck out a shaking hand in front of Don, who stooped to talk to him.

  “Hello, Fred. How are you today?”

  “What’s that?”

  Don raised his voice, practically shouting in the man’s ear. “I said, how are you?”

  “I’m old, that’s how I am.” He pointed a crooked finger at Bridget. “Who’ve you got there?”

  “This is Bridget Grant, Mavis Turner’s daughter. She’s come back to live in Paradise for a while.” He gestured toward her. “Bridget, this is Fred Thorson. You remember him, don’t you? He used to run the dry goods store on Main Street.”

  She searched her memory banks and came up with a cranky old man who used to chase her and the other kids out of his store. “Nice to see you, Mr. Thorson.”

  “What brings you back to Paradise? Most young people don’t come back once they leave.”

  She opened her mouth to give a sanitized version of the truth.

  “Well, I—”

  “Her husband left her, that’s why,” an old woman in wheelchair piped up. “Took up with a younger woman. Came back here to lick her wounds.”

  Bridget stared at her. Good lord, even at the nursing home she was the subject of gossip.

  Don cleared his throat.

  “Bridget, this is Mildred Kramer.”

  She forced a smile and shook the old woman’s hand. “Hello, Mildred.”

  “What did she say?” Fred asked.

  “I said, her husband left her,” Mildred replied, raising her voice several decibels. “He ran off with a younger woman. Now she’s broke.”

  Bridget cringed. Talk a little louder, why don’t you? A guy three states over couldn’t hear you.

  Don cleared his throat once more. “Well, we should get going. We’re here to visit Martha.”

  “What do you want with Martha?” Mildred asked.

  She stared openmouthed. The woman didn’t even bother to disguise her nosiness.

  “Bridget here is a cook. She wants to get Martha’s recipe for piecrust.” He took her elbow and steered her forward. “We should get going.”

  “What did he say?” Fred asked.

  She and Don made their escape through the front door, but not before they heard Mildred’s loud reply to Fred. Bridget quickly closed the door behind them, feeling like she’d just run a gauntlet.

  “Good grief, does that happen every time you visit Martha?”

  “Not every time,” Don said with a shrug. “In the winter it’s too cold for them to be out there.”

  Inside, the nursing home was bright and cheery, even if it did have something of an antiseptic hospital smell. Don checked with one of the staff at the nursing station who informed them that Martha was playing cards with a group of women in the lounge. She followed as Don led the way.

  In the lounge they found four elderly women seated around a card table. Don immediately went to the oldest and frailest-looking woman. A bright pink shawl was draped over her shoulders, although Bridget estimated that with the sun pouring
in through the east-facing windows, the temperature in the room must have been hovering around eighty degrees. Why anyone would need a shawl in this stifling room, she couldn’t fathom.

  But then, she wasn’t a tiny ninety-one-year-old woman who looked as if a slight breeze might do her in.

  Don bent to give the old woman a hug. “How are you today, Martha?”

  “Good as ever,” she said with a smile. The cards trembled in her unsteady fingers. “Alma and I are beating the pants off Elsie and Emma at whist.”

  “Well, you always were a sharp player,” he said. He addressed the other ladies, gesturing to Bridget. “This young lady is Mavis Turner’s daughter. Do you mind if we steal Martha away for a few minutes? We need to have a few words with her.”

  The ladies nodded pleasantly, and gave Bridget speculative looks, clearly curious as to what she wanted with Martha.

  Don pulled Martha’s wheelchair away from the table and pushed her over to a corner of the room next to some upholstered chairs. After positioning Martha’s chair he took a seat and Bridget sat next to him.

  “Martha, like I said, Bridget here is Mavis Turner’s daughter. She’s living in Paradise for a while.”

  She extended her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Kowalchuk.”

  Martha took her hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Bridget Turner. I remember you. You used to cook with your Uncle Frank at the restaurant.”

  She marveled at the old woman’s memory, considering how long it had been since she’d worked with Uncle Frank in the restaurant.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said with a smile.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Don said. “Bridget here is trying to bake a decent apple pie. We tasted her first effort yesterday. It could be better. I thought maybe you could give her some pointers.”

  Martha smiled, clearly pleased. “Apple pie. Oh my, that was one of my favorites. Ralph always loved my pie, didn’t he, Don?”

  “That’s what I told the girl here,” he said proudly. “You were the best pie maker around.”

  Bridget pulled a small pad and a pen from her purse. “Do you remember your recipe for piecrust pastry?”

  Martha thought for a moment, then frowned and shook her head. “Not precisely. I never had anything written down. I went by feel.”

  “By feel? What do you mean?” Don asked.

  “By the way the pastry felt in my hand.” She made a kneading motion with her gnarled fingers. “I played with it until it was just right, not too sticky, not too dry. When the feel was right I knew I had a good piecrust.”

  Bridget smiled. A woman after her own heart. The best chefs developed a sixth sense when it came to knowing when a dish was just right. “Do you remember some of the basic ingredients of your pastry?”

  Martha nodded. “I always started with good quality lard, and flour of course. A little salt, and some ice water. Works every time.”

  She wrote down the ingredients. It was a little different from the pastry recipe she used, but there were innumerable variations on the same theme.

  “What about the apple filling? Mine seems to be missing something.”

  Martha frowned. “I can’t imagine what could be missing. What did you use?”

  She listed her ingredients. “Apples, of course. Sugar, cinnamon, a few pats of butter and some cornstarch to thicken.”

  “Aside from the cornstarch, that sounds much like my filling.”

  “So why did everyone think your pie was so much better than mine?”

  The old woman let out a sudden laugh, which quickly turned into a wheeze. “Memory is a funny thing, my dear. When you get old you’ll be surprised at how good things look in hindsight.”

  Bridget laughed, amused by her sense of humor. “That may be, but in the here and now I want to bake an apple pie that will knock the socks off Jack Davison’s German guests.” She explained how he was helping Rebecca and the bargain they’d made.

  “I think my daughter has my old recipe book,” Martha said. “It was my mother’s. I’ll ask her to take a look for me. We’ll figure it out.”

  She took her hand. “I really appreciate your help.”

  “I used to love to cook. I’d give anything to be back in a kitchen, but I’m a little long in the tooth for that,” Martha said with a wistful smile.

  “I’d love to cook with you,” Bridget said. She realized she meant it. She’d lost much of her confidence. At one time she’d preferred working on her own, at least in the creation and design of the menus and dishes. But now the old adage ‘safety in numbers’ sounded good.

  She recognized a kindred spirit in Martha, someone who loved cooking as much as she did. As much as she once had.

  “You could certainly give me some pointers.”

  “But your mother’s kitchen is up the stairs,” Don said. “Martha wouldn’t be able to make it up there.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  An image of the bright, sunny kitchen in Jack’s house with its spacious floor plan and wheelchair ramp to the back door, popped suddenly into her mind. Would Jack and Mrs. Clark allow her to bring Martha to the ranch for a little experimentation?

  “Don’t worry, Martha. I have a feeling everything will work out just fine.”

  Chapter Six

  The next day Bridget pulled into Jack’s yard armed with two different menu choices and cost estimates for each one. She’d phoned every local food supplier, every grocery store in the area and haggled mightily to ensure she could prepare a wonderful lunch for Jack’s guests within the budget he’d given her. Though she’d done her homework this time, her heart raced frantically as she left her car.

  She knew Jack would likely be in the barns but she wanted to speak to Gladys Clark first. How would the housekeeper react to her request to ask Martha to help her bake the ultimate apple pie? She might be offended to have other cooks horning in on her turf. If Gladys gave her a flat no, that would be that. She wouldn’t even bother Jack with her request.

  It occurred to her that she’d been asking for a lot of help lately, first from her mother, her daughter’s teachers and now from Jack. She was even asking advice from Martha Kowalchuk and the old boys on coffee row. And here she was back to ask Jack and Gladys for yet another favor. She’d always been fiercely independent, preferring to struggle with a problem on her own rather than asking for assistance. If she’d had only herself to consider she’d likely stick to her loner ways. But with Rebecca’s future on the line, there was no alternative.

  Despite her unease, she smiled to herself as the entered the back door to the ranch’s kitchen. The place was a cook’s dream. It was probably one of the best-designed kitchens she’d ever seen.

  But even though the kitchen had been designed to feed Jack’s guests, it still retained a homey feel. With its large windows letting in light and air, and its walls painted a sunny shade of yellow, she could easily see a family using and enjoying this kitchen on a daily basis.

  Gladys greeted her with a smile. “Bridget! Good to see you. Would you like coffee or a cold drink?”

  “I’d love a glass of something cold, but only if you’ll sit down and have some with me.” If she’d let her, Gladys would fuss and wait on her as if she were a guest rather than just another employee.

  Gladys poured them each a glass of lemonade and sat across from her at the kitchen table.

  “Have you made your selections for the menu?” she asked.

  “Yes. When Jack comes in we can go over our choices together and make some final decisions.” She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans. “But first I wanted to ask you a question, a favor really.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I’ve been experimenting with my apple pie but it’s not where I want it to be yet.” She took a deep breath and explained how she’d tested it on the boys on coffee row and how Don had introduced her to his sister-in-law. “Don claims that Martha is some kind of pie expert. I’d love a chance to bake with he
r and pick her brain, but my mother’s kitchen is on the second floor and she’d never make it up the stairs.”

  “Why don’t you bring her here?” Gladys said. “We’ve got the wheelchair ramp for guests, so there’d be no problem getting her in the kitchen. I know Martha. We’d have a ball!”

  For a moment she stared at Gladys, speechless. The generosity of her offer humbled her.

  “What about Jack?” she asked when she at last found her voice again. “Do you think he’d mind?”

  Gladys waved off her concern. “Jack leaves the decisions about the kitchen and food to me. Besides, he’s very easygoing. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a bit.”

  Her opinion was confirmed a short time later when Jack came to the house. Gladys barely let him wash his hands and grab a cold drink before delivering the news.

  “We’re going to bake our apple pies here next week. Bridget’s bringing Martha Kowalchuk. She always was a fantastic baker.”

  “Oh sure,” he said with a nod. “I remember her pies from when I was a kid. We used to fight over who got a piece of Martha’s pie.”

  “So you don’t mind us using your kitchen?” Bridget asked cautiously.

  He looked at her blankly as if it hadn’t occurred to him to even question the idea. “No, I don’t mind. Should I? Are you planning to trash the kitchen and set it on fire, or something? I hear Martha’s the terror of the nursing home.”

  Her lips twitched into a smile. “No, I think we can avoid setting the kitchen on fire. Martha may be tough, but I can take her.”

  Jack laughed. She liked the way his blue eyes sparkled with humor and little laugh lines fanned out at the corners of his eyes. The lines had a look of permanence, as if he laughed a lot.

  She found herself laughing along with him. Her laugh felt rusty and stiff, like a muscle she hadn’t exercised in a very long time. When was the last time she’d laughed because she was genuinely amused or happy or just having a good time? She couldn’t remember.

  “Well, in that case, bake away. As long as I get to sample some of your efforts, you can do whatever you like.”

  “If you two comedians can stop wisecracking for a few moments, perhaps we can sit down and finalize the menu for our luncheon,” Gladys said with a grin.