Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  This was hardly the time to tell her that Mr. Beard had not saved her letters. It might, however, be the moment to ask if she’d saved his. Giving me a warning look, Dad put up his hand, and before I had a chance to ask, he went rushing in. “Would you permit us to take you to dinner?” he repeated. “It would be an honor.”

  “Maybe,” she said uncertainly.

  “When do you think you might be ready for that?” he persisted.

  “Give me a day or two.” Lulu stood up.

  “Tomorrow, then?” Dad was in full lawyer mode now, pressing his advantage.

  “All right.” He’d won. “Tomorrow. But let me make dinner for you.” She gave Dad a mischievous smile and said bluntly, “I know you’re going to ask a lot of fool questions, and I’d just as soon have the home advantage. How do I reach you?”

  She showed us to the door, and when it had closed firmly behind us, Dad shook his head. “I blame myself.” We could hear the bolt ram home. “I should have known better than to come rushing over here. Think how shocked you’d be if strangers showed up out of nowhere and started asking questions. And what on earth possessed you to bring up her father?”

  “I knew it was a mistake the minute it was out of my mouth. I’d meant to wait, ease into it. But I couldn’t help myself: I blurted out the thing I most wanted to know.”

  “Nobody ever suggested that you’d make a litigator.” He gave me a lopsided smile.

  “Did you think she was hiding something?” It had seemed so strange. “All that stuff about a past she’d rather forget?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Dad shook his head. “If she had something to hide, she wouldn’t have agreed to see us again. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t understand why she did agree to it.”

  “Because you’re so persuasive.” I took his arm. “What now?”

  Dad opened the car door. “I’m going back to the hotel to try to get some work done. And I’ve got to rearrange my schedule; staying until tomorrow wasn’t part of the plan. But let’s have dinner tonight, okay? Melba gave me the name of some restaurant near the hotel. The Greenhouse Tavern—it’s supposed to be good. I’ll make a reservation. Eight okay?”

  I LEFT THE CAR with the valet and went to my room to call Sammy. When I told him how Lulu had kicked us out, he heaved a melodramatic sigh. “How enormously distressing. I am overcome with chagrin. Had I envisioned the possibility of your operating with such an utter lack of finesse, I would have accompanied you and averted this disaster.” He sighed again. “Imagine her sentiments!”

  “But, Sammy, she said we were churning up a past she’d rather forget. It was almost like there was something embarrassing in her past.”

  “I imagine that there is,” he said mildly. “Any soul who has survived to the age of eighty-two with nary a secret would be extremely dull. I, for one, would have very little interest in making their acquaintance. We all have something to hide. Do not neglect to procure an excellent wine to present upon your return. And I”—his voice became more cheerful—“shall dispatch a floral offering on your behalf.” Consoled by this happy thought, Sammy hung up.

  WITH TIME TO KILL and no one to kill it with, I turned on my laptop.

  Dear Genie,

  We found Lulu, and she is

  She is what? I looked at the words on the screen and slowly erased them. My sister was dead. And now Lulu might be gone as well. After all this time I’d finally found her, but I’d stupidly expected her to be thrilled that I’d found the letters, excited to meet me. What now? The article would surely never happen. I had no job. And I’d ruined whatever relationship I might have had with Mitch. What was I going to do?

  I put my head down on the varnished desk, feeling empty. I must have slept, because dusk had fallen when I woke, and my neck was stiff. I glanced at the clock radio—less than an hour until I had to meet Dad. I got up, gingerly rubbing the top of my back, trying to get the blood flowing.

  I went into the shower, made the water as hot as I could stand, and stood for a long time, letting it pour over me. But the water brought a memory of Mitch, and I heard his words, over and over. “You’re competing with a ghost.” I turned off the water and dressed for dinner. My neck, at least, was better.

  I FOUND DAD at the bar, nursing a glass of Scotch, and I stood for a moment, watching from a distance. He was wearing his suit, and he looked solid, safe, dependable. I was glad to have him here. But the truth was that he’d always been there, every time I’d ever needed him. When my second-grade teacher called him in to discuss what she called my “persistent shyness,” he’d caressed the top of my head and said, “When Billie has something important to say, she says it.” Then he took me to La Super-Rica for tacos with extra salsa. As we ate them, he said, “You don’t have to be like everyone else. You’re the best you that ever was.”

  I slid into the seat next to him and said, quickly, before I could change my mind, “Was Genie doing drugs?”

  He didn’t look up from his drink. “Why are you asking?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” But he didn’t have to; his face told the truth. “Did you know?” My words came out in a whisper.

  He shook his head. “But I should have. All the signs were there.” Suddenly he frowned. “Did you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “So what made you ask?”

  “A …” I didn’t know what to call Mitch, and I stumbled on the word. “A friend.”

  “A man friend?” Dad missed nothing.

  “Yes. A man friend. When I told him about Genie, he said it sounded like she was doing drugs. I was shocked. I got angry and told him he was being ridiculous.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he must have gotten the idea from what I’d told him.”

  “That’s how obvious it was? A friend of yours, a stranger who never met Genie, could read between the lines? How could we have been so blind? Melba and I keep asking ourselves that, over and over again.”

  “But how do you know it’s true?” I still had a tiny shred of hope.

  “Remember Eli Pierce?”

  I remembered Eli. Remembered sitting in Genie’s room, watching her get dressed for the senior prom. That was the night she’d suggested keeping Cake Sisters going after she went off to college. I remembered my relief as Genie said, “It’s not like I’m leaving for the ends of the earth,” in her don’t-be-stupid voice.

  Then, from that deep place where I’d buried it, another sentence came bubbling up. “I could really use the money.”

  “What does Eli have to do with it?” I asked.

  “He was arrested last year for dealing drugs, and it turned out he’d kept meticulous records of all his sales. Can you imagine anything more moronic? The prosecutor came to see me because Genie was one of Eli’s best customers. He let me see the books; she’d been buying cocaine from him for four years. Just a little at first, but by the time she graduated college she’d built up quite a habit. It was all there in black and white. I managed to keep Genie’s name out of it, but the evidence was indisputable.”

  “Oh, Dad.” I could barely stand to see the pain on his face, and I hugged him, burying my face in his shoulder. “How horrible for you. You should’ve told me.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “You had enough troubles. Melba and I didn’t think you needed one more.”

  “But maybe I could have helped you! At least I could have tried.” They’d only wanted to spare me pain, but, still, it made me angry; they’d treated me like a child, kept me from sharing their grief. “We’re family. We need to help one another, and we shouldn’t keep secrets. Especially one as big as this.”

  Dad lifted my chin so he could see my face. “You were so ready to blame yourself for Genie’s death, and we thought knowing about the drugs would make it worse. Her death was an accident, but we keep wondering if the drugs were a contributing factor. You would’ve felt the same, and we wanted to save you from that. We weren’t trying to hid
e anything from you.”

  “But you did hide it from me!”

  Dad swiveled on his stool, turning away, and I knew I had to stop. I reached for his arm. “I know you wanted to protect me. Thank you for that.” But I had to ask the next question, even if it hurt him. “Do you think we could have stopped her if we’d known?”

  I could see him weighing his answer, wondering if he should tell me what he really thought. Finally he said, “If I’m honest, I have to admit that I don’t really know. We could have tried. And I know this: Anything would have been better than nothing. But she hid it so well. She was such a paragon; everyone was always congratulating me for her grades, her talent, her industriousness. How do you know when someone as perfect as Genie’s in trouble?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “you recognize the price of perfection.” The words came flying out of my mouth, and I understood that they’d been with me ever since the fight with Mitch.

  Then I saw the anguish on Dad’s face and touched his arm. “You know everything you said to me after Genie died? How it wasn’t my fault? I think you need to say them to yourself now. Nobody ever had a better dad. Genie and I were two lucky girls. You were always there for us. Always.”

  Dad drew me to him again, hugging me hard. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “We have a lot more to talk about,” I said, “but right now I need to make a phone call.”

  “Melba?” he asked.

  “That call can wait till morning. This one can’t.”

  MITCH WAS DISTANT at first, limiting his answers to yes and no. But as I stumbled on, explaining that he’d been right, the iron finally went out of his voice. When I ran out of words, he said, “I’m going to ask you two questions, and I want you to be straight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not this time. What else do you want to know?”

  “If you are actually apologizing.” I thought I heard the beginning of a smile in his voice, or at least the beginning of a thaw.

  “Yes.”

  There was a small silence. Then Mitch said, “You know, I think I’d like to meet your father.”

  I WOKE UP the next morning with a knot of pain centered somewhere in the middle of my chest. The signs had all been there, and I’d ignored them. Mitch was right: I hadn’t wanted to know. Any more than I’d wanted to admit that Genie was dead. I pulled out my phone and dialed Aunt Melba.

  When I heard her voice, I pictured her sitting in her green kitchen, surrounded by her daisies and the omnipresent halo of smoke. “Dad told me about the drugs.”

  “I know,” she said. “I wish he hadn’t; I don’t see what good it will do you.”

  “It’s not about doing good. I had a right to know the truth. And I think it might have been better for us—all of us—if we’d faced this together. Maybe I could have helped you. Did that ever occur to you?”

  “Oh.” She sounded so surprised. “You know, I forget sometimes that you’re grown up. Forgive me, Billie. I’m sorry.”

  “Now I feel like I never really knew Genie. I’m trying to understand, but I can’t. Why did she need drugs? She had everything.”

  “Apparently it wasn’t enough.” I heard Aunt Melba take a pull on her cigarette, holding the smoke for a moment. “Genie reminded me so much of my sister. So talented—and so dissatisfied. Like your mother, she held herself to very high standards. Impossible standards. Maybe it was too much for her too.”

  “What do you mean too?”

  “No matter how well Barb did something, she always thought she should have done it better. It’s not an easy way to live.”

  “But Genie did everything so easily! And everyone loved her.”

  “Billie, you were her little sister. No matter how she behaved, you thought Genie held up the sky.”

  There was so much heartbreak in her voice, and I thought it was as much for me as for Genie. And maybe a bit for herself too.

  “Do you think there was anything that could have stopped her?” I don’t know what I expected Aunt Melba to say or even what I wanted to hear. But her answer was totally unexpected.

  “If you’re asking if I think there’s anything we could have done, from what I’ve read, probably not. The only one who could have stopped Genie was Genie. But I will tell you this, Billie Breslin, and it’s something I know as well as I know anything in this world. If Genie had known how much her death would hurt you, I think she would have done anything to prevent your grief. She would have hated how hard this hit you. Hated it”—her voice broke—“even more than I do. And let me tell you, that’s a lot.”

  “Oh, Aunt Melba.” A great wave of tenderness swept over me. “I had no idea.”

  “Your father feels the same, you know. We love you very much.” I sat there holding the phone, not knowing what to say next. And then, all at once, I did.

  “Aunt Melba”—I hoped she could hear how much I meant this—“don’t you think it’s time you and Dad got married?”

  Truth and Consequences

  I LAY IN BED LONG AFTER AUNT MELBA HUNG UP, CLUTCHING THE PHONE to my chest like a stuffed animal, unwilling to get up and face the day. I was falling back to sleep when a knock on my door jerked me awake. “It’s me.” Dad’s voice. “Mrs. Taber just called.”

  “Has she changed her mind?” I got up to let him in. “Decided she won’t talk to us after all?”

  “Not that.” He walked in, clothes rumpled as if he’d been up for hours. “She’ll see us, but she doesn’t want to wait until tonight. She wants us to come this morning. Right now, in fact.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “No use in speculating,” he said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  LULU CAME TO the door looking so polished that it put me off; whatever she was about to tell us, she had prepared for very carefully. Today she wore a beautiful poppy-colored sweater over tailored gray wool slacks, and her hair had been curled into thick white waves around her face. Her lips were redder, and there was color in her cheeks. Yesterday she’d looked almost boyish; today she could have passed for one of those Fifth Avenue ladies who terrorized Maggie. “Good morning.” She seemed almost formal. “Please come in.”

  Walking toward the dining room, I noted that the furniture, while old, had a grace and simplicity I’d missed on our first visit. As I passed a Shaker bench, I reached out to touch the warm cherrywood; it was soft against my palm.

  Today the dining room’s large round table was set with beautiful antique china, and an arrangement of sweet peas, violets, and lilies of the valley nodded from the center. “Thank you for the flowers.” Lulu brushed a hand across them so that the scent of the lilies came wafting toward us. “It was very thoughtful.”

  We sat, exchanging polite comments about Sammy’s flowers and the weather. After a few minutes the conversation fizzled out and we descended into an awkward silence, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked. “I’m making a cheese soufflé. All air, which must be why it seems like such a perfect brunch dish.”

  “The only thing that will make a soufflé fall,” I said it reflexively, the way I always did when someone mentioned the dish, “is if it knows that you’re afraid of it.” Remembering where I’d first heard the quote, I gasped and began to apologize.

  To my relief, Lulu gave a small gurgle of laughter. “That’s one of my favorite of his sayings. I think of Mr. Beard so often—sometimes when I’m cooking, I feel as if he’s right there with me, standing at the stove. I was so lucky to have found him; I honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through the war without his letters. They gave me something to look forward to. I often wonder what made him continue writing to me all those years. He was so kind.”

  “Anybody would have,” I said impulsively. “Your letters are amazing. So full of life. I don’t think anyone could have resisted them.”

  “Really?” The look she gave me was truly surprised, and I saw that she had
never considered them anything but ordinary. “You haven’t said how you found them.”

  I went back to the beginning, to the locked library and Sammy’s discovery of the room we would come to call Anzio. I told about the library ladies and then about Bertie and Anne.

  Lulu listened quietly. “That’s quite a saga,” she said when I’d finished, “and you’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to find me. But you have yet to tell me why.”

  I knew this was important, that I had to get it right. Dad gave me a little nod of encouragement. “As I said, your letters are so full of life that Sammy and I felt we knew you. When they ended and you vanished from us, it was like losing a good friend. We weren’t ready to let you go. We wanted to know what happened next. We wanted to know that you were all right.”

  She stared at me for a long minute, trying to decide whether to believe me. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “I wanted to know how everyone’s life turned out. Not just you—also your mother and Mr. Jones, the Cappuzzellis, Tommy Stroh. But most of all I wanted to know if your father ever came back. It was so frustrating, not being able to know.”

  “Like losing a book before you come to the end.”

  “Exactly!”

  “But I don’t think that’s all. There’s something more you want.”

  There seemed no reason to deny it. I nodded.

  “You’re wondering if I still have Mr. Beard’s letters. You’re in publishing, and you probably feel they’d make a fine article, maybe even a book.”

  She was no fool.

  “And then,” she continued drily, “there are all those lost recipes.” She straightened her shoulders and looked directly at me. “I’m sorry to tell you it’s all gone—the letters, the recipes, everything.”

  “You didn’t save them?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

  “Of course I saved them.” Her voice was sharp. “They were very dear to me. For safety’s sake I kept them in the shop. I was aware of their value, and I decided it was safer than keeping them here. Ironic, isn’t it? They vanished in the fire along with everything else.”