Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  As unlikely as it may seem, I know who.

  I go to the back of the kitchen and try the door to the Mom Cave. The door sticks, but this time it isn’t locked. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. The room is completely dark. I don’t turn on the light but whisper instead, “It’s okay, Mrs. Simpson, don’t be scared. It’s just me, Scarlett.”

  There’s no answer at first, but a small circle of light goes on around the tattered old sofa that Mom crashes on sometimes. I blink at the brightness. A gnarled hand draws back from the light switch, pulling a faded quilt up to her neck. Her hair is a halo of silver; the lines in her skin softer and less pronounced.

  “Scarlett,” Mrs. Simpson says. She puts a finger to her lips. “You won’t tell Emory I’m here, will you?”

  “Of course not.” I step inside. Although I guessed the truth, I can still hardly believe my eyes. I mean, Mom of all people is hiding our neighbor away—in her office?

  “Your mother has been very kind,” Mrs. Simpson says.

  “That’s good,” I say. “Hard to believe, but good—really.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” She gestures to the swivel office chair.

  I perch on the edge of the chair. “We made you supper tonight and last night, but you weren’t there. My friends brought your cat back too.”

  She blinks. “Treacle? Treacle’s back?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s back. And your nephew came by.”

  “Oh, Emory.” She sighs and tsks.

  “He said some things, Mrs. Simpson. Things that got me kind of worried.”

  “What?” She grins widely. “That I’m losing my marbles and need to go to a nut farm?”

  I blink in surprise at her language. “Well, I don’t think he’s right or anything. But yeah…something like that.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  I take a breath. “He said that you weren’t eating. That you forgot to do things because you had…”

  “Dementia,” she finishes.

  “So do you?” I ask, feeling scared of the response.

  Mrs. Simpson gives a sad little laugh. “When you get to be my age, your mind is full of everything you’ve ever done in your life—not to mention regret at things you haven’t done. With all that clutter, do you think there’s room for things like what day it is and when it’s time to go shopping or pay the bills?”

  “Maybe not. But people still have to do those things.”

  “Yes.” She nods. “You’re right, they do. But that doesn’t mean they have to be shut away someplace where people sit around watching television, eating boring food, and waiting for a nurse to help them to the bathroom, does it?”

  I purse my lips. “He also told us about your daughter. That she, um…passed away.”

  She looks at her gnarled fingers but doesn’t answer. I press on, knowing this is the key to everything.

  “She was the one you wrote the inscription to, right? ‘To my little cook.’ You made the notebook for her. You cooked things together—you taught her. And then when she grew up, she went on to become a real chef. One of the best, Mr. Kruffs said. You must have been so proud.”

  A tear forms in the wrinkled corner of her eyes. “Yes, you’re right, Scarlett. Right about it all. Marianne was my daughter; my little cook. She was everything to me. You also asked me once about the ‘secret ingredient.’ Well”—she takes a breath—“it’s something that everyone has to find for themselves, the thing that makes life worth living. My daughter was all that to me and more. And now…she’s gone.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I reach out and take her hand.

  Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Thank you, child.”

  We sit like that for a few minutes without speaking. I wish I knew the right thing to say, but deep down, I know that there is no “right thing.”

  She draws a rasping breath. “My nephew means well. And he’s right about one thing—my health isn’t what it once was. In truth, sometimes it feels as if I’m marking time. I try to keep busy with the house and the cat and the garden. But as for cooking…” Her blue eyes are pools of tears. “For a long time I couldn’t face that. All those smells and tastes—all those memories.”

  “I…I think I understand.”

  “And then you girls came along. You broke into my home and shook up my life. You brought me those oatmeal bars in the hospital…” She wrinkles her nose. “Mind you, I was not a fan of the crystallized violets.”

  “Oh!”

  “But I knew then that my life wasn’t quite over. I realized I have things to do before…” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m not going to let Emory put me away somewhere, even ‘for my own good,’ no matter how nice it is, and how much it might make my life easier. Not without a fight.”

  “And we’re going to help you.” I squeeze her hand.

  “Yes, well.” She leans back on the pillow as if the effort is too much. For a second, she winces and rubs a spot on her head just behind her ear.

  “Are you okay?” I say, suddenly worried.

  “Fine. I get headaches sometimes, that’s all.”

  “Do you want an aspirin? I know where Mom keeps them.”

  “No, child.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments. “We cooked him dinner,” I say haltingly. “Mr. Kruffs came by while we were making Peter Piper’s Pepper Pasta with salad and homemade sauce.”

  She pulls her hand away, startled. “You cooked for Emory?”

  “Um…yeah. He came over while we were waiting for you. We thought feeding him might help.”

  “And did it?”

  “Well…” I hesitate. “He didn’t have us arrested when we admitted to starting the fire.”

  She makes a move like she’s going to struggle out of bed. “You told him about causing the fire?” She claps a hand over her mouth.

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “I mean, we had to. It was the right thing to do.”

  She sits back, stunned. “The right thing…?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  Mrs. Simpson looks closely at me. I get the feeling she’s seeing me in a new way. “Yes…if you put it like that. I suppose it was.”

  “We couldn’t let him keep thinking it was you when it wasn’t! And I hoped…well…that it would be enough.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it?”

  “Well, not really. But he did sound really worried about you. In fact”—I lower my voice—“he said he’d call the police if you’re not back home by this weekend.”

  “Pah! The police! That’s one thing he won’t do. Not while he’s in the middle of his campaign.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “But maybe you can at least let him know you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll do that. I’m a distraction he doesn’t need right now—I know that. And I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.” Her breathing grows quick and shallow. A knot of anxiety tightens in my chest. She may not be off her rocker, but Mrs. Simpson is really old.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Simpson,” I say in a soothing voice. “But is Emory really such a bad person? Gretchen didn’t seem to think so.”

  “No, he’s not a bad person.” She sinks back into the pillows. “In fact, he’s a very good person. He and Marianne were practically best friends growing up. She loved cooking him his favorite desserts for his birthday and at Christmas—Emory was such a serious boy, but his face would just light up when he saw the food.” She smiles faintly. “And when I put in the kitchen next door, he arranged everything. We were close once…” She sighs.

  “I know the feeling,” I mutter.

  “I realize Emory just wants to do what’s best. And in fact, he may well be right…”

  “No, he isn’t!” I say. “Because we’re going to look after you.” I take back her hand. “Me and the Secret
Cooking Club. And maybe”—I still can’t quite believe it, but it must be true—“Mom too. I mean, she let you come here and hide out.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “And Gretchen knows about these things. You can get an emergency button installed, with a necklace-thingy to call for help if you need it, and have a caregiver come to visit you—even live-in. You could go on like that for a long time. And if someday in the future, you want to go into a nursing home…” I shudder. “Well, that should be your choice.”

  “Thank you, child,” she says. “I admire your spirit. And you’ve given me a lot to think about. It’s good to know that even at my age there are still…possibilities.” She stifles a yawn. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think we both need to get some rest. It’s been quite a day.”

  “Good night,” I say, kissing her on the forehead. I give her hand a squeeze, but she’s already asleep.

  Chapter 35

  Finding the Magic

  The next morning I wake up late, exhausted after a night tossing and turning. I squint against the sunlight and the thoughts bombarding my head. What to do about Mrs. Simpson? Can we make Mr. Kruffs see reason? Has anyone seen my blog? And then I remember I’m supposed to be meeting up with Nick Farr today after school. My insides get jumpy.

  I smell breakfast from the top of the stairs. My stomach growls. Mom is already in the kitchen with Kelsie. Mrs. Simpson has cooked a huge breakfast of eggs, bacon, and buttery croissants. Miraculously, my sister’s plate is almost clean, and there’s not a smear of ketchup in sight.

  Mom beams at me as I come into the room. “Scarlett, I see you’ve found out about my little secret.”

  I stand there for a second, staring at her. Then I rush over. “Thank you, Mom.” I give her a hug—the first one willingly given in a long time.

  “Oh, Scarlett!” Mom squeezes me back. She smiles. “And actually—it’s no longer a secret. Rosemary called her nephew before breakfast and told him she was here.”

  I step away, flooded with emotion. Mrs. Simpson gets up from the table, straightens her apron, and takes a plate off the rack for me.

  “I can serve myself, Mrs. Simpson,” I say. “You eat. This is fabulous.”

  “No, child,” she says. “Sit down. This is my treat.”

  It’s like the kitchen is filled with a warm glow—food and kindness and unlikely friendships. Mom takes a second croissant and, closing her eyes, takes a bite.

  “This is divine, Rosemary,” she says. “I’d forgotten how good real food tastes. In fact”—she looks at me and smiles—“I’d forgotten a lot of things that are important.”

  I smile back, blinking to make sure I’m not still asleep and dreaming the whole thing. This can’t be real.

  “Tell her what you told me,” Mrs. Simpson coaxes Mom. “All of it.”

  Mom takes a long breath. “There are things about my past that I haven’t told you, Scarlett. Things that were painful, and I wanted to forget them.”

  I stare at her. Mom almost never talks about her past. Across the table, Mrs. Simpson nods encouragingly as though they’ve practiced this.

  “You may not know it, but my grandma used to live with us when I was a girl. She wasn’t quite all there after her husband died, but she was kind and she helped look after me when my dad left, and Mom had to go to work.”

  “Your dad left your mom?” I try to digest this new piece of information. I never knew either of Mom’s parents—they both died before I was born. Dad’s parents lived a long way away, so we never really saw them either. Because I never had grandparents, I never missed not having them. Or not knowing anything about them.

  “My dad ran off with his secretary. I never saw him again.” She swallows hard. “At first I blamed Mom—for losing my dad, and then for having to work. She was away just about every night. All she could find was a job as a bartender pouring pints at a bar. I’d wait up sometimes until she came home, smelling of smoke, sweat, and stale beer. I hated it.” She takes a long sip of the fresh-brewed coffee.

  “But when my grandma came to live with us, everything changed.” She stares off into the distance. “It was like there was magic in the house. She was a wonderful cook, and she told stories, and she played the piano…” Mom drifts off. “It wasn’t magic really. It was just…nice.”

  “It sounds like it,” I say encouragingly.

  “Then she died.”

  Mrs. Simpson puts her hand on Mom’s arm. “Everyone does, my dear.” She gives a long sigh. “But that doesn’t mean the magic didn’t exist. I know it existed when I was with my daughter, Marianne. It was an everyday kind of magic.”

  “I don’t know.” Mom’s voice quavers. “Not anymore. I tried to shut it out of my mind for so long. I vowed I wouldn’t be like my mom—stuck in some degrading job, never having any money or any freedom.”

  “Of course, dear,” Mrs. Simpson says.

  “So when your dad left, Scarlett—just like mine did—I was determined to take control of my life. I started the blog and that grew into something”—she hesitates—“amazing. For the first time, people were paying attention to me. For the first time, I was important.”

  “No, Mom,” I say softly. “You were important before. To me and Kelsie.”

  “I guess I should have realized that. Instead, I let the blog take over my life. I became just like my mom. Worse, in fact.” Her eyes glisten with tears as she looks at me. I now see understanding etched in the lines around her eyes. The things she did and how she made me feel. “Much worse,” she says.

  “Oh, Mom…” I’m crying too.

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. “But then I started to smell the cooking coming from Rosemary’s kitchen. It was as though the memories were there on the other side of the wall, trying to find a way to creep through the cracks and crevices. I was thinking about my mom, my grandma, and my childhood.” She smiles like she’s far away. “And the strange thing was that it didn’t seem painful anymore. Just good. And…right.”

  “I’m glad, Mom.”

  She shakes her head. “But I didn’t want to face up to the way things were between us—and that it was my fault. And then the fire happened. I was so proud of you, Scarlett, and so ashamed of myself.” She sighs. “And then Rosemary made that amazing breakfast… I went into my office to write about what happened. But instead, I shut down my computer and went next door.”

  “You did?”

  “She did,” Rosemary confirms, patting Mom’s hand. “We had a chat and a nice cup of tea.” She smiles wryly. “Actually, a whole pot. She helped me clean up after the fire.”

  “Really?”

  Mom laughs. “Honestly, Scarlett, even a toxic waste dump can get cleaned up if you put your mind to it. Which might be a good project for this weekend. We could tackle your room—together.”

  “Okay.” I smile carefully. “But you’re not going to, you know, write about it? Or write about not writing about it?”

  She sets her lips determinedly. “I told you the blog was going to take a new direction. I’ve been thinking about it for a while—ever since the day you brought home those cinnamon scones.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’ve gone back and checked all the analytics, plus my comments and interactions. They all show a definite trend.”

  “What?” I say, my stomach twisting.

  “The bottom line is, there’s a strong calling among my followers for me to become an inspirational blogger.”

  “A what?” I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

  “I’m going to focus on inspiring other moms and women. I’ll be kind of like an online coach for women who are looking to start a business, or change careers, or who simply want a new lease on life. I want to help them to follow their dreams—just like I did.”

  “Oh.” For a second I think she must be joking. But her f
ace is serious.

  “Which means, Scarlett, that I’m afraid you’re no longer going to have a starring role.”

  “I… I’m not?”

  “No.” She smiles. “I’m going to be a whole new mom to you and your sister. I promise.”

  Something loosens inside my chest, and I feel a flood of relief mixed with another half-remembered feeling…

  Hope.

  “And Rosemary’s going to help me,” Mom says. “And we’re going to help her—just like you did that night. After all—that’s what neighbors do, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 36

  Friends and Followers

  I leave for school in a daze. It all seems like some kind of dream: Mom’s story, her guilt, her “new direction,” and the fact that she’s actually helping another human being who’s in trouble. I don’t believe in magic—not the fairy-tale kind, and certainly not “everyday” magic, whatever that is. But I can’t deny how much things have changed since Mrs. Simpson came into our lives.

  They talked about the details while I was finishing my breakfast. Mrs. Simpson will get a part-time caregiver to look in on her, but Mom and I will help her out too. Mom will speak to Mr. Kruffs and try to get everything squared away with him. How she’s going to find time to do all this, I’m not quite sure, but she actually gave me her old phone so we can “keep in touch” if Mrs. Simpson needs anything. And even if Mom really is transformed, she and I still have a lot of issues to figure out. I accept that she’s sorry, and I forgive her. But as they say, “The proof is in the pudding.” Still, for now, it’s a lot more than I ever expected.

  The school day goes by quickly, and at the end of the day, my pulse races at the prospect of meeting Nick. I make my way to the library, worried that my knees might turn to jelly at any moment.

  Nick is already there with his computer on.

  “Hi, Scarlett.” He pushes his wavy, brown hair back from his forehead.

  “Hi.” I try to slow my breathing and sit next to him.