A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

  "Really?" She pauses for a minute. "Well, pumpkin, if you made that then I would eat it."

  "Good." Because I'll be making a whole lot more than just one batch.

  I take a deep breath and look back at my cell phone. I re-read Cole's last text. Is that all you miss? The real answer to that question is more characters than my phone will allow. The truth is I miss a lot of things.

  Grandma's candy.

  Sunday morning lattes before weekend rehearsals.

  The cupcakery in NYC.

  My pre-injury ballet body.

  And I never realized it until now, but I miss sleuthing around CPA with my zany classmates. A new chapter of my life is starting, and I can't wait to return to my beige apartment and find Bree trying to perfect peppermint bark or Cole arguing about how mayo is better than Miracle Whip.

  My fingers type a response to Cole's question.

  A simple two-letter answer.

  Me: No.

  Cole: ;)

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My childhood home sits at the top of a steep hill. It's an older house surrounded by trees and wildflowers. The backyard faces a lot of land covered in woods and wildlife. It was never cleared out to make space for more houses. It's too wild to tame now. I used to go exploring back there when I was little. I came across a giant toad once. I named him Fatso and kept him in the sink of my playhouse.

  The sky is gray, and the air feels moist, but not the same way it feels in Georgia. It feels like mist is continually washing over me. Mom pulls up the driveway and gets out of the car. I grab my suitcase and follow her up the front, wooden steps. The inside of the house used to be a pea green color before Mom had it painted white a few years ago. She had also traded all her antique sofas for a set that was simpler and more modern. The only things left in this house that haven't changed are my brother's and my bedrooms.

  "Wow," I say as I walk into the kitchen. "New floors?"

  The kitchen cabinets used to be oak, but those were also painted white to match the rest of the house. Through the window above the sink you can see the woods in the backyard. Above the kitchen table is a skylight. Though the sun is hidden behind rain clouds at the moment, the white walls against the immense amount of green outside have a way of brightening up the room.

  "No more linoleum," she happily responds.

  My dad is tall, thin, and dark-haired like the rest of my family. He sits at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. A warm mug of tea is steaming next to him. He looks up and grins.

  "Poppy," Dad greets me. "Welcome back."

  "Can I get you something, honey?" My mom opens a cupboard and pulls out a mug.

  "Coffee?"

  "Oh, we've switched to tea." She glances at Dad. "It's healthier."

  "Right." I nod.

  "Tea is fine." I set my suitcase aside and sit next to Dad at the table. It feels strange to walk into a room and not have an AC unit blasting or a fan circulating some sort of breeze. Even though it's technically wintertime, it still feels hot in Georgia. The sun doesn't beat down on me like it did during the summer, but the air is still warm and simple outdoor walks always make me feel sweaty.

  "You look different," my dad comments. "Is it your hair?"

  "Dan," my mom scolds him. "Our daughter is a curvy type of girl now. Don't make a big deal of it."

  My dad raises his eyebrows and resumes reading his paper. I watch my mom pull out a tea bag and steep it in some hot water. She opens another cupboard to retrieve a box of vegan biscuits. She places a couple on a small dessert plate and places them in front of me. They look like circles of cardboard compared to the stuff that Bree makes.

  "Thanks," I say quietly.

  "I hope you don't mind green tea?" My mom hands me a mug and sits next to me. "It's good for your metabolism."

  "Of course."

  Her eyes crinkle when she smiles at me. I know she is only trying to help, but she's making it feel like a sin to enjoy a round, fat buttery shortbread cookie. I reluctantly taste the vegan biscuit. It tastes a little like seaweed.

  "Good, aren't they?" My mom nods as if they are sugary morsels that I should love just as much as she does. "Well, if you're going to make us all something you should probably head on to the store."

  "Now?" I glance at Dad as he crosses his legs and turns the page, staring intently at the headline at the top. "It's just us three. I'm sure I can work with ingredients that you already have and make something small."

  "Oh, did I forget to mention that your brother will be here later today?"

  "Yes." My eyes go wide. "You did forget to mention that."

  "Yeah, he'll be here around the same time as your Aunt Maggie and Uncle George."

  "What?"

  "Yes, for our annual, family holiday party tonight," Mom responds.

  "You didn't tell me that that was tonight." My parents throw a holiday party for everyone on our street every year. Last year I flew in from New York and stayed with my ex. The two of us mostly fooled around in my old bedroom the entire night. Mom usually hires a Santa to come, and we all take family pictures. Back when all the kids on our block were younger, Mom would set up some sort of cookie decorating station, but lately there haven't been any children in attendance. The cookie station quickly turned into a spot to store more booze.

  "Yes, I've hired someone to take care of the food this year."

  "All vegan?" I add.

  "Mostly." She sits up straight in her chair and smoothes a piece of her dark hair.

  "So we aren't having a turkey this year? Or any of that gingerbread fudge that Grandma used to make?"

  "Tofurky is just as good," she responds. She's glancing outside, cupping her mug like it contains liquid chocolate. I roll my eyes. Tofurky? If Bree were here she would explode. She would march right down to the nearest grocery store, buy up all the fat they had in stock, and start filling the house with sweets until my parents couldn't take it anymore.

  I would give that a try, but I am pretty sure my mom would fall over and have a heart attack if she saw that much butter and lard all in one place. Like me, she is naturally thin, but she can take dieting to extremes sometimes. I used to be like that. Crazy about food. I still am crazy about food, but in a different way. I let it brighten my day, not rule it.

  "Mom, you can't serve everyone Tofurky."

  "They won't even know the difference," she laughs. "I don't anymore, and your father says he loves it."

  I glance at my dad, but he avoids making eye contact.

  "It's tofu," I say. "They will see and taste the difference, trust me."

  Mom shrugs. Once she has made up her mind she doesn't change it. I gulp down the rest of my green tea, pretending it is a pumpkin spice latte with a shot of espresso, and stand up. I grip the handle of my suitcase and head into the family room and towards the staircase. I notice that Mom has already put up her Christmas tree. At least that still looks the same. The Christmas balls are royal blue and silver just like when I was little.

  I walk upstairs into my tiny bedroom. It's a little smaller than my room at Calle Pastry Academy, but I have my own bathroom. The walls are painted a light, ballerina pink, and there's a twin bed in the corner with a black-and-white comforter. The components of my room clash together, sharing two personalities. The black-and-white, bold patterns from my high school days, joined with the pink from my younger years when I thought fairies lived on my windowsill.

  I set my luggage down and sit on my bed, looking up at the ceiling. I haven't had much time to think about the past couple weeks because they flew by so fast. After Mr. Harris was arrested, Jeff disappeared from classes for a few days. He eventually returned but had avoided me ever since. Understandable. I didn't exactly smile at him the first time we made eye contact. I was still too upset.

  President Dixon apologized for the trouble I'd been through and made sure the entire staff knew I had nothing to do with Professor Sellers' death or the truffle theft. He gave the whole school a day off to attend
the memoriam, and one of the senior classes submitted a new recipe to the student bakery for them to start selling in memory of him. Kiwi cheesecake. Apparently, it was his favorite. There was a lot about him that I didn't know or understand.

  I suppose no matter how much we disliked each other, one thing we did have in common was a love of desserts.

  * * *

  It's a weird feeling when you visit your hometown grocery store and see people working there whom you went to high school with. I see a guy, who I am pretty certain used to be in algebra with me, stacking tomatoes. I duck into the baking aisle to avoid an awkward hello. My fingers run along the selection of baking chocolate.

  I decided to make Grandma Liz's chocolate candies and an amazing vegan dessert to prove to Mom and Dad that I'm serious about pastry school. I've never made a dairy-free dessert, but who can say no to chocolate? I pick out a few different brands of baking chocolate and move on to the cocoa powders.

  "I don't know what I'm doing," I say out loud. I glance down at my heels, thinking about the fact that I have nothing to wear to the party tonight. It doesn't matter though, because this year I'm dateless. I reach into my purse and pull out my cell phone. I dial someone who might be able to help me with at least one of my dilemmas.

  "Hello?" a voice says on the other line.

  "Bree," I respond, glaring at a bag of white chocolate chips. "Have you ever made a dairy-free cake before?"

  "Hello to you too." I hear her giggle. "Already missing the South? You should come visit me in Connecticut sometime. You really won't want to leave after you do."

  "My parents have gone vegan."

  "No," she gasps.

  "And I need to impress them at our holiday party tonight. Please tell me you can help."

  She pauses for a moment.

  "I have made a gluten-free, dairy-free chocolate cake before, but it was a little tricky."

  "Let's hear it," I eagerly reply. "What do I need?"

  "For starters, grab some dark chocolate. Don't use milk chocolate. I made that mistake once, and my old boss Ms. Neriwether almost had my head for it."

  "Dark chocolate," I respond. "Check."

  "You can use cake flour," she says. "But you can also use nut flour or black bean flour."

  I wrinkle my nose.

  "Maybe for my first time I'll just stick to regular cake flour."

  "So holiday party, you say? You mean like a Christmas party?"

  "No." I correct her. "One of our neighbors is Jewish so my mom makes sure everyone knows it's a holiday party."

  "No eggnog then?" Bree responds.

  "Who knows?" I grab a few more ingredients and place them in my basket. "She's having the party catered this year which is a little strange. She always makes everything herself. Sometimes with my help."

  "Maybe it's a special one?"

  "I don't know," I answer. "I mean my older brother is coming into town, so maybe that's it? He wasn't able to make it last year because he couldn't pull himself away from work. He's works at an investment firm in Boston."

  "Uh-huh." I hear her take a deep breath, and it makes me take a step back from the candy aisle and wait for what she has to say next.

  "What?"

  "Oh nothing," she says quietly.

  "No," I insist. "What aren't you saying? I know you have an opinion about this. You always do."

  "It's just that this sounds an awful lot like the one time my cousin came to visit from London. My aunt threw a huge party and…well, he came to tell us all that he got married."

  "Married?" I nearly choke on my own spit. "Oh, please. Mark doesn't have time for a relationship. He barely had time for me, and we only lived four hours away from each other."

  "Well to be fair, four hours is a long way to drive."

  "Sure," I mutter into the phone. "Take his side."

  "I never thought I would have to say this to a friend, but the holidays will be over before you know it."

  "I guess all I can hope for is a kick-ass cake," I reply.

  "Yes." She takes another deep breath. "A kick-butt cake."

  * * *

  Making brigadeiro in my parent's kitchen brings back lots of warm memories. My hands move on their own as I melt all the ingredients together in a pot and stir quickly. I used to stand on a chair and watch Grandma Liz do this. I expect this is the way James feels when he makes his dad's southern peach pie back in Alabama. It's easy, and it's enjoyable.

  My mom tugs at the string of my apron when she walks by. I glance at her before pouring the hot candy mixture onto a marble cutting board. It needs to cool just long enough for me to roll the mixture into balls and dip them in chocolate jimmies. The kitchen timer chirps, and I check my dark chocolate vegan cake. The smell of it escapes into the kitchen as I open the oven. My mom pauses and takes a second whiff as I pull the cake out of the oven.

  "Honey, that smells amazing."

  "It's vegan," I inform her.

  She nods her head looking impressed. Her eyes dart from my cake to Grandma's candies to my evergreen knit sweater. She gently touches the material as if she's sizing it up at a department store.

  "You'd better go and change," she suggests. "The caterers have just arrived, and I expect your brother any minute now."

  "Mom, it's only a sweater." I touch the candy mixture and grab a ball of it with my fingers. It's still a little too hot, but I begin forming balls of candy and dunking them in a bowl of chocolate jimmie sprinkles. I also set aside another bowl with red and green sprinkles.

  "But honey, you want to make a good first impression." She turns her head as a couple of men carrying white boxes enter the kitchen and begin setting up the food.

  "What do you suggest I wear then?"

  "I don't know?" She casually tilts her head. "A dress maybe?"

  "High heels, yes. But a dress—"

  "Just wear one," she instructs me. I haven't even been here a day, and already I'm back to being the little girl who didn't clean her room. "You'll thank me. I promise."

  I raise my eyebrows and roll a couple more candy balls. I place them on a Christmas serving platter that I found in a box under the stairs. Before I have time to ask my mom what's going on, she leaves the room. I sigh and finish preparing my desserts. I set the Christmas dish aside and jog up to my room to look for something more suitable to wear.

  I look through my old closet and a box of clothes that I left here before I went to Georgia. I pull out a silky maroon dress that I wore to a Broadway play once back in NYC. It cinches at the waist and puffs out a little around the hips. It is short, but I also find a pair of black tights and heels to go with it. The neckline fits differently than I remember when I slip the dress on. I guess some of those five pounds found their way to my chest.

  I glance in the mirror, pleased with what I see. The feeling is new to me. I'm looking in the mirror without scrutinizing my appearance. I don't have rehearsals to worry about and calories to count. I can just be myself now. I'm not ashamed of the fact that I am going to eat two pieces of cake and hide a few of Grandma's candies so I can indulge in them later when everyone goes home. Maybe I'll even sneak in a little contraband while I'm at it. Coffee.

  The doorbell rings, and I listen to Mom race to the front door. She greets my brother as soon as she answers it. My eyes go wide when I hear the sound of a second person. A female. My big brother, Mark, brought a date.

  I finish getting myself ready and peek over the banister trying to get a view of his new girlfriend. I see Mark in a tailored, navy blue suit. His dark hair is perfectly gelled, and he's holding the hand of a blonde woman whose face I cannot see. Chills run down my spine when the woman flicks her hair over her shoulder. It reminds me of Georgina.

  "Oh honey," Mom calls me from upstairs. "Come on down. I can't believe my two babies are so grown up now."

  My cheeks feel warm as I casually stroll down the staircase in my fancier getup. I act as if I'd been planning to come downstairs all along. I plan each step carefully,
hoping that I don't get a stroke of bad luck and trip and fall. Mark looks surprised when he turns towards me. He and I were close once, but ever since he left for college all those years ago the two of us had grown apart.

  "Poppy," Mark says. He leans in and gives me a side hug. "When Mom said you were baking muffins down in swamp country I thought she was kidding. But I see you came to your senses." He grins and looks at his date.

  "Actually, I'm on my holiday break."

  "Oh," he responds, briefly glancing down at his loafers.

  "Um, Poppy, nice to meet you. I'm Lauren." Mark's date outstretches her hand. She's wearing a winter blue cocktail dress, and her coat is long and white. I smile politely and shake her hand. My eyes dart to her fair and fragile fingers. No wedding ring.

  "Yeah," I respond.

  The doorbell rings.

  "I'll get it," Mom says. She opens the front door, letting in my Aunt Maggie and Uncle George. A few neighbors, ones that I don't know, walk up. The house begins filling up with guests, and I'm relieved that there are more people to talk to besides Mark and his new date.

  "Excuse me," I say, leaving the room. I look over my shoulder and see Lauren nudge my brother in the stomach. I walk into the kitchen where the food is being laid out on the kitchen table. Mom wasn't kidding when she said that she and Dad were on a vegan kick. The Tofurky is displayed in the center of trays of vegetables. I see a couple of salads, fruit, and a quinoa dish. It doesn't look bad, but it's nothing compared to the hearty spread at Shurbin Farms. There are no warm buttery rolls or creamed collard greens.

  The doorbell rings again, and this time I hear Mom shout my name.

  "No way," a voice says near the entryway. "Poppy, is that you?" My childhood friend Evie walks towards me and gives me a hug.

  "Evie," I respond. "I haven't seen you in—"

  "Four years," she finishes. "Wow, look at you."

  "I know." I look down at my dress. "I'm not as slender as I once was but—"

  "I think you look great," she interrupts. She tucks a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear and nods. Her eyes dart to the food on the kitchen table. "Quite a spread."