by Leger, Lori
2 eggs
½ cup milk
2 tsps. Vanilla extract
Mix dry ingredients first. In separate bowl, cream sugar and margarine, then add eggs and vanilla and beat well. Add the dry ingredients a little at a time until it’s all added and dough is right for rolling. If dough is too stiff, add another egg. Chill the dough in the refrigerator. Break off small pieces of chilled dough (about the size of an egg) and flatten into a circle. Add filling, fold over and crimp edges. Bake at 350 degrees on greased pan until light golden brown…about 20 minutes or so. (It’s not rocket science, Melinda and all ovens do not bake the same way!)
Melinda stared down at the hand written recipe card. The once bright purple ink fading fast against a formerly white card, now yellowed with age. Her mother’s neat penmanship written in an old fashioned fountain pen Melanie had given her as a gift one year. The plastic pen casing had been sky blue with bright yellow daisies and had come with matching stationary paper and envelopes. She’d thrown in extra purple ink refills as part of the gift. Melinda remembered well, the look on her mom’s face as she opened the mother’s day gift from her only child. Brenda Dawson had made a big deal out of the fact that the pen wrote in purple ink, her favorite color.
That had been her junior year of high school, and it had been the last Mother’s Day they ever spent together. The thought of returning to celebrate that occasion had seemed so fundamentally wrong once her own child had been taken away from her. As any dutiful daughter, she’d always sent a card and promised to visit soon.
Her first visit home hadn’t occurred until well after her child’s fourth birthday had come and gone…wherever she was.
It had been three year old Tiffany, the little girl she tended to, who’d made her decide to take the trip home. She and Tiffany had been trying their hand at making homemade tarts in the kitchen, and had failed miserably. Covered with flour and bubbling with laughter, she’d been overwhelmed by fond memories of doing the same with her own mother.
She’d called her parents that night, as she had a handful of times over the past four plus years, but this time, she’d discussed a trip home. Her parents had met her at the airport where Melinda returned their eager hugs with stiff ones of her own. They drove her to the family home to begin the grueling task of putting the past behind them.
The first two days of her visit had been uneventful. She and her parents had been reserved with each other, though not quite cold; their mannerisms slightly strained, without quite reaching the point of being painful when in each other’s presence.
Her time at ‘the home’ was never spoken of, never even alluded to, lest someone discover the dark shroud of secrecy her parents had carefully constructed for themselves. As long as it was their secret, her parents could pretend it never happened. Likewise, if they never spoke of it with her, they could pretend she’d been the perfect daughter.
By the third day of her week-long stay, Melinda began looking for the tart recipe. Determined not to ask her mom for help, she’d been searching for hours before Brenda Dawson finally asked what she was looking for. Her admission had brought a bright smile to her mom’s face…the first genuine smile of the trip.
“Oh I don’t use a recipe,” her mom had admitted, before giving her a hopeful look and continuing. “But, I bet if we whip up a batch right now, I could come up with one for you to bring back to Texas.”
They had done just that. Her mother had pulled out her ‘special pen’ she’d kept in a kitchen drawer and a pack of blank recipe cards. The result had been the start of a healing process that had come close, but sadly, never quite been completed. She’d gone back to Houston, made the tarts, and had even sent snapshots of Tiffany and her during the process, as well as eating them afterwards.
Melinda glanced up at the photo collage her mother had framed and hung on her kitchen wall. Beside it was a plaque that read,
“Good recipes and love…they both last forever if shared with others…”
An airline may have brought Melinda back to McCray, but it was a mutual love for baking that acted as a stent in the clogged arterial path back to her mother. Somewhat improved, but never what it was in the past, it was all it could be considering the history between them. Unfortunately, she’d had no such connection with her father.
His anxious call from the living room jolted her out of her reverie.
“Melinda! Somebody’s at the door!”
“I hear, Dad. Can you get it? I’m kind of busy,” she called back, her hands and apron full of flour and pastry dough.
“Melin! Someone’s at the door!”
She rolled her eyes as she grabbed the dish towel from the table and headed for the door, trying to wipe some of the flour from her hands. She glared at her dad, stretched out on his recliner like a king. She fairly growled as she jerked the door open. “Don’t get up, dad. I can see how busy you are.”
Greg stood there, looking ever so much more Marine than small town Mayor. He stood there in khakis, a royal blue polo shirt, and a Town of McCray baseball cap. The smirk he wore did nothing but irritate the hell out of her.
“What the hell do you want?”
Greg sucked in his breath, somewhat startled by the sight of Melinda in full Betty Crocker mode. Who the hell knew he’d find a woman wearing a red apron such a turn on? The thing looped around her neck, crisscrossing behind her to tie in the front and cinch the apron around her trim waist.
Obviously startled by his appearance, she swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. He curled his fingers into a tight fist, to keep from reaching up to wipe away the smudge she’d left behind.
Damn, she looked good—despite the scowl she turned on her father, who sat in his recliner a few feet away.
“Dad, what did you do?” she demanded.
Mr. Lawrence turned toward the door, wearing an innocent expression that didn’t fool anyone.
“Come on over here, boy. I’m having television trouble. And hurry up ‘cause I can’t miss my Price is Right, dammit to hell.”
Greg turned his smug expression on Melinda and tipped his cap. “Excuse me. I’ve got business to tend to.” He turned his back on her and strode toward the man and his television set.
“What’s going on here, Mr. D?”
“This darn old set is getting too old, boy. It’s hard as hell to change the channels and sometimes the picture won’t come in at all. I thought if I changed the batteries in this remote it would fix the problem, but it didn’t.”
“Hmmm, maybe it’s just crappy batteries.”
Melinda’s eyes narrowed with irritation. “Oh, whatever.”
He pulled the batteries from the remote. “Can’t trust ‘em if they weren’t bought in my place.” She turned to leave the room, snapping her dishtowel loudly and leaving a dusting of flour where she stood.
“Let’s see what we got here,” Greg murmured, as Melin disappeared into the kitchen. He turned back toward the problem remote, while inhaling the delicious aromas of something along the lines of fresh baked cookies or pies. “There’s some pretty frigging good smells coming out of that kitchen, Mr. D.”
“Yep, she’s baking again. She says it calms her.”
“Why does she need calming?”
“Beats me. She was fine when she got here. But the last three days she’s been antsy as hell. Maybe she’s going through the change.”
Greg chuckled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t let her hear you say that if I were you.” He switched out the batteries in the remote, but still couldn’t get it to work. After a good twenty minutes of checking out the remote and the television, Greg had the problem piece narrowed down.
Melin’s dad walked over to meet him carrying a plateful of baked goods. “How’s old faithful coming along?”
“Well, it can be fixed, but I’ll have to order some parts. This set’s over twenty years old.” He watched as the older man seated himself carefully in the recliner, mindful of his plate and glass of milk. “I sur
e hope you planned on sharing some of that.”
The old man chuckled. “Here, try this, boy. You’ve never tasted anything so good. It’s her specialty.”
“Mr. Dawson, you think you could call me something other than ‘boy’?” He reached out for some kind of fruit filled tart.
“Well hell, boy, what d’ya want me to call you? Shithead or Jarhead?”
“My name’s Greg.” He bit into delicate strawberry filled pastry and rolled his eyes in bliss. “Oh man, this is so good.”
“I know. I told her she should go into business selling this stuff. One thing she learned how to do in the lone star state was cook. Nobody beats those southerners when it comes to cooking.”
Greg couldn’t argue with that. He’d spent lots of time vacationing in the south during his stint in the Marines. He’d had the best damn Tex-Mex and melt in your mouth steaks in south Texas, savory seafood dishes in Louisiana Cajun country, some of the best biscuits and gravy he’d ever eaten in Alabama, and everything in between. “I’ve gotta agree with you. The south does it right when it comes to cooking.” The old man nodded and seemed to choose his words carefully before speaking again.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve been here, hasn’t it, Hart?”
Greg furrowed his brow at the man’s usage of his last name. He shrugged, deciding it was better than the alternative. “Yes sir, it’s been awhile.” He munched slowly on the tart, watching Lawrence Dawson’s eyes mist over as he spoke.
“You know, for while I’d forgotten. Melinda going over there and seeing you at the shop brought it all back to me. She was some kind of upset with me for sending her there. I couldn’t remember why, until you got here. Yes sir, it brought it all back, and not in a good way.”
Greg swallowed his bite and frowned, wondering where the hell he was coming from. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Sometimes adults can do some pretty stupid things. Even though they think they’re doing them for the right reason, it still doesn’t make it right.”
Greg cocked his head a little to the side, still as confused as a two-partied politician. “You lost me, sir. I must have missed something along the way.”
Lawrence nodded his head slowly. “I know you did, Hart. I know you did.”
“Whatever those were, they were damn good.”
Melinda stopped crimping tart crusts long enough to spare a glance at Greg leaning against the doorjamb holding her dad’s plate and glass. He walked casually into her kitchen like he owned it and placed the dishes inside the dishwasher. When he straightened and looked back at her she returned her attention to her pies.
“Where’d you learn to bake like that, Melin? Were you a professional chef?”
She tightened her lips, determined to ignore him and hoping he’d go away. His presence set her on edge like nothing else. Him hanging around here like he was king of the kitchen made her want to scream. “My mother. Did you fix his remote?”
He stood at her elbow, near enough so the scent of his cologne reached her, totally masculine and clean smelling. She had to concentrate hard to cut out another set of circles from the pie dough and fill one side of each circle with fruit. With a skill born from years of practice, she folded and crimped the tarts and spaced them evenly on her perfectly seasoned baking stone. By the time she grabbed the stone and turned, Greg had opened the oven door for her. She placed the stone in the oven then stood. She had the presence of mind to remember to set the timer. Unfortunately, it took her three tries to get it right, before pushing out an impatient sigh through clenched teeth.
“No,” he said.
“No? No what?” she asked, confused at his comment.
“No, I didn’t fix the remote. The problem isn’t the remote; it’s the twenty year old set. I’ll order the parts but I left him a loaner until then.”
She frowned at the prospect of him paying them yet another visit. “I think I’ll just buy him another one. Who keeps the same set for twenty years?”
He snorted. “You looking for a way to piss off your old man, you go right ahead and do that.”
She lifted her chin. “It’s none of your concern what I do. Are you finished here, or what?”
He jutted his chin toward the platters of tarts. “Your dad wants a couple of those in a plastic bag.”
“Why?”
He lifted one shoulder in a carefree shrug. “I’m just doing what I’m told.”
Melinda placed three tarts, one of each kind in the bag. Before she could seal it, Greg cleared his throat.
“I think he said he wanted two of the strawberry ones.”
She added another strawberry to the bag and handed it to him before following him to the living room.
Greg made his way to the front door, raising the storage bag in one hand and saluting her dad with the other.
“Thanks a lot, Mr. D. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Hart.”
Melinda sputtered in protest as Greg turned and gave her a wink before walking out and closing the door behind him.
She turned on her father. “Anytime?”
Her dad looked up from the 16” television set Greg had left with him. “Somebody’s gotta help us eat all those pies. You’re baking enough in there to feed an entire battalion of men.”
She crossed her arms and leaned one hip against the twenty year old couch. “I told you, baking calms me.”
“You ever thought there might be another treatment for what’s ailing ya?”
“Ailing me?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Come on, Pop. What’s it been since you moved here from Alabama? Fifty-five years?”
Her dad nodded and gave her one of his ‘take it or leave it’ faces. “Yeah, well, I was watching Dr. Phil the other day, and he said that one of the symptoms of growing older is that you often revert to the way you were in your younger days. Just be glad I’m not suckin’ on a bottle and crappin’ my pants.” He chuckled at the face she made. “I’m sure that’ll come soon enough,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor you.”
Melinda dropped her hands to the side and turned back toward the kitchen. “Yeah, poor me.”
She entered the kitchen and sat with the stack of recipe cards. The image of Gregory munching down on her strawberry tarts created a sudden aversion to baking them. She couldn’t not bake. She was too unsettled. So it was on to something else. She flipped through the cards, scanning each of the well-worn, time tested recipes, and finally settled on one.
Mom’s Apple Cinnamon Muffins
1 1/2 cups flour
3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 T. cinnamon
1/3 cup milk
1/3 cup butter, melted
1 egg, slightly beaten
1 cup finely chopped apples
Mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon (1tsp. cinnamon to 1 cup of brown sugar)
Heat oven to 375 degrees
Combine flour, sugar, baking powder and cinnamon in medium bowl. Add all remaining ingredients and stir just until flour is moistened. Spoon batter into muffin liners and top with sprinkling of brown sugar and cinnamon mixture. Bake about 20 minutes.
Melinda waved at Cyn through the plate glass window of the café before pushing through the door. After giving her friend a quick hug, she settled in the chair across from her.
“These are for you.” She pushed a plastic container across the table to her friend.
Cyn lifted one corner of the container and peeked inside. Her eyes drifted shut as she breathed in the delectable aromas escaping from the container. “Are these your mom’s tarts? Oh my gosh. I loved the strawberry ones. Please tell me they’re not strawberry, or I won’t be able to resist!”
Melinda sucked in and made a face. “I could, but I’d have to lie.”
“Oh damn!” She reached inside the container and broke off a corner of one tart, popped it inside her mouth. Her eyes rolled in pleasure. “You make them just like your mom did, Melin. I always ordered a couple
of dozen of these from her around Christmas, you know. My husband hides them from me and the kids because they’re his favorite.”
Melinda laughed. “Poor Blake. Make sure he gets a few of those, will you?”
“I’ll do that. He’ll be thrilled—it’s not even Christmas. You’ll spoil him. So, how’s your dad?”
“The same. Plans his entire day by his tv schedule. Talk shows, game shows, nature programs, war documentaries, evening news, and more nature programs or war documentaries.” She checked off her fingers, one by one. “I don’t dare sit with him or make a suggestion. So I bake.”
Cyn sealed the container and pushed it to the opposite side of the table surface. “Well, we seriously need to find you another past time or Blake and I will both be big as a house. You can join spin class or Zumba with me.”
Melinda grimaced. “Ack … no, thanks. Classes bore me, and so do gyms. I like my evening walks to keep in shape. I just haven’t started them up again since I’ve been back.” She left out the reason she hadn’t was to avoid running in to Greg again. It seemed that everywhere she turned lately, he was there.
“Hello ladies. How’s it going today?”
She cringed at the voice, knowing without looking up that he’d managed to find her again. Was she wearing some kind of tracking device she wasn’t aware of?
She looked up reluctantly and met his amused gaze. His comment was accompanied by a smug grin.
“It’s a small town, Melin, and this place has the best lunches around. I swear I’m not stalking you.”
She kept her silence, her only other reaction being a slight lift of a single eyebrow.
“I’m here almost every week day. If you’re trying to avoid me, this won’t work. I’m just saying.” He turned to her lunch mate. “Tell Blake the game is on for Saturday, Cyn. Have a good lunch, ladies.”
Melinda lowered her gaze to the table top, her jaw clenched with the effort it took not to watch him leave their table. Cyn’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“What the hell was that?”
She took a deep breath and picked up a menu. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Melin …”