by Leger, Lori
“What?”
“You two—the sparks—the animal attraction—whatever the hell you want to call it—it’s still there.”
“It’s called history, Cyn. One that won’t be repeated, I can promise you that.”
“But, you’re both single—available—and obviously still attracted to each other.”
She grabbed her purse, aggravated that she couldn’t argue that point with her friend. But she didn’t have to stay here, while he gloated over upsetting her. She stood, looped her strap over one shoulder and left the café as gracefully as she could.
Cynthia caught up with her on the sidewalk. “Melin, wait! What the hell is going on between the two of you?”
“Nothing’s going on, Cyn. I’m not young and stupid anymore, that’s all. Gregory Hart failed as my Prince Charming thirty years ago. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give him a snowball’s chance in hell of disappointing me again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s right. You don’t. I had no way of knowing he’d be there for lunch, but you knew.” She pointed at the plate glass window but kept her eyes on her friend. “If that was a set-up, I’d sure as hell appreciate you never doing that again.”
“Set up? Jeeze Louise—It’s like he said, it’s a small town. We have one café that happens to have fabulous lunch specials.”
Waves of guilt washed over her at the sound of hurt in her old friend’s voice. Even worse, she looked up at the window and found Greg Hart sitting at the counter—watching their exchange. Even more infuriating was the shit-eating grin spread across the man’s face.
She didn’t have the pleasure of seeing Greg for another week. Due to eavesdropping on a phone conversation between her dad and his new best friend, Melinda had been able to miss him the day he repaired the old set.
Considering the microscopic size of McCray, she wasn’t all that surprised when her luck at avoiding him ran out again.
The front of her grocery buggy had barely cleared the end of the aisle before the screech of metal meeting metal ended in a minor crash of carts.
“Whoops! Excuse me,” the deep male voice drawled.
She peeked around the corner to see Greg standing there wearing a sheepish grin. “I should have known.”
He shrugged. “It was an accident, and I apologized.”
She jerked on her cart to dislodge it from his and turned away without a word.
“Hey, Melin, is there a reason you’re so damn rude to me, or are you just a naturally bitchy person?”
Melinda halted midstride and pivoted. “Most people think I’m pleasant to be around. It must be you that brings out the worst in me.” Before he could reply, she headed for the check out.
It wasn’t until she’d unloaded her groceries that she realized she’d left without purchasing flour, her main purpose for the shopping trip.
“Dammit!”
“What’s wrong now?”
She turned to face her father. “I forgot the flour.”
“You want me to go back?”
“No.”
“I can go for you, I don’t mind.”
“You can’t drive.”
“Says who?”
She sighed. “Let me rephrase. You shouldn’t drive.”
“Again. Says who?”
“Says your doctor.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
She leaned back against the counter, crossed her arms as she met her father’s gaze. “Your cardiologist hinted that your dizzy spells could affect your reflexes, and hinder your judgment when it comes to driving skills. She suggested that I do the driving from now on.”
“Hinted, could, suggested—none of that sounds cut in stone to me.”
She reached over to open the desk drawer and pulled out a stack of traffic citations. “I’m pretty sure the McCray Police Department is in agreement. You’ve got quite an impressive collection of tickets here, dad.” She began to read them off, like a bucket list of things not to do.
“Failure to yield, failure to maintain control, running a red light, side swiping a patrol vehicle …” She lifted the stack. “Shall I go on?”
He waved her off. “Ah, what the hell do they know? Petty crap, every bit of it.”
Petty? Pulling the side mirror from a police cruiser? Her gaze darted from the oven to her collection of recipe cards, then back to the oven. She needed to create something, anything … if she couldn’t bake, she’d lose her mind. Melinda pushed off from the counter and grabbed her purse.
“Where you going?”
“To get flour. I’ll be right back.”
Within five minutes of entering the store, she’d checked out. She walked to her car, toting her reusable shopping bag containing ten pounds of flour. She threw the bags in the backseat of her car and shut the door. She turned, came face to face with Greg.”
“Dammit!” She stepped back, her hand placed over her heart. “What is it with you?”
“Why is it that I bring out the worst in you, Melin?”
“What?”
He stepped forward. “I’m curious about what you said in there earlier. I’d like you to answer my question. Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.” He took a step back. Seemed to be the slightest bit relieved at her answer.
“So answer my question, then. Why do I seem to be the only person who brings out the worst in you?”
“Leave me alone, Gregory.” She tried to turn away. Wanted nothing more than to retreat into the safety of her car. Go to her mom’s kitchen and bake until old heartaches took a back seat to the comforting homemade aromas she created. He placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.
“So, why is it, Melin?”
“I don’t know.” She brushed his hand off. “Maybe it’s because when I needed you most you ran off—”
“I needed you too—”
“You ran off to go play G.I. Joe!”
Greg’s jaw tightened, and for a moment she thought he’d walk away without a word.
“Play?” he asked quietly. “You and I must have huge differences of opinion when it comes to games. I lost a hell of a lot of good buddies during my twenty-five year play date.”
“I just meant tha—”
“But thanks for your support, Melin,” he said, cutting her off sharply. “It was always nice knowing we had people like you in our corner. I’m sure that attitude of yours would be a big comfort to families of all those dead Marines.” He turned on his heel, taking his full shopping cart with him.
She watched his straight-backed, stiff-necked retreat to the opposite end of the store and wondered if she could feel any smaller than she did at this moment.
Strawberry Muffins
2 1/4 cup sifted all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
3 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1/2 cup oil
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup sliced strawberries
Stir together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Beat eggs and blend in oil, vanilla, and milk. Add liquid to dry ingredients, stirring just until blended. Fold in strawberries. Spoon mixture into paper lines muffin tins. Top with 1 tsp. of strawberry preserves (OR any fruit preserves of your choice) and bake at preheated 375 degree oven for 25 minutes.
July 16th
Melinda pulled down the last jar of her mother’s strawberry preserves from the pantry and studied it closely. Barb Dawson’s prize-winning preserves…containing some secret ingredient that she claimed made hers stand out from the rest. She held the jar lovingly to her chest. “What was it, Mom?” she whispered, wishing just for once, her mother had bothered to write down this particular recipe. “It would mean so much to me if I could make it just like yours.” She examined the jar, willing it to reveal its secrets to her before placing it back on the shelf. She couldn’t bear not to
have at least one jar of the preserves left to treasure.
Backing out of the pantry, she pulled several jars of store bought preserves from her reusable grocery bag. Granted, they weren’t as good as her mom’s but they’d make some pretty tasty muffins, and she needed to bake. Her father’s comment came back to her as clearly as a high priced sound system. You ever thought there might be another treatment for what’s ailing ya?
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “The cure would be to find my baby girl, Pop,” she whispered. But the chances of that happening were slim to none. God, if she had a quarter for every night she’d cried herself to sleep thinking about her, feeling the weight of her newborn child in her arms, even though they were empty. She’d never forget the sight of her. Her hair, her nose, the tiny little mouth, and Greg’s chin.
She’d looked. God had she looked for her child. On her eighteenth birthday she’d gone to the orphanage, the one the grapevine of rumors said they brought the babies to. The woman behind the imposing desk told her she couldn’t do a thing without a lawyer. From that day on, she saved her tips from waitressing but even at the end of six months it wasn’t enough for a retainer.
Shortly after that, she got the position with the LeBlanc’s, with a significant salary increase. She easily saved what she needed as a retainer fee for an attorney. For the first time, she had hope. Daniel LeBlanc had even given her the name of a good lawyer. She’d never forget the day he’d told her about the orphanage being destroyed by a fire. It had started in the very section of the building they kept the records. Nothing had survived. Her one consolation at the time had been that no child had been hurt in the fire. But since then, every trip to an orphanage, adoption agency, or any other state agency had ended with her walking away empty handed.
Her daughter, thirty-one years old today, was most likely alive somewhere, but Melinda wasn’t any closer to finding her than she was the day she was born.
Melinda stepped inside the pantry, and shut the door. There, hidden and alone, she sobbed—reliving the heartache and pain of losing the only child she would or could ever have. The emptiness within her always seemed more pronounced this one day of the year—on her daughter’s birthday. It seemed especially sharp this year, maybe because Greg was so near, a constant reminder of his abandonment.
Every time she saw the man he’d grown into, she felt torn. She’d loved the boy once, but he’d betrayed her, without so much as a phone call or a letter. Each sight of him was like a fresh slap in the face. He’d chosen freedom over her, and for that, she could never forgive him.
If only she had someone to talk to about this. Nobody, other than her parents, knew she’d given birth, not even her closest friend.
Years later, she’d admitted to Cyn that she’d gotten pregnant and her parents had shipped her off to the home. But somehow, speaking to anyone other than Greg about the baby’s birth felt wrong. Instead, she told Cyn that she’d miscarried, and due to complications, she couldn’t have any more children. The last part was true, unfortunately.
She ached inside, wondering about the only child she would ever give birth to. Where was she, how was she, was she married, or had she made her a grandmother yet? Had she been happy with her adoptive parents?
She couldn’t bear to watch the horror stories about orphans who’d slipped through the cracks of the system to be abused, or worse, by adults they should have been able to trust. Every day she’d prayed her child wasn’t among them.
Melinda took a deep, restorative breath, and stepped out of the pantry. She’d barely had time to wipe her eyes and blow her nose when her father called from the living room.
“Melinda! There’s someone at the door!”
She bent low over her reflection in the mirror-like chrome surface of the toaster, and groaned. “For once, could you get it?”
“Nope, got my hands full.”
She pushed through the kitchen’s squeaky old swinging door and froze in her tracks. Her father truly did have his hands full, this time, with a twenty year old television set that had to weigh fifty pounds if it was an ounce.
“Dad! Are you trying to throw out your back? Or worse?” She rushed to help him. Together, they lugged the heavy set to the kitchen table from the rickety stand that had supported it for two decades.
The old man waved off her concern. “I could have handled it by myself. I’m not a damn invalid, you know.”
“If you hurt your back and can’t get to the bathroom, your journey from adulthood back to infancy may be quicker than you think. Adult diapers are not out of the question.”
“All you gotta do is take me out to the back yard and hose me down.”
Melinda cringed. “God, that’s an image I don’t want burned into the old memory bank.”
“That’s what I used to do to you if you’d crap your pants when your mother left me to watch you for a while. You loved it!”
She backed her way to the door, pointing at him. “Adult diapers, Dad. I’m just sayin’!”
She pulled open the door to reveal Greg standing there, looking particularly well dressed for an ‘appliance business’ house call. He gazed down at her wearing that crooked grin of his—the kind most guys try to perfect in their teens while standing in front of a mirror. Melinda knew Greg’s came naturally. She’d admired it since her first day of kindergarten when, as a much more mature second grader, he’d helped pick up the spilled contents of her book sack.
Her heart had carved out a special niche for him that day, and it had remained there—until a mother’s heartbreak had taken its place.
“Who needs diapers?” Greg asked, seeming quite amused.
“Nobody yet, damn it all!” Lawrence Dawson shouted. “But I will be soon if she keeps treating me like a baby. When I was young I could have carried two of those sons a bitches. One in each arm,” he bragged, pointing to the old set sitting on the table.
“You didn’t haul that there by yourself, did you, Mr. D.?” Greg intercepted a look from Melinda that gave him his answer. “I told you I’d move it and haul it off for you once I set up the new one.”
“What’s going on here?” Melinda asked. “I thought you’d fixed it already. Do you have to bring it in to work on it?”
Greg shook his head. “What I did before was a temporary fix, but when I checked out the parts online, I realized it would cost nearly as much to fix the thing as it would to by a new one.” He pointed at a box leaning on the side of the porch rail. “I’ve brought a nice, new flat screen for him to try out. If he likes it, I’ll give it to him at my cost.”
Melinda frowned. “I’ll pay the retail price for it. My days of needing any help from you are long gone.”
Her father turned and pointed a finger at her. “Hold on a minute, missy. You’re not paying for this, I am, and if that boy wants to do me a favor I’ll say ‘thank you’ and take it.”
Tight lipped, she pivoted and rushed back into the kitchen. Normally, she left the doorstop under the kitchen door to keep it open. Under these circumstances, she kicked out the stop and let it swing closed behind her. “Pralines.” She grabbed her stack of recipes, muttering under her breath. “As soon as those muffins are in the oven, I could make pralines. And fudge. Yes … definitely fudge.”
Lawrence shook this head at the door swinging back and forth after his daughter’s disappearance. “She’s going through the change, I tell ya. Her mother, rest her soul, gave me an ass-chewing every day for two years before she settled into it.”
Greg emitted a low whistle. “I think it’s just me she hates, and one of these days I’m gonna find out why. She’s the one that broke it off when we were kids. Hell, she up and moved to California with no explanation except that she couldn’t tell me to my face she didn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
He turned and froze when he saw the look on the older man’s face. “You okay Mr. D.? Damn, you didn’t hurt yourself carrying that old set, did you?” Lawrence blinked several times before m
eeting his gaze.
“No, I didn’t hurt myself, but you and I need to talk about a serious matter, Hart. Too much time has gone by as it is.”
Greg glanced at his watch. “Nothing would make me happier if it’ll shed some light on the situation, but I sure as hell don’t have time for it today. As soon as I set this up, I have some mayor business, a ribbon cutting ceremony at the newest hair salon in town.”
“Hmmm boy. Sounds like a wild afternoon.”
Greg lifted the box containing the new set with one hand. “It’s not all bad. I get free eats,” he said, patting his belly with the other.
“What the hell’s in there?”
“This is your new 30 inch flat panel LCD screen television set.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right?”
Greg chuckled. “No, sir, I’m not. Everything you need is in this box—built in HD digital tuner and everything.” He watched the man stare from the box to the dinosaur on the table and busted out with a hearty laugh. “Welcome to the world of modern technology, Mr. D.”
Pecan Pralines
(Drake’s favorite…especially for dropped catch, game-losing days!)
4 cups sugar (1/2 white, 1/2 brown sugar)
1/2 stick butter
1 lg. can evaporated milk
1 tsp. vanilla
2 or 3 cups pan roasted pecans
Cook all ingredients except nuts until it reaches softball stage. Add pecans, beat, and drop by spoonsful onto parchment paper.
Note to self: Drake likes them without pecans, Tiffany prefers hers with walnuts.
Old Fashioned Chocolate Fudge
(Broken Heart Fixing/Stress-Reducing Chocolate Therapy for Tiffany)
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup milk
1/2 cup cocoa
1/8 tsp. salt
2 T butter
1 tsp. vanilla
2 T light corn syrup
Put sugar, milk, chocolate, salt and syrup in heavy pan and stir over low heat until dissolved. Increase heat and boil steadily until it reaches softball stage. Remove from heat and add butter and vanilla. Beat until creamy and pour into buttered pan. Let cool and cut.
Note to self: Tiffany prefers hers either plain or with walnuts. Drake prefers his with pecans.