by Nikki Ash
Grandma pauses, and my heart drops. Did I just remind her of this fact? She turns and starts to place her milk and flour-covered hands on her hips but seems to think better of it. “Child, I’m aware I didn’t go to school with anyone who lives here. I may be old, but I’m far from senile. These women act the same way the girls in high school did when the cute popular boy asked them out. They’re all after one thing, this generation of mine, and that is security and comfort.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand and turns her back toward me. I feel dumb for even saying what I said. I stand and go to her, standing hip to hip with her. “I love you the most,” I tell her. It’s the truth. She’s always been my advocate, the one to stand up to my parents when they felt I brought shame to the family. The relationship I have with my grandma isn’t like the one she has with my siblings or cousins. They’ve commented on this many times, how I’m the favorite. I tell them it’s because I named my daughter after our grandmother. I’ve given her a namesake. But they don’t believe me. It’s fine. My grandfather favors my brother and my baby cousin, Birdie. Although, Birdie is far from a baby anymore.
“I love you too,” she tells me. “And I appreciate you looking out for me, but my mind is as sharp as a tack.” She brushes my hair away from my face and then cups my cheek. “I promise.”
Somehow, she knows how much I need her. We have a large, close-knit family, but even in a family like mine, there is always someone, or a few someones who won’t always agree with a decision you make. My grandmother is the most objective one out of everyone and also the most vocal. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have an opinion though, and isn’t afraid to let you know what she thinks or how she feels.
I wash my hands and begin to help her finish preparing tonight’s dinner. Arla, my nine-year-old daughter, and I will join my grandparents this evening. Arla spends most of her weekends here, at my parents, or brother Trey’s house, so I can run Lottie’s. Between the ski lodge and the marina, Holyoak barely has an off-season. The summertime lake goers turn into skiers, and the skiers turn into leaf peepers. For those of us in town who own businesses, we enjoy the constant tourism.
After we finish the chicken, my grandma takes out the ingredients to make her homemade cornbread and suggests I start working on dessert. “What is it?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “You tell me.”
I turn away, so she doesn’t see me smile. Everything I know about cooking and baking I’ve learned from her. At Lottie’s, we strive to give our customers a homecooked meal. Of course, all the beer my cousins encouraged me to install isn’t hurting. The people who come from all over seem to enjoy the-mile-long bar. The twins, Krew and Kiel, wanted the bar to wrap around the entire restaurant, which my grandfather vehemently objected to. My great-grandfather bought the building where Lottie’s is many moons ago and turned it into a restaurant. My grandfather inherited it, and he handed the restaurant to me about five years ago. I don’t own it outright, but it’s mine, and I can do whatever I want with it. My grandpa’s idea was to change the name to Lottie’s, and my idea to completely renovate and change the menu. I like to think my changes allow us to thrive.
Above the stove, my Grandma keeps all of the cookbooks she’s collected over the years. I finally find the one I’m looking for, a Betty Crocker cookbook from the 1950s. Inside, there is a tattered recipe for apple cinnamon strudel, my grandma’s favorite. I pull the book from its spot and set it on the noodle board, adorned with my grandparent's last name—Carmichael. I flip through, looking at some of the recipes in there, hoping something will catch my eye until I get to the worn-out piece of paper that has been taped over and over again. Long ago, I asked my grandma why she doesn’t just buy a new Betty Crocker cookbook, and she said the recipes aren’t the same, that the essence of cooking has changed over the years. “Everyone is always looking for a shortcut. No one wants to take the time to make a full meal anymore,” is what she tells me when I bring it up. She’s right. Quick meals are nice. Arla and I often practice the grab and go lifestyle. But I also appreciate a homecooked meal, especially if I’ve made it all from scratch. There is something satisfying about sitting down and seeing all your hard work pay off.
I head into my grandma’s walk-in pantry. My grandfather had it built a couple of years back after grandma had seen something similar on one of those home makeover shows. Of course, this meant her entire kitchen had to be remodeled. The finished space is comforting, with its farm style family seating at the table, a vintage décor, and all brand new appliances. One of my favorite parts, aside from the pantry, is the deep countertops. My grandpa knew what he was doing when he had the contractor extend them. There is so much more workspace than before.
After pulling the ingredients I need from the pantry and four apples, I get to work. Normally, I would put my earbuds in and listen to a book or a podcast, which allows me to think about other things while working. With my grandma in the room, I’d much rather listen to her hum or sing her favorite song even though she can’t sing worth a lick. I’ll never have the heart to tell her she’s tone-deaf and completely off-key.
Once my apples are sliced, and in the pan with raisins, cinnamon, sugar, and brandy, I set them aside to let the liquor soak into the slices. The dough is the tricky part. Most people will use a store-bought version, but not in this house. I mix the ingredients I need to make the paper-thin dough and roll it out until it’s perfect. Even my grandma comes over to make sure it’s thin enough. I don’t mind that she’s checking. I like reassurance. It’s my brother Tripp who likes to tell me I’m doing something wrong. I know he means it jokingly, but after years of him teasing me, it gets a little old. You would think with him being younger than me, he’d know his place. Unfortunately for me and everyone who meets Tripp, his ego is immense, and he’s not afraid to use it. As the head ski instructor at the lodge during the winter, and the “jack of all trades” at the marina, Tripp has a gaggle of women following him around town. Every time I hear a group of women giggle when they say his name, I puke a little in my mouth.
Grandma and I assess the rolled flour and determine it’s perfect. Over at the stove, Grandma turns the burner on and sets my pan of soaking apples onto it. She stirs while humming a show tune. The song is familiar, but I can’t place it. When I was growing up, she often took all the grandkids to her childhood home in New York City. My grandma never thought twice about taking eleven grandchildren to the city. Now with nineteen of us, along with four great-grandchildren, she would never think of it.
She brings the pan over and starts laying the apples out and drizzling the remaining sauce over the top of them. While I wait for the apples to cool, I make sure to coat my hands in flour so I can move the pastry around the fruit, folding as I go. Every so often, I look at my grandma, seeking her approval. Each time, she nods or smiles, and when I get to the last fold, she has a baking dish ready to go.
“It looks perfect,” she tells me as she carries it to the oven. Grandma closes the door, turns the light on so we can keep our eyes on the pastry, and sets the timer. “Come,” she says, motioning for me to follow her. I start to, but my phone rings. My grandma pauses in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room and tells me to answer it.
I rush into the entryway where I left my belongings, and frantically search my coat pockets, and then my purse, until my hand brushes over the metal. I glance at the screen and send the unknown caller to voicemail. While I’m at it, I decide to check my text messages. There’s one from my sister, Missy, who wants to tell me about one of her sorority sisters. One from my cousin, Frankie, asking me what time dinner is. And the last one is from my cousin Krew, who is working at Lottie’s today.
Lottie, you’re never going to believe who came in today.
Don’t ignore me, Lottie. I gave someone your number today. He’s going to call you. I hope.
Charlotte Carmichael, I need you to text or call
me back!
If there is anything I know about Krew, it’s that he’s dramatic. He’s a therapist, but likes to moonlight as a bartender because he says it helps him work on his pick-up game. As much as I disagree with his theory, when he works, I get the freedom to not worry about the restaurant and come here and visit with my grandma. I’m curious about who Krew gave my number to and wonder if that was the unknown caller. In the process of texting Krew back, mostly to let him know that I don’t need his help meeting people, the notification that I have a voicemail pops up. I click and bring my phone to my ear to listen.
“Ahem . . . Um, hi Charlotte, or Lottie. This is uh . . . well I’m not sure you remember me, but I used to live in Holyoak, Jack Hennewell. I don’t even know why I’m calling, but your cousin said I should. Anyway, I hope things are well with you. I’m just passing through to Montreal for a wedding, but I have my phone if you want to call me back. Take care, Lottie.”
I pull my phone away from my ear and look at it. There is no way I heard what I heard. I listen, again and again, barely registering his words over the sound of my rapidly beating heart.
“There’s no way.”
“For what, sweetie?”
I drop my phone to my side and turn to look at my grandma. “Arla’s dad was in town,” I say even though I don’t believe my own words. “He ate lunch at Lottie’s.”
She deadpans, and her mouth drops open.
“Yeah,” I say, answering her unasked question.
Chapter Three
Jack
Mitch rambles on as I drive north. I’m not entirely focused on what he’s saying, though. My mind is still in Holyoak, with what Krew said and the voicemail I left for Lottie. I’m tempted to go back, but to what—a girl, no now woman, who may or may not remember me? I can’t. I can’t do that to Mitch, who is excited to see the Northeast, and I definitely can’t do that to our buddy who expects us to be at his wedding. I glance in my rearview mirror and grimace. Why? I think because deep down, I’m hoping Krew or Lottie is trying to chase me down. Again, I ask myself why I would want this or expect this—sadly, I don’t have an answer. I’m surprised Krew even remembered who I was . . . or am. The brief time I spent here wasn’t overly memorable. At least that’s what I thought when I left.
We finally reach the Vermont border and Mitch hangs out the window to take a picture of the sign welcoming us. “Why’s it in French?” he asks as he situates himself in his seat. He leaves the window down, which I don’t mind. It’s relatively warm out, and the fresh air feels good. It’s also keeping my mind clear and focused on the road and not the urge I have to turn around and drive back to Holyoak.
“Back in the 1600s, a French explorer discovered the lake we’re going to come across and named the state. Vermont translates to green mountains,” I tell him.
“Did you have to learn all of this when you lived here?”
I shrug. “Sort of. This area is rich in history, and it’s not uncommon for someone to talk about the Revolutionary War or Ethan Allen.”
“There’s a National Guard unit called the Green Mountain Boys, right?” Mitch asks.
I nod. “They were the patriot militia of the war. They defended property rights and fought to protect what is now considered Vermont. They were only around for about eight or nine years before they disbanded and all but faded away until Vermont joined the United States as the Vermont National Guard and used the nickname The Green Mountain Boys.” I can feel Mitch looking at me, so I peek in his direction. “What?” I ask him.
“How the hell do you know all of this?”
I shake my head slowly. “I’ve researched the National Guard.”
“Why?”
“For retirement,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know, just looking to see what else is out there.”
“I thought we were starting a brewery?”
“We are or can. I’m totally down for it, but we can still serve our country and keep our benefits if we join the Guard. It’s one weekend a month and a few weeks out the summer or something like that. Just an option.”
“Options are nice,” Mitch says and turns his attention back to the passing scenery. “It’s really green,” he mumbles.
Leaning forward slightly, I peer out the window until the trees make me dizzy. After I sit back and readjust, I chance a look at my phone. Deep down, I’m hoping there’s a message or a phone call from Lottie, even though I doubt she’ll call me back. She has no reason to, and the more I think about it, I should’ve never listened to Krew. I don’t even understand why he was so insistent that I call his cousin. It’s been ten years, and a lot can happen in those years.
“Any place to stop around here?”
He makes me laugh. “I’ve only been to Vermont once, but when I mapped our trip out, there wasn’t much until we reached a few exits. I have a list of places on the back of our itinerary.”
Mitch reaches into the backseat and struggles a bit until he pulls out all the pieces of paper I have folded together. “Geez,” he says when he unfolds the stack. “You’re freaking anal.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You can. You choose not to.” Mitch flips through the pages, muttering as he goes. “Shit, you even have the rest stops marked on here, and how long it should take us. What if I need to take a crap?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just . . .” well, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I put so many details down. “I think I was bored when I started mapping this out.”
Mitch shakes his head. “Says here that Burlington is the place to get food and where we will find a hotel.”
“We don’t need a hotel,” I tell him. “We’ll be fine to make it to Montreal.”
“How long until we’re there?”
I point to the GPS. “What does it say right there, spanky?”
Mitch backhands me. “Don’t be an ass.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t be. “Sorry, my mind.”
Mitch turns slightly in his seat and folds his hands together, placing them in his lap. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s genuine, even though he’s a facetious jerk. I’ve never been one to share or show affection, whereas Mitch talks about everything. Because of how I grew up, I’ve learned to compartmentalize my thoughts, and I often forget there are people out there who care about me.
“I will,” I tell him. “As long as you turn back to sitting normally.”
Mitch does and even goes as far as to reclining his seat a bit. “There, now you’ll be the therapist, and I’ll be the patient since you’re the one driving. We’ll call it role reversal.”
I inhale deeply and center myself. “You remember what I told you earlier, right? About living in that town?”
“Yeah, made a few friends.”
I nod. “Well, Krew was one of them. His family is really nice, but also wealthy. They pretty much own the town. He has a twin brother but also has a bunch of cousins, most of who are around my age.”
“I’m guessing one of these cousins is this woman he wanted you to call today?”
Nodding, I continue, “Lottie, although I prefer to call her Charlotte, was the nicest and prettiest girl in school. Beyond popular, every guy wanted to date her.”
“But she wanted you, you devil.”
I give Mitch a side-eye glance. “Let me finish.”
“Roger that.”
“Anyway,” I sigh heavily. “I was definitely in the mix of boys who liked Charlotte but knew I never stood a chance. When I say wealthy, I mean the upper echelon of people. Each kid had brand-new cars, they all live on the lake, which I believe they own, run the only ski lodge in town, among other things. We’re talking boats, jet skis, parties—every teenager's dream. I’m on the outside, looking in, and thinking this is what a family looks like.
“I’m in town maybe three weeks when Charlotte comes up to me in history class and asks if I need a partner. I’m fairly sure I bit my tongue and nodded, completely frightened to spe
ak because I was afraid of saying something embarrassing. She gives me her address and tells me what time to come over. One of our other classmates sees the entire exchange and tells me I need to pack condoms because Charlotte Carmichael puts out if I want to get laid.
“I’m shaking like a leaf when I push the doorbell. The house is so damn big, the chime echoes, which makes matters worse for my nerves. Charlotte answers the door wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair in some bun thing on top of her head, and in slippers. She will never know how much relief I felt in that moment because if a girl is trying to get some action, this was not the thing to wear,” I point out. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a total knockout, but with no skin showing, teenage Jack can cope. She invites me in, introduces me to her parents, and then takes me into the kitchen, where I stumble over my feet at the view. Her house faces the lake, and her home has these floor to ceiling windows, which lets you see everything. For some reason, I think it’s wise to go over and drool, and when Charlotte stands next to me, I expect her to tell me to leave because I’m gawking, but she hands me a bottle of water and starts pointing out who lives where. It’s like a damn compound or some shit.
“I follow her to the kitchen table where her books are spread out. Charlotte tells me to sit, and I do. It takes me a long minute to figure out that she really wants to study and that she must’ve turned the dickwad in class down. Her parents invited me to stay for dinner and asked me a lot of questions about my life, where my parents were, and how I like living in Holyoak. After that night, I was in their group, with Charlotte, her brothers, and cousins.
“It wasn’t until a week or so before I planned to leave that we hooked up. Most people in town thought we were dating. I guess we were, sort of, I was just too nervous to really make a move. Her parents went out of town, and she invited me over. I expected things to be normal until she answered the door in bra and panties and pulled me upstairs.”