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.