Pam’s smile wipes clean of her face. “I know.” And somehow, I sense she really does know.
+ + +
Later that night, I turn when I hear a noise in the front portion of the restaurant. I’m closing up for the night, running through a checklist of things before I return to my lonely cottage.
I look up to find my parents both standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Mum?” I question as I walk up to her and kiss her cheek. My dad offers me a head nod of acknowledgment. His follow-through with the intention to gift me the outbuilding for my restaurant and his help with the reconstructive building plans has said a lot for a man without many words. I’ll be forever in his debt but also eternally grateful for his quiet support.
My mother’s hand comes to my arm.
“We have something for you. Consider it an early grand opening gift.” She smiles as she hands me a small, worn, wooden box. Hesitantly, I open the lid and read the label inside.
Keep your ingredients close to the heart.
I look at Mum, uncertain what this is or what this means.
“Your Grandma Scott had this recipe box, and she gave it to me when I married your dad. Older women never wrote down a full recipe, knowing most of the ingredients by heart. She eventually told me her recipes were special to her, and the secret ingredients would remain close to her heart. Essentially, she meant she wouldn’t share them with anyone. I still don’t know what was in her classic holiday rolls or why I can’t seem to replicate them. We always joked that she’d die before telling anyone her secrets. And she did. She took some of the most valuable information for her recipes with her to the grave, but there’s a lesson here.”
I’m quiet as I wait for Mum’s explanation. My thumb drifts over the cards in the box.
“The point is, love, we can’t have all the answers sometimes. Some secrets are personal and best kept inside. Try to remember that with Ella.”
I lift my head as Mum continues.
“Recipes can tell a story. Some ingredients, like emotions, we keep tucked inside to protect ourselves, holding on to something we consider precious, vulnerable, hurtful.” Mum taps her chest near her heart. “Not everyone is like that, though. Others want to share all their recipes. They’re giving, kind, generous people, who love openly, love hard, and it makes them equally precious but no less vulnerable. It’s all a metaphor for how we love. Some give freely of their ingredients. Of their recipes. Of themselves.”
I take a deep breath and exhale. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re telling you this because you wear your emotions on your sleeve while Ella might keep hers pinned to her heart. It’s how we know you love her,” Dad gruffly adds.
“And she loves you,” Mum says.
“We had a very generous donation directly to our hospital bill,” Dad explains. “A donation from a project called Fabulously Flawed.” His brow arches.
Ella? Did she know I didn’t take the money? Did she know I wanted to give it to my parents?
“A lovely letter followed the donation telling us Ella’s story and the role you played in her life for weeks back in the fall. We’re so proud of you for helping that sweet, damaged woman,” Mum says, her voice dreamy with praise for me and wet with tears.
“I failed, Mum. The psycho found her and came back for her.”
“You did not fail that girl. You gave her something she never had.”
I snort, and Mum continues. “You gave of your ingredients. Your recipe for love was kindness and strength. You made a fuss for her.”
I bitterly laugh. “Mum, she was a supermodel. Did you know that? People made a fuss over her all the time.”
“They might have primped and pampered her, but for their own means. You, you made a fuss over her.”
“How, Mum?” I went to New York like a damn fool and returned empty-handed.
“By giving her patience.”
In some ways, I understand. A fuss didn’t have to mean loud or vocal but could be quiet, subtle things, like patience. But my mother has really lost it if she thinks I’m still patient. Maybe her cancer meds are going to her head. Maybe she finally agreed to the medicinal marijuana, and if so, I want some because that shit must be good. Maybe it can work on numbing my heart.
My dad remains mostly quiet during Mum’s explanation, and I’m still wondering what they are doing here. It can’t be simply to tell me a metaphor.
“So what made you both stop by? It’s late and cold out there.”
“We wanted to give you this box as a present. It should go to someone who cares about recipes, even the broken ones.” Her forehead wiggles where her eyebrows used to be, and I still don’t take her meaning.
“Thanks, Mum. Dad. I’ll treasure it forever.”
“We know you will,” Dad says, his voice sounding strange to me. I look down at the box one more time and notice a collection of new cards still wrapped in cellophane. I remove the package, noticing the old-fashioned image and the line intended for writing down a recipe. Everything is digital nowadays, but I appreciate the gesture. A Post-it note rests on the plastic wrap.
For your new recipes. Follow your dreams. We are proud of you.
My vision blurs a bit, and I blink back the liquid stinging my eyes. It’s my father’s handwriting, and even if my mum told him what to write, it hits me hard. I want them to be proud of me.
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the heaviness in my throat before leaning forward to hug my mother. Her frail body feels breakable in my arms, but I embrace her as tight as I can, willing her to feel all the love I have for her.
When I release her embrace, I step over to my dad, expecting to shake his hand, but he pulls me forward once our hands clasp, and I awkwardly fall against him. My arm circles his shoulder, and I hold on longer than I expect because all I ever could have wanted from them was this. Their acceptance of my dream.
Card 32: Candy Hearts
Maple syrup in the mix
[Ethan]
I chalk up the strangeness of a week ago—the trifecta of Jacob, Pam, and my parents—to a full moon or something ending out January. Every day in February is another day closer to the opening. Today, I sit in the nearly arranged dining room. I’m trying to maximize the space without it feeling cluttered. White linen will cover the tables to make it elegant while a variety of old rustic chairs provide a comfortably eclectic atmosphere. Today, I’m arranging for centerpieces for the future opening and landscaping options with Mae from Mae’s Flowers, the garden center where Pam works. Then I plan to finalize the menu. I’m just finishing my meeting with Mae when the front door opens. My breath catches.
“So if these meet your approval, we’ll have everything ready for the grand opening on April first,” Mae says to me, but her voice drifts through my ears as I can’t take my eyes off the woman near the door. The one without a hood on her head, but hair, loose and wild and vibrant orange-red.
“These are great, Mae. Thanks.”
She looks back and forth between me and the front door, and then whispers, “I’ll see myself out.”