“Too old? What are you, ninety?”
I put my hand on my hip and gave him a stern look, which he ignored.
“Nobody’s too old to discover something important to them.” He sobered, and those expressive lips mellowed into a solemn line. “I will honor my promise to Ida. I owe her that. But I can’t force you to follow her instructions or walk down the road she’s led you to.”
Conviction dripped from him. So there it was. The reason Ida gave the instructions to Ryan. The reason why he held the power to dole out each piece. Either I got answers the way Ida wanted, or I wouldn’t get them at all. Ryan wouldn’t let me take any shortcuts, or skip the process, or jump to knowing the answers without slugging through all the things Ida wanted me to do or know first.
“Ha!” I dropped my head back and looked up at the heavens. “I get it now.”
Ryan remained silent, probably thinking I was a lunatic. Ida knew me better than I’d realized. And she’d set a formidable gatekeeper squarely in my path.
“Fine.” I stalked across the yard, blades of grass poking between my toes.
“Where are you going?” Ryan called after me.
I didn’t look back. “To start stitching memories.”
4
Forgotten Dreams
Here goes nothing. I popped open the cedar chest, mostly ignoring the decorative molding and hammered metal hinges and clasps. Inside, an old teddy bear wearing a peculiar little wooden charm necklace lay on top of a heap of fabrics. It had been loved well, its black fur faded and worn in several places. Had it belonged to my father?
Probably.
Careful of the fraying seams, I gently carried the worn bear into my room and settled it in a place of honor on my dresser. Had my father loved this bear until it no longer had any fuzz remaining? I gave it a pat and returned to Ida’s room, intent on my mission.
I thrust my hand inside and pulled out a fistful of materials. Scraps of floral patterns and other mismatched fragments. It didn’t matter. I just had to stick these together into a big rectangle and call it a quilt. Then I’d get answers.
I snatched the materials and bounded down the stairs to the sewing machine. How hard could it be? Stick the pieces together. Make a rectangle. Sew that to a backing with a little cotton inside. Easy.
The machine taunted me. How did I thread the needle? Or get all the thread and the bobbin in the right places? Nothing like trying to do a job without instructions. An ironic laugh bubbled up. How like life in general. Always trying to figure out what to do, never knowing the measuring stick by which you’d be judged, but still hoping you’d be deemed worthy. I’d failed that test enough times to know I lacked whatever basic competence was needed to navigate a world full of people who played games I didn’t understand.
A knock on the door pulled me from thoughts I shouldn’t entertain. Great. I snatched it open, expecting Ryan, but was met with a prim little woman in her sixties instead.
“Good morning.” The lady smiled at me, her lined face warm with welcome. She thrust an object wrapped in aluminum foil at me. “I made this for you.”
Dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, she appeared relaxed and friendly. I glanced behind her but didn’t see a car in Ida’s drive. Had she walked here?
“Thanks.” I took the package from her.
“I’m Nancy.”
“Cassandra.”
The lady grinned. “I know, dear. Met you at the funeral, remember?”
No. I nodded anyway. “Right. Sorry.”
Nancy, who couldn’t stand more than five feet, waved her hand and managed to make herself appear larger than her stature. “Never you mind that. I know you met too many folks to remember them all.” She reached out and patted my arm. “Especially after losing your grandmother like that. I know how excited she was to find you. Hurts my heart, it does, that you two didn’t get more time.”
I stepped out on the porch and pulled the door closed behind me. “You knew Ida well?”
“Been knowin’ her all my life.” The smile on her face faltered for an instant, but she pulled it back into place. “I’m glad she had you to leave this place to.”
Not that I knew what to do with it.
“Are you planning on staying here long?”
Small town. Nosy neighbors. “I don’t know yet.”
“I’m sure you have a life back in Atlanta.” Nancy’s tone held no judgment, at least not that I could tell.
“Not really. At least not until August.”
Nancy chuckled. “That’s the hand of God, girl. Sure enough.”
What? God wanted me brokenhearted, kicked out of my apartment, and temporarily stuck living in a town in the middle of nowhere? “Anyway…I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.” Depended on how long probate took and how many hoops Ida wanted me to jump through. “Thanks for the, uh…” I lifted the bundle in my hand. “This.”
“Oh! Silly me. It’s a loaf of my famous friendship bread. Ida and I used to make it all the time. I’ll bring you some starter, if you’d like.”
The thought of baking fresh bread ignited a desire in me long buried and, despite myself, I brightened. “Really? I’d like that.”
The lady grinned, bobbing her short curls in enthusiastic agreement. “I’d be happy to. Happy. You like baking?”
I’d once wanted to be a chef. Little girl dreams. “I dabble.”
Nancy shifted her purse to the other arm. “So many things like that are lost on the younger generation. Good to see a young thing like you interested.”
Young thing? “Thanks.”
“I’ll bring some tomorrow.” She grinned. “We can get started on a new loaf.”
Wait. I’d invited a stranger to come cook in Ida’s kitchen? With me? When had I done that? “Um, well—”
Nancy clasped her hands. “It’ll be lovely teaching someone to carry on my friendship bread. I can hardly wait.”
Surprising myself, I returned her enthusiastic smile. “Sounds good.” I wished her a nice day and closed myself in Ida’s house again. The prospect of baking dredged up a longing so intense I could nearly smell the yeasty goodness. I glanced at the package.
Some melted butter…maybe a little of Ida’s fig jam. My mouth watered.
I’d forgotten something important. For the first time, I had access to the kind of kitchen I’d always wanted. Ida had two ovens. Two. A farmhouse sink. And a massive pantry. I stepped over the pile of fabric in the foyer and darted into the kitchen.
Why hadn’t I thought of it before? With the extra time on my hands, I could take some online classes or something. After all these years, could this be my chance to go to cooking school? Do something I wanted for a change?
No, I’d finally gotten a good job, and cooking school would take longer than my summer in Maryville. Being a library assistant at the high school would get me insurance, set hours, and summers to pick up extra income. Too good of a gig to pass up chasing childhood fantasies. Still. While I was here, spending a little time baking and learning couldn’t hurt, could it?
I ran my fingers over the granite countertop. I’d been on my own since seventeen. When I turned eighteen, I earned enough to rent a tiny apartment over a nice couple’s garage, supplemented with cutting their grass so I could finish school. I’d been working and scraping most of my life.