The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie Page 3

  I leaned over the pot to check the filling, then stepped back from the stove and dabbed at my welling eyes behind my glasses, afraid to dapple the lemon mixture with briny tears. A quiet agony, to still love a man who was so thoroughly out of reach, so terribly gone. Did it count if you did indeed fall in love but then it ended disastrously, entirely by your own hand?

  “Pretty sure the answer to that is no,” I whispered, trying to swallow the knot of grief clogging my throat.

  So this was it, the truth about my lemon of a life. I was on the cusp of turning thirty-three, and that sparkly purple list of life goals spoke loudly about all I had not done. In the loneliness of the kitchen I felt the sharp slice of despair. How had it come to this? How had I not managed to accomplish even one thing on the list?

  Across the room, over the door to the dining room, hung my mother’s favorite sign. Painted on thin metal whitewashed to look vintage, it read: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. A saying so common it bordered on trite, but one my mother had firmly embraced nonetheless. She was a lemonade sort of woman, approaching every hurdle with a brisk, efficient optimism. If she were here now, I knew what she’d say.

  “Stop crying over your lemon of a life, Lolly, and start figuring out how to make lemonade.”

  But she wasn’t here, and her absence was a huge part of the reason my life was now quite lemony. I reread the sign and felt something stir in my chest, a flicker of determination. When I wrote that list, I’d had every intention of following through on every point. And indeed up until ten years ago I’d been well on my way to accomplishing each one, and then life had gotten in the way. It wasn’t my fault that circumstances had derailed me. It wasn’t fair either. But it had happened.

  I’d been telling myself for years that I’d get back on track with my own dreams, just a little later on, when Daphne was older, when the Eatery was on firmer financial footing, when, when, when. Yet somehow that time never seemed to come.

  It’s not too late. My mother’s voice, a loud whisper in my mind.

  “How would I even start?” I whispered back.

  But if I didn’t do something now, when would I? I gave the list a sideways glance and made a snap decision. I simply could not reach my thirty-third birthday with all my goals still unmet.

  “I’ve got a month,” I said aloud, setting my chin firmly. And there in that cold kitchen, surrounded by the scent of bubbling lemon filling and Johnny crooning a strangely plaintive rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” I made myself a promise. “I will check at least one thing off that list before I blow out my birthday candles if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Then I picked up the spoon and stirred the lemon filling vigorously, trying hard to focus on the future and all the possibilities that lay ahead, not looking back to the shattered past and all I’d left behind.

  5

  EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO

  NEW YEAR’S EVE

  New Year’s Eve and I was alone in my room, halfway through To Kill a Mockingbird for freshman honors English. I glanced out the window and across the street. The light in Rory’s room was on. That was odd. I thought he was at a party at Jessica Sharma’s house. Jessica was the most popular girl of Rory’s sophomore class, and rumor had it she was throwing a New Year’s Eve party for fifty people. Invitations were highly coveted. I hadn’t been one of the lucky fifty, but even if I had been invited, I wouldn’t have been able to go. Tonight I had to stay home because my parents had gone with Mr. and Mrs. Shaw to a New Year’s Eve party in Green Lake, and my parents had paid me to babysit Daphne. She was now sound asleep in her room across the hall, and I was regretting agreeing to watch her tonight.

  I’d invited Ashley over to watch the ball drop, but she’d called this morning to tell me she had the stomach flu. So here I was, on track to have the most boring New Year’s Eve on record. I squinted through the window, trying to see if I could spot Rory across the street. No movement. Maybe he’d just left the light on by accident.

  I sighed in disappointment and turned back to my chapter, keeping one eye on Rory’s window. After the Shaws had moved in across the street the previous year, our mothers quickly became great friends, and Rory and I found ourselves together pretty often. Most Mondays, the only day the diner was closed, the Shaws came over for a game night. While the adults played poker in the dining room and drank beer and dirty martinis, Rory and I would watch a movie in the den. Rory loved our old basset hound, Myrtle, and he was good with Daphne, who was still a toddler. She would crawl all over him, poking her fingers into his ears and nostrils, and he’d carry her around on his back like a horse.

  We were not best friends. I had Ashley for that, and Rory had a couple of good guy pals from the high school soccer team, but we were friendly. Rory was a year ahead of me in school, but he always made a point to greet me if he saw me in the hall between classes. We didn’t hang out together outside the Monday-evening game nights, but I felt happier knowing he was across the street. I never felt on edge with Rory. He made me feel at ease in my own skin. When he was around, the world was just right somehow.

  I sighed again and checked the clock. After eleven. My stomach rumbled and I hopped out of bed. Time for a little night snack. Maybe I would turn the TV on and watch the ball drop, although it would feel sad to do it alone. I padded softly down the stairs, careful not to rouse Daphne. Myrtle snuffled hopefully at my heels. She was a consummate beggar.

  Flipping on the light in the kitchen, I grabbed a plate and shook a handful of Triscuits out of the box. I dropped a Triscuit for Myrtle, who looked dolefully at me and wagged her tail. She was hoping for cheese.

  “No cheese tonight, girl,” I told her, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. I started to slice it, using the good paring knife my dad sharpened every month. Chop. Chop. Cut out the core. I hummed as I worked, a peppy rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Just as I cored the last apple segment, Myrtle bumped my leg with her low-slung, tubby body. The knife slid through the center of the apple and sliced hard across the pad of my thumb.

  I gave a low, strangled gasp and dropped the apple and the knife, clutching my hand. Blood welled up instantly from the wound, glistening deep red, running down my wrist onto the counter. Oh, this was bad. Feeling a little faint, I tried to think. My heart was pounding and my head felt light. The pain was sharp. Myrtle, sensing something was amiss, woofed, staring up at me in puzzled concern.

  “Oh no-no-no. Oh, girl, what are we going to do?” I grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it around my injured hand, then clumsily picked up the phone and called the Stewarts’ house, where my parents were at the party. No one picked up. Ashley’s whole family was down with the stomach flu and couldn’t come help me. I chewed my lip, panicking just a little. I didn’t think it was bad enough to call 911, but even if I did need a doctor’s care, I couldn’t leave Daphne here alone. Nor could I imagine taking her in an ambulance. She’d be terrified. I hesitated for only a minute and then called the Shaws’ house, praying that Rory really was home. My heart was racing and I felt a little dizzy.

  He picked up after two rings. “Hello?”

  The relief was instantaneous at the sound of his voice. “Rory, it’s Lolly. I just cut my hand and it’s bleeding a lot.” Suddenly I started to cry. “Can you come over?”

  He came immediately. His hair was wet from the shower, dark copper strands curling damply over his ears, and he was in a soccer T-shirt and a faded pair of sweatpants with a hole in one knee. I met him at the door, holding my injured hand above my head. I thought I’d heard you should do that when you were bleeding. Myrtle wagged her tail when she saw Rory, then whined softly, unsure what was happening.

  “How bad is it?” he asked in concern, kicking off his running shoes and eyeing my hand. Spots of blood were seeping through the dish towel. It looked gruesome.

  I grimaced. “I don’t know. I didn’t really see the cut. I was sort of in s
hock.”

  Rory frowned. “Do you want me to drive you to the ER? I’m supposed to have an adult with me, but since it’s an emergency . . .” He watched me earnestly. He was fifteen now and had his learner’s permit.

  I hesitated, then shook my head, holding my injured hand high in the air as if raising my hand to answer a question in class, trying to keep calm and think clearly. “I’m not sure it’s that bad. I hope not. I already tried to call my parents. They didn’t answer. Daphne’s asleep upstairs and I just don’t know what to do.” I teared up a little again. My thumb was hurting a lot.

  “Let’s take a look at it and see how bad it is,” Rory suggested calmly.

  I nodded and sniffled. “Okay.”

  He took me by the elbow and carefully led me to the sink in the kitchen, gingerly unwrapping the dish towel. I squeezed my eyes shut as he assessed the wound.

  “Oh, ouch,” he murmured. I opened one eye a crack. I’d sliced a segment the size of a dime out of the pad of my thumb. It was just an open wound and still bleeding profusely.

  “How bad is it?” I whispered. “Do I need stitches?”

  Rory surveyed the wound. He’d taken a first aid course that fall, and I knew he was interested in becoming a doctor of some sort. “It’s bleeding a lot, but I don’t think stitches are going to help. There’s nothing to stitch. The skin is gone. We need to clean it and apply pressure and see if we can stop the bleeding.”

  “Okay,” I said faintly, relieved that he so capably seemed to know what to do.

  “Here, sit down.” He grabbed a chair and helped me sit, my arm still over the sink, dripping blood into the drain. “Where’s your first aid kit?” He spoke in the same measured, calm tone, which in turn made me feel calmer.

  “Upstairs bathroom,” I mumbled. I was feeling a little faint all of a sudden and sick to my stomach, my vision going dark around the edges. I leaned my head against the edge of the sink while he went to get the kit and closed my eyes.

  “Lolly, are you okay?” Rory was suddenly there at my side, leaning over me, peering intently into my face. He had his hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

  I nodded. “I think so. It just hurts a lot.”

  “I’m going to bandage the wound, okay?” Rory instructed. “Just lean against me if you need to.”

  I nodded and rested against his side, grateful for the comfort. His T-shirt was worn and soft. He smelled like tea tree shampoo and himself, that hint of oak leaves and sweet tea that made me want to inhale deeply every time I was around him. We’d never touched like this before. I was super aware of every one of his breaths, of the taut muscles of his torso against my cheek. I felt both reassured and a little flustered to be so close to him. I liked it quite a bit actually. I leaned in a little closer.

  “This is going to sting a little,” he murmured. “Just for a minute.”

  I gave a strangled shriek as he poured hydrogen peroxide solution over the wound. It fizzed and bubbled. He leaned down and blew on it. “My mom always did this,” he explained, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t know if it helps, but it always made me feel better.”

  And strangely I did feel better. He grinned at me and I managed a small smile back.

  “Just a couple more steps,” Rory said soothingly. He blotted the wound with a clean square of gauze, then bound it snugly with more gauze and taped it. I could feel his hands shaking a little as he worked, and he was breathing fast. I realized he was nervous and trying not to show it. He was trying to be strong and take care of me. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes closed, concentrating on not crying. I wanted to seem strong and brave too.

  “Okay, we’re done.”

  I opened my eyes. Rory was sweeping all the detritus into the trash can, even the blood-soaked kitchen towel. The flower pattern was probably beyond saving. He packed up the first aid kit too. When he was done it looked like nothing had happened.

  “Thank you.” I looked at my bandaged thumb. It was the size and shape of a chicken drumstick. “Do you want to stay and watch the ball drop?” It was only a few minutes until midnight.

  “Sure. I should probably make sure the bleeding has stopped before I go.” Rory guided me into the living room and switched on the TV, turning it to the Times Square New Year’s Eve celebration on NBC. He tucked an afghan around my legs and propped my injured hand above the level of my heart with a stack of pillows. Other than my mom, I’d never had someone care for me like this. It was unexpectedly sweet.

  We sat together on the couch, not touching but not far apart. Myrtle lay at our feet, content now that things seemed normal again. She drifted off to sleep and started snoring softly. On TV, Times Square looked frigid and festive, teeming with people celebrating the New Year. I snuck a look at Rory. He was watching the TV.

  “I thought you were at Jessica Sharma’s party tonight.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I was. It was okay, really loud. I just wasn’t feeling it. I left early.”

  “I’m glad.” I sniffed, still feeling a little shaky. “Thank you for coming over. I didn’t know what to do.”

  He gave me a steady look. “I’ll always be here for you, Lolly,” he assured me, and I believed him. At that moment it was the most comforting thought in the world.

  The countdown began in Times Square. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

  I looked at him again. He’d poured us the sparkling cranberry juice my mom had left for Ashley and me in the fridge since we weren’t old enough to drink champagne. I took a sip and watched his profile. I felt light and effervescent with relief, almost as though I were floating a few inches above the couch. I was profoundly grateful that he was beside me, that he had come to my aid tonight. Sitting next to him, I felt happy and content.

  “Four . . . three . . . two . . . one. Happy New Year!” Times Square erupted in celebration. Rory quirked an eyebrow at me and raised his glass in a toast. I leaned over awkwardly and we clinked glasses.

  “Happy New Year, Lolly.”

  “Happy New Year.” We drank.

  On the TV screen flashed a montage of celebrations from around the United States. People in party hats and sparkling sequined evening attire in Atlanta, people gathered around a bonfire toasting with beer in Wyoming. In Maryland a group of senior citizen ladies in swimsuits stood at the edge of the Chesapeake Bay and on the count of three jumped in together.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” Rory commented, watching the ladies splash and shriek in the water. “I think it’s called a polar plunge.”

  I considered for a moment. “We could do one tomorrow.” It was a crazy notion, but I was having such a good time with Rory I didn’t want it to end. The thought of doing something a little adventurous with him was exciting.

  His eyes lit up. “Really?”

  I didn’t think about my injured hand or how we would convince our parents to let us go. I just promised.

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “Meet me here at ten tomorrow morning. I know just the place.”

  * * *

  “Wow. Just wow.”

  Late the next morning Rory stood with me on the long, lonely swath of rocky shoreline at South Beach in Magnolia. He looked around him, taking in the panorama—the steely, restless waters of the sound stretching away to the green mound of Bainbridge Island, and beyond the island, the snowcapped Olympic Mountains rising majestically against a cloudy sky. He gave a low whistle. “Lolly, this is amazing.”

  I smiled, shivering in the chill air. I couldn’t agree more. It was a cold, clear New Year’s Day, and my mom had dropped us off at Discovery Park, a vast area of evergreen forest and fields and bluffs that ran along Puget Sound just a mile from our house. With its acres of walking trails, lighthouse, and beautiful, remote South Beach, the park had always been one of my favorite places. My parents had been taking me to South Beach for as long as I could remember, and to
day I wanted to share it with Rory. It would be the perfect spot for our polar plunge.

  Bundled in jackets and scarves against the January wind and wearing swimsuits underneath our coats, we stood on the remote northern part of the beach, past the lighthouse and the small parking lot. A cold breeze ruffled Rory’s wavy copper hair and made the freckles stand out on the planes of his cheekbones.

  “Ready?” I asked a little nervously. It was so cold and the water would be freezing as well. I was rethinking my rash promise of the night before. I’d told my mom we wanted to take a hike. I was pretty sure she would not have let us come if she’d known what we were planning. I also hadn’t fully considered the cut on my finger the night before. I’d brought a quart Ziploc baggie and a rubber band and was planning to wrap my hand in the baggie to keep it dry. Now, in the cold light of day, it seemed like a dumb idea.

  He nodded. “Sure, let’s do it.”

  “Come on.” I gestured for him to follow me as I headed down to the water. It was so clear I could see the strands of seaweed drifting above the bed of sand and smooth colored stones at the bottom. Farther out in the water a seal popped his head above the surface and looked at us curiously. Waves lapped gently against the shoreline. I shrugged out of my jacket and sweatshirt, unlaced my tennis shoes, and peeled off my leggings; and stood shivering and covered in goose pimples in my one-piece bathing suit on the cold, wet sand. Rory did the same. He came to stand beside me and wrapped his arms around his bare chest. I carefully stuffed my hand in the baggie, and Rory helped me secure the rubber band around my wrist. Hopefully my bandage would stay dry inside the bag.