The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Page 13

  Abby, who had always been the tough one—the one who fell down, skinned her knee, and got back up without shedding a tear—seemed to melt a little every time she glanced at her fiancée. “I love her, Bridge. I really do. I can’t imagine my life without her.”

  Bridget tried to reach back, to remember when she had felt that way about Jim. When living without him had been unthinkable. Already, that moment when she’d said I do seemed a hundred years ago, the memory just out of reach, floating away like a balloon caught in the breeze. “Then you should marry her.”

  “I can’t. She won’t marry me. Not until I introduce her to Ma. Jessie thinks”—Abby’s gaze strayed to the patio again—”that I’m ashamed of her. But I’m not. I’m ashamed…of them.”

  Of the family. Of how they would react. How all that old school Catholic upbringing had created a bias against anyone who stepped outside the prescribed lines of the church. Bridget had heard it more than once. “They’re the ones losing out, Abby.”

  Abby’s smile wavered. “I don’t think they know that.”

  “You can’t keep this secret forever.” All those secrets had done was divide the sisters. With Abby exiled and Magpie off to who-knew-where, the bakery echoed and the family dinners had lost a lot of their luster.

  “Ah, but keeping secrets is what we do best in this family, Bridge,” Abby said. Her gaze went to the window, to some place far beyond the sunny view. “Just ask Ma.”

  The hairs on the back of Bridget’s neck rose. She thought of the whispers of aunts at holiday dinners, conversations that had cut off whenever any of the girls entered the room. All her life, there’d been this feeling…a sense, really, that there was a chapter missing in the O’Bannon family book, like the “missing” chapters of the Bible that only Catholics read because at some point Martin Luther had decided they shouldn’t be part of the story. “What do you mean? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Abby shook her head, slid off the bar stool, and loaded the plates into the sink. “There are things in this family that no one ever talks about,” she said. “Things that would change everything if people knew. Things that aren’t mine to share.”

  SIXTEEN

  The supermarket was bright and loud and happy for a Sunday morning. Twin toddlers dashed past Bridget, trailed by a weary mother with bloodshot eyes and a stained T-shirt. Their mother caught them, one in each arm, and then hoisted the boys into the basket of the cart. As she did, she gave Bridget a smile, the kind that said, Kids, you know what I mean? as if everyone at the Stop and Shop was in this motherhood club.

  Yeah, Bridget didn’t know and now probably never would. She watched the mom head over to the citrus fruits and wondered if everything would be different today if she’d had a baby. Would Jim have been home more? Traveling less? Would the stress of their marriage have eased?

  She already knew those answers, had known them before Jim died. She’d watched the primroses grow and realized she’d been holding on to a fantasy that was never going to happen. Jim didn’t want kids.

  They’ll just tie us down, babe. Keep us hostage to soccer schedules and school field trips. I’d rather be out, with you, enjoying life.

  Except he hadn’t done that with her. There’d always been another trip to take, another late night at the office, another excuse. And Bridget had begun to realize that she’d linked her life to a man who wanted to travel a totally different road.

  Bridget watched a couple walk through the store, their hands sharing the cart’s handle, fingers nestled side by side. They laughed and kissed and picked out grapes and strawberries. Six months ago, she and Jim had been in this very same market, doing the very same thing. Had they been that happy too?

  For a moment, she could almost feel Jim beside her, his broad shoulders touching hers from time to time, his blue eyes connecting with hers. In that second, she missed her husband with an ache that went bone-deep. She missed his voice, his touch, his corny jokes. Okay, so things weren’t perfect, but maybe there would have been a chance to fix it, if he had lived. Or maybe she was just telling herself that because the bad memories were fading.

  Maybe it was just seeing Abby and Jessie Friday night that had made her all melancholy. Another night without sleep, another night in an empty bed. Another morning waking up and realizing this was her life now, like it or not.

  “I see you’re skipping church too.” Nora swung her cart up beside Bridget’s and gave her a grin. “Ma would have a shit fit if she saw us here instead of at Mass.”

  “I was afraid if I went to church Father McBride would talk me into volunteering at some orphanage in Guatemala.”

  Nora laughed. “Hey, that might be more exciting than our lives. In fact, if I could run off to Guatemala for a week or two, I think I would.”

  Bridget looked behind her sister. “Where are the kids? Home with Ben?”

  Nora fiddled with her purse, settling it in the seat of the cart. “Ben’s…out of town. I’m paying my babysitter a small fortune to get a half hour to myself. And where do I spend it? Here.” She rolled her eyes. “I really need to get a life. Why are you here?”

  Bridget didn’t remind Nora that at least she still had a husband and her kids. That was more of a life than Bridget had right now. “I needed something other than lasagna to eat.”

  Guilt flickered over Nora’s face. “Bridge, I could have made you—”

  She put up a hand. “Stop. I don’t want any of you making me anything anymore. I need to start doing this stuff for myself. Moving forward. Living again, or some facsimile of it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Nora shrugged. “Sorry. I have that tendency to try to take care of everyone. It’s got to be the masochistic mom in me.”

  Bridget surveyed the produce department. The idea of filling her cart, or deciding what she wanted to eat for the next week, seemed like a wily snake she couldn’t get a grasp on. Start small, she told herself, and the bigger stuff would follow. She stared at the towering pile of bunched bananas. She reached for a set of four and pulled her hand back. Drifted her fingers over a small bunch of three, then another set of five, then a quartet of ones nearly ready to yellow.

  “They’re bananas, not puppies, Bridge. Just pick some.”

  “I don’t want to buy too many. If I buy four and then end up throwing one away, Jim will be mad. He hates waste and…”

  “What? The world will explode? It’s a banana.” Nora plucked up a bunch and dropped it into her cart. Then she paused and covered Bridget’s hand with her own. “Jim is gone, sweetie. You can buy however many bananas you want.”

  Nora’s words climbed over the Muzak on the store sound system, wrapping around the whir in Bridget’s mind before finally settling in. Jim was gone. There was no one to ask her about the groceries when she got home. No one to give her that look when one lone banana turned too dark to eat. “I can buy however many bananas I want.”

  Nora laughed. “You say that like you’ve never done it before. Come on, let’s go hit the chocolate aisle.”

  Her sister started to turn away. Bridget laid a hand on Nora’s arm. “I can buy ten or twenty or two, and no one is going to care,” she said. “No one is going to say anything if I waste a banana.”

  “Who would do that?” Understanding dawned in Nora’s green eyes. “Wait, are you saying Jim would give you shit for buying too many bananas?”

  The mother with the twins glared at Nora for cursing and pushed her cart away fast.

  Put that way, it sounded bad. A wave of guilt crashed over Bridget. Jim had been a good man, maybe a little too frugal in some areas, but a good man nonetheless. She never should have said anything. “Well, wasting food is wrong and—”

  “And it’s a fucking banana, Bridge.” Nora tossed a glance at the retreating mom, as if saying, Take that, lady. Then she reached over and grabbed two thick bunches of bananas and put them in Bridget’s cart. “Buy ten, buy thirty. Buy all the damned bananas you want.”

  Bridget watched the ban
anas multiply in her cart. Then, like a dam bursting, she laughed, and reached for one bunch, another. They filled the basket, an explosion of yellow. “What am I going to tell the checkout girl?”

  “That you’re supporting three chimpanzees at home.” Nora’s gaze softened. “Bridge, I know he just died a few months ago, but don’t you think it’s time you started looking at things realistically?”

  She bristled. All her life, her mother had been telling her what to think, what to do, what to say. Now her sisters were doing it too. “You’re not the expert on my marriage, Nora. So please don’t try to tell me how to look at things. My husband is dead, and to be honest, sometimes I wish he was still here to tell me not to buy so many damned bananas.”

  She put every last bunch back on the shelf and turned away.

  * * *

  A woman in a bright pink dress sat on Bridget’s front step Sunday afternoon, shading herself with a wide umbrella ringed with floating yellow ducklings. A quartet of leopard-print suitcases flanked her, and a small Chihuahua with a black studded collar lay at her feet, its belly turned toward the bright spring sun.

  Bridget stepped out of the car, carrying the single bag of groceries she’d ended up with—sans bananas—and crossed the front lawn. She could feel a wide smile breaking across her face, a little leap of joy in her step. “Aunt Mary? What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting my favorite niece in her time of need.” As if she were Mary Poppins instead of Mary O’Bannon, Aunt Mary got to her feet, clicking the umbrella closed and tucking it under one arm. The Chihuahua scrambled to his paws and waited, tail wagging. “I am sorry I couldn’t be here sooner, but Pedro and I were off on an adventure and just now got the news. I’m so sorry, dear.”

  Mary O’Bannon was Ma’s older sister, separated by more than sixteen years, and had always marched to her own beat, as Ma put it. She didn’t fit the stereotype of the good Catholic girl, quiet and demure in church, ladylike with boys, and spending her senior years baking for church bake sales and knitting afghans for wounded veterans. Aunt Mary was wild and unpredictable and adventurous. She’d never settled down with anything or anyone, except her dog, who went on every adventure. Magpie was a lot like her and, of the four O’Bannon girls, the closest to Aunt Mary.

  Bridget glanced at the suitcases. “And you are staying…”

  “Why, here, of course.” Aunt Mary’s face brightened, as if the answer had been obvious all along. “I know how hard it is to lose someone you love and how every little thing seems to be a hundred times harder. I’m here to pick up the slack.”

  It had only been a few weeks since her mother and sisters had stopped hovering over her. Bridget wasn’t so sure she wanted someone else around every day. “I’m doing fine, Aunt Mary, really.”

  Her aunt leaned in close, squinting until the wrinkles around her green eyes became deep grooves. “No. You’re not.” She leaned back and gave Bridget a smile. “Now, let’s get these bags inside and open a bottle of wine.”

  “It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Time is but an illusion, someone smarter than me once said. And wine is the solution, someone else said.”

  Bridget laughed. It sounded like something her grandmother would have said. “That makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to.” Aunt Mary looped her arm through Bridget’s. “That’s the best part about life. Not everything has to add up neatly. Now, where’s the guest room?”

  * * *

  Being outside seemed to center Bridget again. The sun was warm and bright, the wine cool and crisp. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the uncut grass or at the hummingbird feeder, hanging alone and unvisited on the window.

  After she’d come home from seeing Abby on Friday night, Bridget had vowed to look at the bills. Instead, she’d gone to bed early, watching the last season of Dexter until the wee hours of the morning. She put in a full day at the bakery on Saturday and then rinsed and repeated the same Netflix-enabled avoidance last night.

  All weekend, her mind kept returning to what Abby had said. There are things in this family that no one ever talks about. Things that would change everything, if people knew.

  Bridget had pressed Abby, but her sister had shaken her head and changed the subject. That night, Bridget, Jessie, and Abby had gone out to dinner at an Italian place close to their apartment. The more Bridget got to know Jessie, the more she liked her. If Bridget had had any doubts about the choices Abby had made, they were erased when she saw her with Jessie.

  She’d tried to bring up the topic of secrets again just before she left, but Abby wouldn’t talk about it. “I never should have said anything,” Abby said. “Just let it go, Bridge. It’s no big deal, really.”

  Bridget thought of those whispers, of the hurried glances of aunts and uncles over the years. There’d always been this undercurrent of something lurking at the edges of the adult conversations but Bridget had been too young to figure it out. Then she’d gotten married and poured herself into her life with Jim, pushing everything to do with her family to the side.

  Now, though, her Spidey senses were tingling. Whatever Abby knew seemed to be bigger than she let on. At work on Saturday, Bridget had debated asking Nora, but the bakery had been busy, with Ma flying back and forth making deliveries, and by the time the day ended, Bridget had convinced herself that Abby was talking in generalities.

  Except…what if she wasn’t?

  Bridget tipped her head up to the sun. Whatever Abby had meant or not meant could get in line with all the other things Bridget was letting wait. “Okay, so maybe this was a great idea. I can’t remember the last time I sat outside and just enjoyed the day.”

  “All the greatest ideas start with wine,” Aunt Mary said. She had her feet propped on the deck railing, her dog snoozing in the shadow under her legs.

  “I’m glad you came to visit. I bet Nora and Ma will be glad to see you. Abby too.”

  “Has that situation resolved?” Aunt Mary asked.

  “You mean, has Ma started talking to her again? Nope. I went and saw Abby Friday night. She’s really, really happy.” Bridget ended the sentence before she could add with her girlfriend.

  “That’s nice to hear. I miss her. I will have to call her while I’m here and see if we can do lunch.” Aunt Mary took another sip of wine and let out a long breath. “Bridget, I have to apologize. I wasn’t quite honest with you earlier.”

  “What, no wise person said wine solves everything?”

  There was no answering chuckle from her aunt, no witty rejoinder. Bridget opened her eyes and turned toward Mary. She started to make another joke but stopped when she saw the worry etched in Mary’s face. A tremor ran through Bridget’s chest, and she whispered a quick Please say everything is okay prayer. She’d lost more than she wanted to in the last few months and couldn’t bear one more monumental change. “What is it?”

  “I’m sick, sweetheart.” Aunt Mary’s hand covered Bridget’s. For the first time, she noticed the thinness in her features, the fragility of her fingers. “My heart’s about worn out. These last few weeks…” She sighed. “I wasn’t on an adventure. I was in the hospital. Heart attack, which happened when I was in New York, about to fly to Australia. I ended up in the hospital, where they opened me up and repaired a blockage or two.”

  “Oh, Aunt Mary—”

  “Now, I don’t want any sympathy or chicken soup,” she said, putting up a hand to ward off Bridget’s words. “I just want to visit with my family and spend some time recuperating. The doctor says I’ve got to take it easy, get back up to speed gradually, and to eat a little better. Then I’ll be good to go for a while more, like a car that just got a tune-up. Course, my engine’s got a couple hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s not ready for the junkyard yet.”

  Bridget realized when they’d opened the wine, Aunt Mary had taken a glass but had barely sipped from the goblet. Her aunt’s face was paler than usual, her breath and her wor
ds hitching a bit. How could she not have noticed earlier? “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No one does. I didn’t tell a soul. I didn’t want to be a burden. But then I realized this is one thing I can’t do on my own. And I have some…business to take care of while I’m here. So that’s why I’m hoping I can stay with you.”

  “Of course you can. As long as you need.”

  “Good.” Aunt Mary leaned back in her chair and turned her face to the sun. “It’ll do you good to have something to focus on, or rather, someone. I suspect you’ve been lying in bed for way too many days, wondering how on earth you’re going to move forward. I did that myself once. Spent a solid month doing nothing but crying.”

  She’d always thought of Aunt Mary as invincible, the kind of woman who lived life by her own rules, never needing anyone or attaching too long to any one person. To think of her, depressed and sobbing, added a new dimension to a woman who could have been a modern-day commercial for Rosie the Riveter. “You did? Why?”

  “The usual. Boy meets girl, girl falls for boy, and boy breaks her heart. I was fifteen and thought the sun rose and set on Billy Donnelly’s smile. I met him at a church camp that my mom sent me to. He was tall and dark-haired and as handsome as sin.”

  Bridget leaned forward. “Ooh, Aunt Mary. A summer fling?”

  “I thought it was going to be more. I really thought he loved me. But after the camp ended and we all went back to our lives, I only saw Billy three more times. And the third time was with another girl on his arm. Four months later, he and his family moved to California.”