The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Read online

  In short, she got back to work. As usual.

  Her mother was an immovable wall sometimes. If she didn’t want to talk about something, she didn’t. If she didn’t want to change her mind, she didn’t. So Bridget gave up trying and concentrated on her job. Without Nora there to break the tension, the kitchen seemed to close in on Bridget. She glanced at the clock about twelve thousand times, willing the hour to reach nine so her sister would be here. And so Bridget could call the retirement account management company and find out if she had a way out of this mess.

  Her mother pulled a cooled sheet cake out of the freezer and put it on the counter for Bridget to add the strawberry filling. Instead of turning away, she lingered, with that pointed look that said a lecture was on its way. “Bridget, I’m concerned about your finances.”

  “Join the club,” Bridget muttered.

  “And I think if you made more judicious decisions—”

  “Make more judicious decisions? I didn’t make hardly any decisions.” What was Nora doing? Walking to work backward? Why wasn’t she here to save Bridget from yet another lecture? “Ma, Jim was the one in charge of our money. He just made some stupid spending choices, like his car and that trip to Aruba. Everyone does that kind of thing.”

  “Not everyone. Men who have families are usually smarter than that.” Her mother moved behind her to retrieve the white whipped cream frosting that would be sandwiched between the strawberries and the sponge cake. “Why did you trust him?”

  Bridget wheeled around. “Why did I trust him? What did you lecture us on for our whole lives? Your husband is the head of your household. The wife is there as a support mate, not as a chief. Let him lead, and you follow.”

  “I didn’t mean following him down a rabbit hole of debt and bad decisions.”

  “How would you really know anyway? Dad died, and you never got married again. You never even dated again.” Bridget laid a thick swath of whipped cream over the strawberries, then stacked on the next layer of cake. She started sprinkling on another set of macerated strawberries, her movements quick and jerky. “Before you start criticizing me, Ma, have the guts to step outside your own comfort zone.”

  Her mother gasped and took a step back. “What is with you lately? You’ve never talked back like this before.”

  “I’m a grown woman. And I am sick and tired of people telling me what to do. I don’t know what I want to do, but I do know, whatever choice I make going forward, it’s going to be mine, not something forced on me.”

  “I’m not forcing anything on you.”

  “No. You’re not. You’re just making it damned hard to do anything else.” And making me question everything I thought I knew. She cursed her mother for that, for tarnishing the image she had of her marriage, her husband. All of them had done that, as if Jim’s death gave her sisters and her mother permission to say things they would have normally kept to themselves. And to remind Bridget of the very concerns she had tried to stop thinking about.

  “I took care of you after Jim passed away. I gave you back your job here,” her mother said, ticking off her fingers as she listed the ways she’d helped Bridget. “I gave you a loan. And this is the way you repay me? By treating me like some unwelcome rodent at your dinner party?”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Ma, don’t get dramatic. Just let me make my own choices. If I want to spend my money on supporting elephants in South Africa, I can. And if I want to make ten pounds of blue frosting, let me.”

  “You aren’t paying the bills here.”

  “No, but I own one-fifth of this bakery. That should give me some say in how things are done.”

  Her mother shook her head and turned away, back to a platter of sugar cookies.

  “What?”

  Twelve cookies were topped with white frosting swirls before her mother answered. “You want a say in how things are done? Try staying here instead of abandoning your family when we needed you most.”

  Bridget opened her mouth to reply. Then realized she had no answer for that. No way to heal that wound. Her mother was right—she had abandoned them all. She’d walked away and never looked back, not realizing the price she would pay later. How doing so would fracture the bond she had with the rest of her sisters. “At the time, it seemed like the best choice.”

  “For who?” her mother asked. “You? Or your husband?”

  The phone rang, and Bridget jumped. She answered the call, taking the order for a cake rush job. By the time she was done, her mother had finished the cookies and was busy filling the cases at the front of the shop. For now, the topic was tabled. Bridget should have felt relief but instead this gnawing sense of dread churned in her stomach.

  At 9:15, Nora came in, and Ma brushed by her to tend to a walk-in customer. Nora dropped her purse on the table in the corner and hung her coat on the hook, exchanging it for an apron. “What’d I miss?”

  “Aunt Mary is in town. Ma doesn’t want to talk about it. Instead, as a diversionary tactic I think, Ma tried to tell me how to be more fiscally responsible, including a lecture on blue frosting, and I pulled the ‘I own one-fifth’ card.”

  “Geez. All that before nine-fifteen in the morning?”

  Bridget shrugged. “What can I say? I’m efficient.”

  Nora grabbed the clipboard and flipped through the day’s orders and then began assembling ingredients. “Back the truck up. Aunt Mary is in town? Since when?”

  Bridget told her about her aunt being there the day before and how she’d asked to stay at Bridget’s house. “I’ve missed her, so it’s been nice catching up.”

  “Aunt Mary has a house of her own in Revere, not that she’s ever there. Why is she staying with you?”

  Bridget glanced at the swinging door that led to the front of the shop. She could hear her mother out there, moving chairs and setting up the few tables. “I don’t know if she wants me to tell anyone.”

  “Which is all the more reason to tell me.” Nora leaned in closer to Bridget. “Besides, you know I’m a vault. I never told Ma about how you used to sneak out at night to go see what’s-his-name.”

  “Charlie Phillips. Cutest boy in the eleventh grade.” Nora had caught Bridget one night, and she’d made her sister pinkie swear that she wouldn’t tell their mother. “Aunt Mary had a heart attack, and she needs time to recuperate.”

  Nora put a hand to her mouth. “Is she okay?”

  “I think so. She looks a little worn down, but I think she’ll be okay. If you want to visit, I’m sure she’d love to see you. In fact”—Bridget glanced again at that closed door—”I think I’ll offer to have family dinner on Wednesday night.”

  “Oh, you have balls of steel, sis. Really?”

  “Hey, I’ve already told off my mother in front of a priest. I need to top that somehow.” Bridget grinned and realized what this would mean. Her entire family in one room—something that hadn’t happened since her wedding. And look how well that ended. “Do you mind if I duck out and make a quick phone call?”

  “Hiring bouncers for Wednesday night?”

  “Something like that. I should be right back.” Bridget headed out back with her cell phone. She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket and hesitated. What if the answer she got wasn’t the one she wanted?

  Jim had always handled all the calls to the bank when they messed up a deposit or the credit card companies when he’d lost his wallet once. He’d been the one to deal with the cable company and the repairmen. It’s just easier, babe, and then you don’t have to stress.

  At some point, she’d let him take over, let him be the voice for the two of them. And now, standing here in the sun, she was shaking so badly that the numbers on the paper blurred before her. When had she become afraid of dealing with these things?

  She closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened her eyes again. Her hand steadied, and she dialed the number, then waited what seemed like ten hours to connect to a peppy customer service rep named Davita.

  “I’m calling becau
se my husband passed away, and I want to cash in his retirement,” Bridget told her. “There should be more than a hundred thousand in there.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Masterson. So very sorry. Let me pull up his account.” A couple minutes of keys clacking, and then Davita came back on the line. This time, her voice had flattened from peppy to apologetic. “Uh…his balance is, well, it’s forty thousand dollars.”

  “Forty…forty thousand? That’s it?” The last time they’d talked about his retirement—last Christmas? The one before?—Jim had said he was maxing out his contributions and should hit two hundred thousand by the end of the year. Where had that money gone?

  “From what I can see of the account history, he made a sizeable loan against his 401k a couple years ago—”

  The deck they’d put on the back. The new landscaping and the windows they’d replaced. All purchases Jim said were covered by savings. She’d never questioned, never looked, just gone on like an idiot, blindly trusting. But sixty thousand dollars? The repairs hadn’t added up to that much.

  “And his contribution level has decreased since then,” Davita went on. “When you factor in the loan repayment, the amount in his retirement account hasn’t moved up much. I’m sorry, Mrs. Masterson. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Bridget sank down against the wall until she reached the concrete. Her chest tightened, her breath caught, and a part of her wanted to ball up in a corner and cry. Instead, she pulled herself together enough to start the cashing-in process—something that would take about a month, Davita said, from start to finish. She hung up the phone, pressed it to her head and—

  Prayed.

  NINETEEN

  On Wednesday, Bridget loaded what felt like the seven hundredth cake of the day into the oven and then bent to the side, stretching the aches out of her back. She’d skipped lunch, forgone breaks, and instead kept working because measuring sugar and baking soda kept her from thinking.

  Ma had boxed up all the leftover pastries from the day before and left to make a delivery, without saying anything about where she was going. Nora zipped out to bring a forgotten trombone to her eldest at school, leaving Bridget alone at the bakery. When the bell over the door tinkled, Bridget sighed. She abandoned a half-rolled piecrust, pushed on the swinging door that led to the front, and pasted on a smile as she did. “Welcome to—”

  Garrett stood there, holding a small ceramic pot. The bright red geranium in the center popped against the dark blue of his suit and the white and blue stripes of his oxford shirt. This time, he was in work mode, his tie straight, all knotted and severe and professional. He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. “I hear the chocolate chip cookies here are the best in the state.”

  “In the state? No, in the nation.” A nervous flutter went through her, and she cursed herself for not taking off the flour-covered apron or checking her hair before she’d come out front. Then cursed herself again for caring what Garrett thought of her appearance. “Did you come here to buy some?”

  “Nope. I came here to see you. I’ve texted, and you haven’t answered me.”

  “I’ve been…busy.” Busy avoiding you and all the questions meeting you has opened up.

  He stepped forward and set the geranium on the counter. “For you. Actually, for your hummingbird.”

  Such a small gesture, but so thoughtful. He’d chosen a hardy annual, in the right shade to attract the hummingbird. And even better, the plant was almost entirely self-sufficient. “Thank you. I still haven’t seen him.” Of course, she’d been gone most days at the bakery, so maybe the hummingbird was visiting while she was working. She’d faithfully changed the nectar and washed the feeder every few days, but it never seemed like the level had budged.

  “Well, maybe if you put this outside, it’ll draw him near.” Garrett put his hands in his pockets and glanced around the bakery. “It looks a little different in the daytime.”

  Less intimate. Less…close. “Lights make all the difference.”

  “That and a full case of desserts.” Garrett leaned forward and peered into the glass case. “Wow. You guys make pretty much everything, don’t you? Did you bake all of this yourself?”

  “No. My mother and my sister work here too. And we have some part-time help when things get really busy.” She put the geranium on the back counter, reached in the display case, and grabbed two chocolate chip cookies, sliding them into a white paper bag. She held them out to Garrett. “Here you go. No charge.”

  “Ah, Bridget, you wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me already, would you?” He took a step forward but didn’t take the cookies. “The plant, you know, was mostly an excuse to stop by and ask you to lunch.”

  She froze. A part of her was happy—flattered—that he was asking her out. But the other part of her was saying her husband had only been gone for a few months and it was too soon to date again. “I…I’m the only one working right now. I can’t leave.”

  Then, as if conjured up by the words, Nora breezed back into the shop. “I’m back, Bridge, if you want to take your lunch now.”

  Garrett grinned. “Seems I came at the right time.”

  Nora glanced at Bridget, then at Garrett, and back again. She mouthed, Did he ask you out?

  Bridget gave her sister a half-nod. Technically, it was just lunch, and maybe only to talk about birds, so she wasn’t sure it was an actual date. Uh-huh, and maybe she could keep telling herself the geranium was just a neighborly gesture.

  Nora tipped her head in the direction of the door. Bridget hesitated. Nora rolled her eyes and stepped forward, putting out her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nora, one of Bridget’s sisters.”

  “Garrett Andrews, a…friend. And fellow hummingbird lover.”

  Nora arched a brow in Bridget’s direction. “Hummingbirds?”

  “Long story. I’ll explain later.” Outside, she saw her mother’s car turn into the back parking lot. She could stand here and explain the presence of a man bringing her flowers when her mother arrived, or get out of here and get a sandwich. She ripped off her apron and handed it to Nora and grabbed her purse from under the counter. “I’m going to lunch.”

  “I’ll hold down the fort. Have fun.” Nora leaned over to Bridget’s ear. “And I mean that.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, she and Garrett were seated in a little Cuban café a couple blocks from the bakery. The restaurant was cozy and small, with colorful murals of life on Cuban streets filling the walls. They’d ordered a colada to split—dividing the rich Cuban coffee between their cups. Garrett had thought to ask for extra cream and sugar for her and kept his mostly plain. Bridget had opted for a shredded roast pork sandwich while Garrett ordered the traditional Cuban sandwich.

  They were seated at a round table with a tile top, so tiny their knees touched under the table from time to time. Every inch of Bridget was aware—very aware—of Garrett. Of his cologne. Of the mesmerizing structure of his muscular hands. Of the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw.

  “How did your mom like the bird feeders?” she asked after the waiter had left. Concentrate on conversation instead of how her leg brushed against his.

  “I got a gold star—both of them were exactly what she wanted. I hung them in the yard, outside the window where she can see them when she’s in her chair.” Garrett took a sip of coffee. “My mom is in a wheelchair, so the view outside her room is pretty important.”

  “I’m so sorry. But what a thoughtful thing to do.” Thoughtful—that was the word she’d use to describe Garrett. He’d remembered the way she took her coffee, the tenderness of giving his mother a gift that would allow her to appreciate the view from her limited world.

  “It’s okay. She’s been like that for a few years. She had a stroke and never fully recovered. She gets out more now than she did before, and that helps her spirits a lot. Gotta love the BAT buses.”

  “They’re great. I know lots of my mom’s fri
ends who use them.” She’d seen the little white and red buses that darted around the city, bringing people to doctor’s appointments and shopping malls.

  Garrett’s salt and pepper hair was a little long, and one lock kept swooping onto his forehead, in a Clark Kent kind of way. She watched him sip his coffee, and thinking about his hands on her instead made parts of her warm. She cleared her throat and jerked her gaze back to his face. “So, what kind of lawyer are you, anyway? The Tom Cruise-interrogating-Jack Nicholson kind?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m just a boring corporate attorney. None of that exciting courtroom you can’t handle the truth type stuff. Most of my job is pretty routine. Not nearly as much fun as your job, I’m sure.”

  “Ha. Mine’s pretty routine too. We make the same things every day for the display case.” The routine had become so familiar that, even after three years away, Bridget had slipped right back into it. Except for a few tweaks—like the addition of the scones—everything at Charmed by Dessert was the same as when she’d left. “The only time we get to be creative is with the orders. Some people will order a cake, and just say I trust you, and then we can have a little fun. And once in a while, I’ll create something new for the bakery, just to change things up.” She explained how Nora did the decorating, her mother managed most of the day-to-day, and Bridget was in charge of the majority of the baking. She didn’t mention her other sisters because that was way too much complication for a simple lunch conversation.

  The waiter brought their sandwiches. Bridget dove into hers—she’d been up since three and she was ravenous now—but Garrett just held his sandwich and didn’t eat it yet. “I really admire someone who can do that,” he said. “Just create something out of thin air.”

  Heat stole into her cheeks at the compliment. “It’s not all that complicated. I mean, if you know the rules of baking and the basics of the recipes, it’s not that tough to create something new. It’s all about”—she paused, searching for the right word—“balance.”