The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Read online

  Just fine had become the O’Bannon girls’ motto that summer after Dad died. They’d practiced saying it to teachers and neighbors and church gossipers so often that, if there could have been an Emmy for pretending to be okay, there would have been a four-way tie. Just fine, thank you.

  Now Bridget was doing it too. I’m just fine, she told her friends, her sisters, her mother. She’d even copied and pasted I’m fine so she could send it back to every well-meaning text and email. Except she wasn’t. She didn’t know how to move forward, what to do. Was it because she had grown too dependent on Jim in the three years they’d been married? Had she really gotten to the point where she couldn’t make a decision on her own?

  “Now, off with you,” her mother said as if she’d read her daughter’s mind, shooing Bridget toward the master bath. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  Bridget opened her mouth to argue, saw by the tight line on Colleen’s face that arguing was pointless, and headed into the bathroom. But even here it was impossible to forget. Jim’s toothbrush still sat in the bronze holder between their two sinks; his razor was still perched on the edge of his sink, perpetually drying after one last shave.

  I’ll be home before you know it, Bridge, Jim had said. It’s just a couple days, and I’ll be back. Then I’ll take a day off with you. I promise.

  She’d argued with him that morning, storming out of the bathroom, slamming the door so hard that it had shuddered on the hinges. Jim had packed his overnight bag, climbed into a taxi, and left without saying goodbye.

  That was the last memory she had of her husband—another fight, another silent departure. The chance to mend that fence had died when a drunk driver swerved across the lanes outside the departure drop-off at Logan, just as Jim stepped out of the taxi.

  Bridget fluttered a hand over the razor, the toothbrush, the crumpled towel on the counter. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Jim was gone, but the life they had planned was still waiting for her. Maybe not with the baby she’d dreamed of having someday, or the future she’d pictured a thousand times, but a life nonetheless. Either she started getting her shit together or she’d end up like Aunt Esther, who had never left the house after her husband died, collapsing of a heart attack thirty years later among a pile of newspapers so high that they smothered her in a makeshift coffin of musty Globes.

  Bridget could do this.

  She had to do this.

  The shower blurred her tears and ran them down the drain with bubbles of almond-scented soap and raspberry shampoo. Her face burned, her shoulders seemed weighted to the ground, but she managed to at least go through the motions of cleaning up.

  By the time she emerged, her mother was already standing there, holding a blue and white checked dress and a pair of low navy pumps. A pair of pantyhose that Bridget didn’t even remember owning was draped over her mother’s arm. “This will do just fine for today.”

  She bristled. “I hate that dress. And those shoes. And don’t even get me started on the pantyhose. Where did you find those anyway?”

  Normal people would have been disturbed that their mother had gone through their closet and drawers and then walked into the bathroom uninvited. But normal people didn’t have Colleen O’Bannon as a mother.

  “A lady always wears hose with her shoes,” Colleen said. “And the dress suits you just fine. It’s appropriate for where we are going.”

  Appropriate. That one word raised the little hairs on the back of Bridget’s neck. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” Colleen thrust the clothes at her daughter. “Now, do your face and hair. You can’t go out in the world looking like you were blown about by a hurricane.”

  Bridget wanted to say, My husband just died. Who gives a shit how I look? But her mother was giving her that I-survived-this-and-you-can-too look again, so Bridget sighed and nodded instead. It was easier to do what her mother said than to try and figure out what to wear. Whether to wear the blue dress or her black pants, or heck, pajamas, just seemed like a monumentally stupid decision to have to make right now.

  After her mother left the room, Bridget swiped a clear circle into the foggy mirror. Dark shadows hugged the bottoms of her red-rimmed eyes. Her wet, dark hair hung as limp as old spaghetti, and her skin had taken on a pale parchment tone. Okay, so maybe her mother had a point about her looking like she’d been caught in some massive storm.

  But when Bridget got out the plastic case that held her makeup, the whole process just seemed so…overwhelming. Too many decisions. Foundation or concealer first? The coral blush or the pink? And the eye shadows…God, why had she ever thought she needed five different shades?

  She leaned into the mirror and pressed her palms against her cheeks. I don’t recognize this woman, she thought. A woman who had lost everything in the space of one rainy afternoon.

  She was a widow now.

  The word sounded so foreign, so odd. Wid-doh. She tried it out three times in her head, and then whispered it once in the steamy air. “Widow.”

  One whose husband had died. Her husband. Died.

  Jim.

  She could feel the tears starting again at the backs of her eyes, burning their way to the surface. She swiped at her face with a towel and then shut the case and pushed it to the side. Bridget pulled on the dress and slid into the shoes—ignoring the pantyhose—and then gave her hair a quick once-over with a wide-toothed comb.

  She didn’t look in the mirror again.

  When Bridget emerged from the bathroom, Colleen was standing there, her feet planted, her arms over her chest, and her lips in that thin line of disapproval. Bridget braced herself for the lecture.

  “All right, then,” was all her mother said. She reached for a handbag on Bridget’s dresser, pressed it into her daughter’s hands, and led the way out of the dim bedroom and into the light of day.

  THREE

  There was something about the routine of church that both annoyed Bridget and calmed her. The hard wooden pews, the carpeted kneelers, the candles flickering in the wall sconces beneath painted images of Jesus on the cross and heartbroken disciples. The same setting she remembered from the days when she wore Mary Jane shoes and white ankle socks and wondered if God would smite her for fidgeting in her seat.

  Bridget had stopped going to Our Lady Church more than three years ago, until the day of the funeral. Jim was a lapsed Lutheran who would rather read the paper and hit the links than listen to a sermon about loving thy neighbor. She’d lingered in bed with him on Sunday mornings and stayed there after Jim left for golf, feeling decadent and devilish for curling into the soft white sheets instead of heading out for communion.

  Plus, Bridget had a complicated relationship with church. An even more complicated one with God. She wasn’t so sure He wanted to see her, given that just a few days ago she had cursed him the entire time she’d sat here and stared at the coffin holding her husband, but that wasn’t about to stop Colleen O’Bannon from dragging her oldest daughter into the hushed stained glass interior. For penance or peace, Bridget wasn’t sure which. Maybe both.

  Her mother sent a sharp glance over at Bridget when her step hesitated. “It’s time. If any moment is the time to come back, it’s now.”

  Because there’d been a death, and if there was one thing Catholics knew to do when someone died, it was go to church. Except for Jim’s funeral, the last time Bridget had stood in Our Lady, it had been in the empty aisle, long after church had emptied out on a Sunday morning, everyone heading off to Denny’s or IHOP for pancakes and eggs, while the altar boys shrugged out of their white gowns and hurried to the playground, ignoring their mother’s orders not to ruin their church clothes. She could still hear the shouts of the children through the open window, the soft clank of coffee cups being put away in the church kitchen.

  You’re ruining your life, Abby had said that day, a little over three years ago. You know that, right? And you’re still going to marry him?

  Why can’t you
just be happy for me? Bridget had asked.

  Because Jim isn’t who you think he is, Bridget. And you refuse to see the truth. I know things—

  Bridget had yelled at Abby, yelled at her to shut up, to just shut the hell up. Ma had rushed in, dragging Abby away.

  Bridget had looked over her shoulder at Jim, who was waiting in the doorway, framed by the sun like his body wore a halo. In that moment, she’d thought he was the most perfect human being she’d ever seen. She’d only known the outside of Jim then, unaware that beneath the dark hair and blue eyes lived a man who was quick to criticize, slow to apologize, and prone to long bouts of withdrawal, pulling into himself like a turtle in a shell. It had been too late by then. A few hours later, the vows had been spoken, the family ties ruined, and Bridget had told herself that looking back would only keep her stuck.

  So she’d walked out of the church with her husband, eventually leaving her sister behind, and settled into a life for two. The fissures in their marriage had started that very day. And now…

  “You need this,” her mother whispered again, and tugged Bridget forward.

  Maybe she did. Maybe the incense and flowers and Jesus on the wall would help Bridget find a way to move forward. Sideways. Any direction but staying still. Except just being here reminded her of all of it—her wedding, her sister’s words, burying her husband. It all seemed surreal, as if she had been transported somewhere else.

  Her mother led the way down the aisle, her handbag tucked into the space between her elbow and her ribs like a football. Her mother wore the same brown Naturalizer shoes she’d worn for as long as Bridget could remember. Round-toed, kitten heel. Sturdy, dependable, comfortable. She had on a pale gray wool skirt that hung almost to her ankles and a white satiny button-down blouse beneath a navy cardigan. A strand of pearls, the ones her great-great-grandmother had smuggled over on the boat to Ellis Island, sat atop the cardigan. Her mother’s dark red hair—once naturally vibrant, now kept that way thanks to a monthly appointment with a box of Clairol—was her only concession to vanity.

  Colleen O’Bannon was practical and frugal. And as opinionated as a politician. She loved her native country, loved her adopted home, and loved her daughters most of all.

  Her mother genuflected before the altar and then crossed herself and whispered a prayer to God. Then she veered to the right, to the bank of candles sitting against the far wall. Bridget followed her mother but hesitated when she neared the candles. Half were flickering; half were unlit. A glass full of long matches sat to the left of the kneeler.

  Her mother knelt before the bank of flames, crossed herself again, and then lowered her temples to her clasped hands. Bridget could see Colleen’s lips moving in a quick, silent prayer. Then she lifted her head and gestured to her daughter to kneel beside her.

  Go through the motions. Just go through the motions. Then you can go back home and back to bed.

  That was all she wanted. To slide back under the white down duvet with the remote in one hand, while Piper avoided Crazy Eyes and Red battled to get her kitchen back, and the fictional world created by Netflix replaced the really sucky one in Bridget’s life.

  But to get there, she had to be here first. On the day of the funeral, she’d avoided the candles. Avoided as much tradition as she could, feeling like a liar every minute she sat in the church. She’d barely heard Father McBride’s words, barely remembered the procession behind the casket.

  But now, with her mother staring at her and no excuse like a dead husband ten feet away, Bridget had to at least feign piety. She bent down, left knee on the carpeted kneeler, then the right. The slightly vanilla scent of the wax mingled with the spicy scent of incense in the air. The long match flared when Bridget touched it to another flame and again when it met the wick of a fresh squat candle.

  If Jim were here, he’d laugh. Assuming there even is a heaven, Bridge, how the hell would I see one little flame up there? You’d have to light a bonfire, babe, for me to see it.

  The flame wavered in the slight breeze from the ceiling fans as if laughing at the incongruity of lighting a memorial candle for a husband who’d barely attended church. And her, a lapsed Catholic, pretending for the second time in the space of a week to whisper prayers that were more rote than heartfelt.

  She didn’t fit in this world, didn’t know where the hell she fit right now.

  When Bridget’s mother rose, Bridget also backed away from the bank of candles and slipped into the pew beside her, behind two old women in matching lime-green hats. Bridget could almost hear Magpie. What, was there some kind of sale? Oh, Gladys, get one for you, and I’ll get one for me. We’ll be twinsies.

  A sound like a snort escaped Bridget. She covered her mouth and feigned a cough.

  Her mother gave her the evil eye. “Behave yourself. We’re in church.”

  It didn’t matter how old any of them were. When they were in church, Ma treated the girls like there were still five years old. And Bridget wanted to escape, just as she had when she’d been five. And fifteen. And twenty-five. Not to mention she felt like Jesus was staring down at her with condemnation in his eyes. You didn’t save your marriage and now your husband is dead.

  “Will you just look at that Hazel Lockheed,” her mother whispered, nodding toward an older woman with a dark brown helmet of hair. “She’s sitting there, with a Bible on her lap, as if she didn’t leave her husband and take up with the mailman. And that Jeremy Brackett over there. Holding hands—in church, mind you—with that boyfriend of his.” Her mother shook her head. “None of that is appropriate. Those people—”

  “Ma, I don’t want to be here,” Bridget whispered. She couldn’t take one more second of judgment or gossip. “Can we just—”

  “We will do no such thing.” Her mother made that pursed lemon face of disapproval. “And you should ask forgiveness for even saying such blasphemy in church. Did you brush your hair before we left?”

  Bridget lowered herself onto the kneeler and pressed her forehead to her clasped thumbs. God, keep me from going off on my mother in church, because we all know that is a path straight to hell.

  Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the kind of prayer her mother had in mind.

  The dim interior of the church was peppered with color from the late-day light forcing its way through the thick stained glass. The scent of incense and burning wax mingled with the dueling fragrances of L’Air du Temp and Estée Lauder’s latest. The whole weird scent confluence should have been called Whorehouse Mixed with Pot Dispensary. That made Bridget erupt in another snort/cough.

  All of it seemed so insane. God wasn’t listening to her. God had probably given up on her a long time ago. The entire exercise, with the candles, the kneelers, the prayers…so pointless. Like the game she and Jim used to play—Stupid Facts. In the early days of their marriage, they’d take turns finding some random stupid fact to tell the other over dinner, their way of not starting every conversation with “How was your day, dear?”

  Did you know, Bridge, that koala bears’ fingerprints are almost exactly the same as humans? They’re so close, even Columbo couldn’t tell them apart at a crime scene.

  Manic laughter began to tremble in her chest, rising to the surface. Bridget let out another snort/cough. Her mother shushed her and pointed to the kneeler. More praying, less fooling around. But that manic feeling was bubbling and expanding and she was hearing Jim say, “Columbo and the Koala,” that’d be a great episode, wouldn’t it? And then the laughter was there, pushing at her lips, and Bridget knew she couldn’t stay in the dim, tight confines of the church a second longer.

  She pushed to her feet and scrambled to leave. “Excuse me, excuse me.” Where had all these people come from? How come they’d all crowded into her pew? “Excuse me.”

  “Bridget.” Her mother’s hushed, angry voice. Any second now, Bridget expected to be told to go back to her seat or she wouldn’t get any donuts after church. Every week, it had either been Bridget or Magpie, sitting at the
chrome and laminate counter, moping and empty-handed while Nora—the suck-up, the others had called her—took her sweet time licking powdered sugar off her fingers and sucking the jelly out of the center while Abby just hung in the back, alone and apart, even then.

  “Bridget. Get back here this instant.”

  But she was already gone, pushing on the hard metal bar, bursting into the sunshine. The laughter escaped her just then, but somehow it had changed into a sob, tearing at her throat. Bridget turned.

  And ran.

  FOUR

  If there was one scent that described the O’Bannon girls, it was vanilla. Not the run-of-the-mill artificial flavoring, but the scent that could only be awakened by scraping the back of a teaspoon along the delicate spine of an espresso-colored vanilla bean.

  Gramma had always kept a jar of vanilla beans on her kitchen counter because she said they reminded her of how much work God went to just to create a single beautiful note. So many miracles had to dance a complicated tango, all to create one vanilla bean. The orchid’s flower only bloomed for twenty-four hours, and only the Melipona bee could pollinate the buds. Without that bee—or in later years, the intervention of painstaking human cross-pollination—the simple orchid would never become a delicate vanilla bean.

  “No two vanilla beans are exactly the same,” Gramma had said, “like you and your sisters. Each is unique and beautiful and handmade by God himself.”

  It had been Gramma who had taught Bridget the joy of baking. It had been Gramma who had coached her granddaughter through the intricacies of piecrusts and cake batters, guided her hand as she’d swirled buttercream and painted sugar cookies. It had been Gramma who had propped Bridget on a metal stool and woven magical tales about mischievous leprechauns and clever fairies, while the two of them mixed and kneaded and baked and decorated. And it was Gramma she’d been trying to hold on to when she’d worked at the shop. Or at least that was what Bridget had told herself for years.