The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Page 20

  She waited, her heart in her throat, and then a ping. Sure. Meet me in the lobby in five?

  She put the van in gear, drove a few more blocks along Soldiers Field, then parked again. The rearview mirror reassured her that she looked fine—not as pale and worn as she had three months ago. She’d opted to wear jeans and a V-neck dark brown and pink Charmed by Dessert T-shirt today, with a minimal coating of flour. She smoothed her hair, grabbed a bag from the seat beside her, and then walked across the lot and into the lobby of the ten-story brick building.

  She wandered over to the elevators and reached out, tracing over the letters of Garrett’s name on the engraved directory. She wondered about this man, a man she barely knew but who seemed to sit at the edges of her thoughts. Whenever she looked for the hummingbird, she thought of him. Heck, when she saw any kind of bird, she thought of him. More than once, she’d peeked out front when she heard the shop bell ring, hoping it was him.

  They’d texted a lot, short little messages that could have been read as friendship only—the How was your day? kind of thing that never got too personal and every once in a while, a Stop by for lunch if you’re ever in the area message from him. Then last night, maybe because of the wine or maybe because the family fight still rang in her head, Bridget had been up late and sent off a text. She leaned on the wall by the elevator, tugged out her phone, and reread it.

  I’m thinking I might become a diplomatic lawyer, she wrote. Mediation between North and South Korea HAS to be easier than dealing with my family. Sigh.

  She hadn’t even expected an answer, but a second later, there’d been a ping. I know what you mean. Last Thanksgiving, my uncle Elvin got drunk and ended up dropping the turkey on the floor. The dogs had a better meal than we did.

  Ha ha. We must have similar families.

  Aren’t all Dorchester families a little rough around the edges? he wrote. But that’s what makes them the best. They’re stubborn but strong, loud but loyal, and crazy but comfortable.

  You must know my family well ;-)

  I know at least one member of your family. Hopefully I get to know her better soon.

  You’ve been talking to my sisters?

  Just you, Bridget. Not interested in anyone else. :-)

  That had sent a little trill through her heart. She’d read the message over several times, her finger hovering over the reply button. She wondered if Garrett was lying in his bed, too, waiting for those iMessage bubbles to show she was answering. In the end, she sidestepped the conversation entirely, saying she was tired and wishing him good night.

  In the morning, she’d woken up and thought about the coffees they’d gotten together, the lunch at the Cuban restaurant, the conversations they’d had. Garrett made her smile, made her laugh, and she wanted more. So here she was, asking a man out for the first time in her life.

  The elevator doors opened, Bridget jerked back, and Garrett appeared, as if rereading the text exchange had manifested him. He grinned. “I didn’t mean you had to be right at the elevator door when it opened.”

  “Oh, well, I was just…” She waved at the directory. “Seeing where your office is.”

  He thumbed behind him. “I can take you on a tour after lunch if you want, but I assure you, it’s decorated in Early Lawyer. Brown and Boring as Hell.”

  Bridget laughed. “Okay, then maybe we can skip that part.” She held up the bag in her hand. “I brought dessert. Do you know where we can get lunch?”

  “Practically right outside the door.” He pressed on the glass door and held it for her. They fell into a natural rhythm once they started walking along the paved esplanade that snaked along the river.

  A sculling crew glided down the river in a bright white boat that seemed to stretch for miles. Their every move synced, and the flat blue of the river passed under the boat in a blur. A couple rollerblading hand in hand passed them, nearly colliding with another couple coming in the opposite direction with a baby stroller.

  Garrett sent a little wave toward the toddler in the stroller. The towheaded boy mimicked a waving reply. “Did you and your late husband ever have kids?” he asked.

  “I wanted to,” Bridget said. “But it never seemed like the right time.” Easier to say that than get into the late-night arguments with Jim. And how it became increasingly clear in the last two months before his death that he didn’t want kids soon—or ever. That she had begun to accept the fate of her marriage long before his death hastened it along.

  “I wanted kids too,” Garrett said, “but once my wife was diagnosed, she didn’t think it would be right to leave me to raise a child alone. We thought we’d have more time—that she’d beat the cancer and we could live our lives out in rocking chairs but she declined pretty fast after the diagnosis.” He sighed. “That was both the worst and the…not best, more…the most blessed part of the whole thing. It was awful to see this healthy, vibrant woman be reduced to a hospital bed and a bunch of machines, but in another way, I’m glad she didn’t spend years suffering.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bridget said. “Both for what you went through and for what you lost. It sounds like you loved her a great deal.”

  “I did. And I used to think that would preclude me from ever finding love again.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button. Somehow, that made him seem more open, a little more vulnerable. “But you know what? I think loving one person makes it easier to love another. Your heart is already open. Sort of like with kids. Parents love all of them, no matter how many they have.”

  Did her mother love all her girls equally? Did she accept them all the same? “I’d like to think that’s possible. My mother never remarried after my dad died twenty years ago. To me, that’s kind of sad. I can see waiting a while, but she’s a staunch believer in staying true to one man forever. I think that’s unrealistic, especially at my age.”

  “So are you saying you don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone?”

  “Well, I have no immediate plans for anything in the future but…” She thought about the years that stretched ahead, the dreams she’d once had. If she did it over again, could it be better? Happier? “I’d like to believe there’s the possibility of finding the right person someday.”

  Garrett glanced over at her. “Your late husband wasn’t the right one for you?”

  “I thought he was. But in the months since he died…I’m not so sure. Honestly, I wasn’t so sure about that for a long time before he died.” She shook her head. “I feel wrong for even admitting that. I mean, he died. I should be grieving and honoring his memory. But the truth is…”

  She watched the sculling crew pass by on their return trip. Their synchronized pulls were poetry in motion, everything working together as one, as it should, because doing so made the journey easier and better for everyone in the boat. At her wedding, the priest had said something about her and Jim setting off in a boat of their own and how there was never a single captain. You share the duties of piloting the ship, he said, and then neither of you carries the burdens for too long alone.

  Jim had been the captain from day one, and every time she’d tried to lead, he’d made her feel unsure, inadequate. She’d felt alone more times than she could count, even lying in the same bed with him.

  “The truth is…I was leaving him. We’d had one too many fights, and I was planning on asking for a divorce after he got back from his trip.” She ran a hand over her face. She hadn’t thought about her decision since Jim died. The whole memory filled her with guilt, as if her even thinking that she no longer needed him had somehow resulted in the accident. “God, that makes me sound like a horrible person. What kind of wife does that? And then her husband dies?”

  Garrett stopped walking and turned toward her. He took both her hands in his and met her gaze. “Number one, marriages fall apart all the time. That doesn’t make you a bad wife. Number two, you thinking that or planning that was in no way responsible for what happened to him.”

  “But we had a bi
g fight that morning, and I can’t help but think that he was distracted getting out of the taxi and—”

  Bridget spun away from Garrett and faced the water. She wrapped her arms around her waist and held as tight as she could, as if doing so would hold back the guilt, the regret. “I never should have fought with him. I should have tried harder.”

  “You did the best you could. That accident is no one’s fault but the driver who hit your husband.” Garrett’s hands were on her shoulders, his tall, warm body behind her, shielding her from the afternoon sun. He offered shade and solace, a place for her to open up her heart. “And moving on with your life is not a sin or an affront to what you had. You’re alive, Bridget. It won’t change anything if you admit that the life you had with him wasn’t perfect and that you dreamed of something more. Maybe accepting that will help you move out of this limbo.”

  She thought of the bills, still unpaid. The house that needed to be sold. The clothes in the closet, razor in the sink, the Audi she couldn’t afford in the garage. All the decisions she had hesitated on making, the questions she hadn’t answered.

  And the solid steadiness of this man, if only she got brave enough to let go of the dock and take a risk on her future.

  “I know how hard it is,” Garrett said. “I felt so guilty after my wife died, like I should have tried harder to save her. Found more doctors, tried more treatments. It took me a full year before I moved her purse from the counter and put her shoes away. Little by little, I gave myself permission to move forward.”

  Permission to move forward. Would giving herself that alleviate the guilt that weighed on her shoulders? Curb the procrastination?

  They had stopped walking in front of a small restaurant that faced the water. Several wrought-iron bistro tables sat outside, under the shade of an oak tree. The scent of burgers and dogs wafted out of the open service windows, where a line of people in suits and dour dresses began to form.

  “Let’s have lunch,” Garrett said, “and talk about important subjects, like whether chili has to have beans or just ground beef.”

  She laughed. “Beans, of course. As a nod to Boston. And why are we changing the subject?”

  “Because”—he took her hand in his, and the touch felt right, comfortable—“life is too short to dwell on the past.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  At the end of the workday, Colleen stood outside the white two-story Cape that housed the headquarters for Sophie’s Home. She shifted the box in her arms and wondered for the hundredth time why she kept making these deliveries personally. After all, Roger had said he would gladly pick up the leftovers. Still, every other day, she drove over here after work and then hurried off to Mass.

  She strode up the stairs and into the building. The wood floor hall was dim, but the rooms flanking it were bright and airy, decorated in whites and yellows with welcoming sofas and colorful curtains and toys for the children. On her right, a mom was sitting on the carpeted floor while her twin toddlers constructed something out of Legos. To her left, a group of women shuffled through a rack of clothes while they debated the best option for an upcoming job interview.

  Roger had done good work here—she saw it every time she walked in. Families drawing together, rebuilding their lives, finding homes. She admired him for that, which was why she was here, supporting him. That was all it was—common admiration for someone doing good work.

  And one more thing to occupy her time and her mind. After dinner at Bridget’s, the drama with Abby and the mashed potatoes, and then the conversation with Mary, that was all Colleen wanted—an empty mind. Then she could avoid thinking about the fractures and fissures in her family, and the secrets better left in the dark.

  Roger emerged from his office, and a smile broke across his face. “Mrs. O’Bannon, so nice to see you again. What treats have you brought us today?”

  “We had a last-minute cancellation for an order, so I have six dozen cupcakes.” She lifted the lid of the top box. “They were for a bridal shower, so they’re all decorated in pink and yellow. I hope that’s okay.” She didn’t add that she had made extra, just to bring some over here today. There were so many women housed in Roger’s facility that she reasoned they would appreciate the pastel-colored desserts.

  “Frosting is great, no matter what color it is.” He took the box from her and looked down. “And what’s in the second box?”

  “An apple pie. I told you I had the best apple pie around.”

  He grinned. “Do I get to taste it and decide for myself?”

  Ever since he’d raved about that diner pie, she’d vowed to bring him one of hers. The bakery had been so busy the last few weeks that she’d barely had time to fill the regular orders, never mind extras for the case. Plus, she didn’t want him thinking she’d gone out of her way to bake the pie. That would seem forward, and if there was one thing Colleen didn’t want to seem, it was forward. “One bite and you will see it’s no contest at all, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  “Oh, please, call me Roger. We know each other now. I see you practically every day.” He waved toward his office. “Why don’t you come on in and share this pie with me?”

  Every time she’d stopped by, her deliveries had been quick. In, out, back in the car, and off to Mass. Never had he invited her to stay. “Oh, I should—”

  “Have some of this pie. If it’s as delicious as you claim, then you shouldn’t be able to resist.”

  “It’s not a claim, Mr.—” She stopped herself. “Roger—it’s the truth.”

  “Then you should be here to hear me admit that.” He stepped into the room and pulled out a chair. “Please, Mrs. O’Bannon, sit.”

  “Well…” She glanced down the hall toward the door. Back at him. “Just for a moment.”

  He grabbed a pair of paper plates off a microwave in the corner of his office and two plastic forks out of a repurposed coffee mug. His office had man written all over it. An industrial metal desk, flanked by mismatched metal filing cabinets. Gray carpet, with a plain small table and chairs in one corner. The bookcases brimmed with books of all kinds—novels, biographies, textbooks, even two copies of the Bible. The windows looked out onto the parking lot. A modest space for a man who had a modest view of his work, she’d found.

  His initial joke about taking all the credit had been just that, a joke. The Roger she’d gotten to know shrugged off his own accomplishments and dished out accolades to those around him. He was kind and compassionate, honest and humble, and she liked that. A lot.

  “Here you go. Would you like some coffee to go with it?”

  “No, thank you.” She placed her hands in her lap. “I don’t drink coffee after noon.”

  “Bourbon, then?” He put up a hand. “Kidding, kidding.” He reached into a mini-fridge beside him and pulled out two iced teas. “Better option?”

  She accepted one, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. “Thank you.”

  He held his fork, poised over his slice of pie, and looked at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I will. After you take your first bite.” He gave her a quizzical look. She blushed and shook her head. “It’s a silly thing, I suppose, but I love to watch people take their first bite of one of our desserts. I like to watch their reactions. I can tell the instant the bite hits their tongue, and if they smile, I know I’ve done my job well. My eldest daughter, Bridget, does the same thing.” She dipped her head. “It’s silly, I know.”

  She’d said that twice. Goodness, what was wrong with her? She was as chatty as a schoolgirl.

  “Not at all. It’s sort of like how I go to every move-in. I like to be the one who hands over the keys and watch the family’s eyes light up when they realize they finally have a place of their own. There are a lot of times when those moments make this old softie choke up.” He patted his heart. “Okay, on to a bite of the best apple pie in the world.”

  Colleen laced her hands together and waited. For the first time she could remember, a flutter of nerves ran th
rough her. Roger closed his mouth around the bite, and—

  Nothing.

  The nerves turned to a churning. Never had she seen anyone have no reaction to her baking. Roger took a second bite, chewed it with thought and reached for a third bite. He paused, looked up at her, and grinned. “I got you there, didn’t I?”

  It took a few seconds for her to realize he’d been teasing her. She laughed and swatted at him. “That was terrible.”

  “Ah, but I bet it’s a reaction you’ve never seen before.” He wagged the fork in her direction. “Now you will remember me.”

  He held her gaze for a moment. Colleen forgot her pie. Forgot her iced tea. Forgot where she was. Then someone down the hall coughed, and that drew her attention back. She got to her feet, fast, and clutched her purse to her chest. “I should go.”

  “Already? You haven’t even had a bite of your pie.”

  “I…I shouldn’t be late for Mass.” A riot of emotions ran through her, emotions she hadn’t felt in two decades. She didn’t know whether to embrace them or run for the door. In all these years, she’d never desired another man. Never looked at one’s mouth while he ate a bite of pie and wondered what it would be like if he kissed her.

  Roger rose and put a hand on her arm. Colleen’s pulse tripped, and her gaze darted to his. “Stay, please. Mass will be there tomorrow. Have some pie with me.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dozens of photo albums lay in a circle on the Berber. Nora, Bridget, and Aunt Mary sat cross-legged in the center of the circle, sipping wine and nibbling on pepperoni pizza. An oldies station played James Taylor on the living room stereo. In the end, Nora had opted to hire a babysitter, and Abby had canceled last minute, saying something came up. The three of them had an easy dinner of delivered pizza and salad. Then, as the memories began to flow into their conversation, Bridget dragged out the photo albums.

  She slid a photo out of the album’s protective sleeve and held it up to the light. The image had faded some over the years but still showed the four girls standing on the front porch of the house on Park Street, dressed in matching plaid jumpers and Mary Jane shoes. Abby pouting at the forced dress, Magpie caught mid-spin to make her skirt swirl, Nora posing like a model, and Bridget, slightly off to the side, like she was ready to bolt. Ma and Aunt Mary stood in the back, each with a hand of caution on the girls. “When was this?”