for surgery and ended up in a coma. Never woke up. But she had one of these and it saved her family a lot of trouble. So really this is just a precaution in case I decide being under is more my cup of tea. You’ll get to pull the plug, guilt free.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t dare do that. You’d haunt me for eternity.”
“Only if you make a poor life choice and dash off to that frozen tundra of yours.” He says it in that joking way of his, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach has returned.
Before I start to worry, I remind myself that while my father is devious and manipulative, it’s almost always what he’s hinting at that’s the issue. Which leads me right back to the diner, right back to my roots, right back to home.
Or at least where he thinks my home should be.
SIX
JUST THE SMELL of cinnamon griddle cakes is healing.
When I was a little girl, my father would whip up a batch anytime I felt sick. He said the pillows of deliciousness had restorative powers, claiming that if chicken noodle soup and his cinnamon griddle cakes were thrown together in a boxing ring, the heady scent of cinnamon would deliver the knockout punch every time.
Even now, as I ladle more batter onto the griddle, the spices tickle my nose, releasing the tension in my neck and back. I already feel more refreshed. Last night, after my father and I parted ways at the attorney’s office, I returned to the house to continue sifting through the diner’s files. At some point I dozed off on a stack of unpaid supplier invoices. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, an aching neck, and the FedEx man banging on the front door. When Thomas Brandon said he’d rush documents over for me to review, I expected a folio’s worth, not three boxes.
I’m not sure what exactly inspired me to rummage through the kitchen for the requisite ingredients, seeing as how I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal—a bad case of regression, perhaps?
Whatever the reason, after I spent several hours sorting through the mound of files from White, Ogden, and Morris, I found myself in my father’s kitchen, measuring and mixing and cooking . I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve worked so hard to establish order, structure, control in my life, but being back here is making a mess of all that, smudging the lines I’ve drawn.
While I wait for the cakes to finish, I study the mansion next door, observing a grounds crew from a landscaping service haul garbage bags and hedge trimmers to their company truck. Even though the Rosenbloom family has been my father’s neighbors since Nick’s parents sold the house when I was in high school, I can’t help but think of them as impostors. I keep expecting to see Charlotte Preston and her country club cronies gossiping on the veranda as they sip Bellinis. Or Dr. Preston pacing in his navy jacket and cuffed khaki dress slacks on the long circular drive as he shouts into his cell phone at some poor soul at Baylor Medical about his recent transplant patient. Or Nick sitting under the large oak tree in the backyard, writing in his Moleskine notebook and strumming pretty songs on—
I push the thought away. Nick’s not that person anymore, I remind myself, remembering the edge in his voice, his hard stare, the bite in his words— How would I know that? You left.
I knew there was a possibility I’d run into him again, but I didn’t expect it to be less than a day after showing up in Dallas. I wonder if Wes told him about my arrival or if it truly was a coincidence.
As I’m plating up the last cinnamon cake, the front door swings open and slams against the wall. Spinning around, the batter spoon dangling from my mouth, I find Annabelle fighting her way through the boxes blocking the entryway. Hunger distracted me from moving them earlier.
“What is all this crap?” she mumbles to herself as the hem of her cardigan catches on a box corner.
A cheek-splitting smile spreads across my
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t dare do that. You’d haunt me for eternity.”
“Only if you make a poor life choice and dash off to that frozen tundra of yours.” He says it in that joking way of his, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach has returned.
Before I start to worry, I remind myself that while my father is devious and manipulative, it’s almost always what he’s hinting at that’s the issue. Which leads me right back to the diner, right back to my roots, right back to home.
Or at least where he thinks my home should be.
SIX
JUST THE SMELL of cinnamon griddle cakes is healing.
When I was a little girl, my father would whip up a batch anytime I felt sick. He said the pillows of deliciousness had restorative powers, claiming that if chicken noodle soup and his cinnamon griddle cakes were thrown together in a boxing ring, the heady scent of cinnamon would deliver the knockout punch every time.
Even now, as I ladle more batter onto the griddle, the spices tickle my nose, releasing the tension in my neck and back. I already feel more refreshed. Last night, after my father and I parted ways at the attorney’s office, I returned to the house to continue sifting through the diner’s files. At some point I dozed off on a stack of unpaid supplier invoices. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, an aching neck, and the FedEx man banging on the front door. When Thomas Brandon said he’d rush documents over for me to review, I expected a folio’s worth, not three boxes.
I’m not sure what exactly inspired me to rummage through the kitchen for the requisite ingredients, seeing as how I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal—a bad case of regression, perhaps?
Whatever the reason, after I spent several hours sorting through the mound of files from White, Ogden, and Morris, I found myself in my father’s kitchen, measuring and mixing and cooking . I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve worked so hard to establish order, structure, control in my life, but being back here is making a mess of all that, smudging the lines I’ve drawn.
While I wait for the cakes to finish, I study the mansion next door, observing a grounds crew from a landscaping service haul garbage bags and hedge trimmers to their company truck. Even though the Rosenbloom family has been my father’s neighbors since Nick’s parents sold the house when I was in high school, I can’t help but think of them as impostors. I keep expecting to see Charlotte Preston and her country club cronies gossiping on the veranda as they sip Bellinis. Or Dr. Preston pacing in his navy jacket and cuffed khaki dress slacks on the long circular drive as he shouts into his cell phone at some poor soul at Baylor Medical about his recent transplant patient. Or Nick sitting under the large oak tree in the backyard, writing in his Moleskine notebook and strumming pretty songs on—
I push the thought away. Nick’s not that person anymore, I remind myself, remembering the edge in his voice, his hard stare, the bite in his words— How would I know that? You left.
I knew there was a possibility I’d run into him again, but I didn’t expect it to be less than a day after showing up in Dallas. I wonder if Wes told him about my arrival or if it truly was a coincidence.
As I’m plating up the last cinnamon cake, the front door swings open and slams against the wall. Spinning around, the batter spoon dangling from my mouth, I find Annabelle fighting her way through the boxes blocking the entryway. Hunger distracted me from moving them earlier.
“What is all this crap?” she mumbles to herself as the hem of her cardigan catches on a box corner.
A cheek-splitting smile spreads across my
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