Chapter 45
The staff at Baccarat would carve their eyes out with a tourné knife if they saw the state of the Birdsong kitchen right now.
I don’t even know how it happened. Usually, I am beyond neat and tidy as I cook.
Even the tea towel looped through my apron string is normally still a crisp rectangle by the end of the night.
But among all the things I seem to have lost, my ability to neatly mise and clean as I go is gone with them.
“What the hell happened?” asks Matt, coming in from the beach, dusting his feet off on the deck before stepping in. “It’s been like half an hour.”
“Mm!” I suck some sauce off my thumb and turn. “Here, taste this, does this taste like Babe’s garlic sauce?”
I bring over a wooden spoon and let him taste it.
“I don’t remember it well enough. But that kind of tastes like flour?”
I taste it too. “Okay, the flour hasn’t cooked down yet, but I at least got the texture right. I just wish I could read her handwriting.”
He looks at the journal. “Roasted, raw, sauteed, dash cream, salted butter—”
“Wait, you can read that?” I come over and hold up the book. I flip to a page that has a stir-fry sauce recipe. “Can you read that?”
“Lemongrass, grated ginger, white pepper—”
“Oh, my god.” I throw down the book, grab him by the head, keeping my saucy fingers off him, and kiss him between the eyebrows. “You are a genius, Matt.”
“No problem.” He laughs. “Okay, I’m going up—”
“Oh, no, no, no. You’re not going anywhere, you are going to help me figure out Babe’s recipes.”
Doorbell. Birdie.
“Gladys,” says Matt.
I go over to the door. “Maybe she knows something.” I open it. “Gladys!”
“Didion! I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me without the red hair. How are you, love?” She leans forward, and I kiss her on both cheeks before letting her in.
“Hey, Gladys, did Babe happen to say anything to you about us coming to visit?”
“Good to see you too.” She puts the basket down, and eyes me. “Honey, is everything okay?” she asks. “You seem a little … more you than usual.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the decorative mirror nearby and see that I look, yes, a little crazed.
“I’m fine. So … nothing about any…” I glance at Matt. I don’t want to sound insane. But I need to know. I go for it anyway: “Spells or anything?”
Gladys looks at Matt too. “Did she hit her head? Or did she finally inherit her mother’s crazy?”
Matt comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “She’s fine. Grief.” He makes a what can you do? gesture.
Gladys nods, and then says her next line. “I’ll let you get back to your Saturday. Good lord, is that your mother in there?”
“Yes, yes,” I say, tossing my tea towel over my shoulder and going back into the kitchen, where I’ve just smelled my garlic sauce burning.