Chapter 23
Ibelieve that there is nothing more nostalgic than going back to one’s family home and stepping into the kitchen. It’s the center of every memory, weaved into the fabric of who I’ve become.
And maybe it’s because nothing changes here. The pale blue cabinets are the same from my childhood, with that same pastel floral wallpaper surrounding them. I remember being infinitely proud as an eight-year-old when Mom let me help pick the pattern out.
I walk about the island and lift the lid of a misshapen ceramic cookie jar beside the microwave, painted to look like black and white cow spots. It’s one of the first art pieces I ever made. And it’s never actually housed cookies.
Instead, I withdraw a Bigelow Orange I got the recipe from Alice the other day.”
The kettle whistles, and after passing me the steaming mug of tea, my mother quickly shifts to gathering all our preparations. She drops an apron over my head, then one over her own. Then she pulls out the recipe cards we’ll need today, lining them up in a neat row.
“You get the wet ingredients out, I’ll tackle the pantry,” she instructs.
Soon, the island is littered with the likes of flour, brown sugar, pumpkin puree, butter, and more. When Mom isn’t looking, I lift the lid off the brown sugar and steal a clump, popping it in my mouth.
“We’ll start with the pies; they’ll need time to cool.” She turns around, catches me reaching back into the tin, and swats my hand away. “Now stop that, it’s too early in the day to be eating sugar straight from the container.”
“I’ve been up awhile, actually,” I say, switching to reach for a handful of chocolate chips instead. “I wanted to get the sunrise in my painting.”
She freezes, a measuring cup full of flour balancing in her hand. “You’re painting again?”
With my mouth full of chocolate, I manage a close-lipped smile and nod. With a gulp, I say, “I started back up a few weeks ago.”
Abandoning the measuring cup, my mother hurries around the island to hug me. It’s one of those surprisingly forceful hugs that somehow still manages to feel comforting. “That is wonderful to hear, your dad and I have been so worried.”
“Me too,” I admit quietly. “For a while, I thought I was going to have to call the gallery and break our contract.”
“You are just so talented. I don’t think we ever really understood why you stopped making art.”
“I wouldn’t say I stopped, it was more like I froze. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get myself in the studio to create.”
She pulls back and studies me with a pinched expression. “Too much pressure?”
“Self-imposed pressure, yeah. And maybe I was just trying to force something that wasn’t meant to be—stylistically.”
“And now?” Mom sits on the stool beside me and tugs over the mixing bowl from across the island. She tosses in the sugar and begins to stir as she waits for my reply.
I reach for another bunch of chocolate chips, but she slides them away from me. “Now,” I say as she puts a whisk in my hand instead. “I think I know what I’m meant to be painting.”
“What changed?”
My mind conjures the image of dark eyes and a crooked smile and vulnerable conversations out front of my house.
“I’m not sure,” I lie.
Mom lifts the ball of dough from the bowl and sets it on a pastry board. Then she pulls a rolling pin from a nearby drawer and hands it to me.
“You start flattening our crust while I get going on the filling.”
I jump from my seat and walk over to accept the wooden tool. As soon as I do, she hurries to her next task.
“I have to say, it’s nice to hear a bit of positive news these days.” Her words are muffled by the fact that she is speaking into the refrigerator. “Considering everyone is so worried about this nasty hotel business.”
Familiar guilt flares in my gut, reminding me that I’m consorting with the enemy.
“Have there been any updates on all of that?” I ask innocently.
“Officially, no.” She turns, setting a carton of cream on the counter. “But Alice did say that the representative staying in town certainly came prepared. He’s been one step ahead of anything the board requests of him.”
“How so?”
“He’s dotted his i’s, crossed his t’s, started the process for the proper surveys, and had some information already on hand when the board tried to challenge him on things. A real sharp man, they say.”
Jake is smart, there is no doubt about that. But describing him as sharp feels wrong.
He’s solid, and warm. He’s been my safe place to land when my life has felt threatened—truly threatened by a motorcycle and only the perception of threat in a cornfield—but he’s not hard city edges and cold, sharp actions.
He’s patient. And kind. Especially when I’ve been vulnerable about my art with him.
And I can’t tell my mom any of this. Because while he seems to be the reason I’m pulling myself back up on my feet, he’s also the reason so many others might get knocked off theirs.
“Wow,” I say instead. “I wonder what is going to happen.”
To the town, and my heart.