Chapter 36
I watch Alice stare off.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sighs. “I just wonder what my grandmother’s life was like after I left.
Do you think, at some point, she gave up on loving people, needing them?
Do you suppose it was just too painful? I’m not sure what she did in those years.
Did loneliness eventually kill her? Would she have lived longer if I had come to see her before I graduated from college? ”
I consider this, then shake my head. “I think never seeing you again must have hurt her, but if we’ve learned anything about Rose, it’s that she was a survivor.
She loved, and she lost. But it seems she never closed her heart.
She always had the courage to be vulnerable, to love again.
” I hold Alice’s gaze. “Like you. I can imagine how vulnerable you must have felt mailing me that letter.”
Alice nods. “I’d sent you so many cards over the years, for birthdays and Christmases, but year after year, I never heard back, and so one day, I stopped sending them.
It hurt less that way. I didn’t know if you would even receive the letter I typed, or reply, or want to see me again.
But I was going to lose my home, the farm, everything I’ve ever known and loved.
I knew I couldn’t do this alone. Or rather, I didn’t want to. I needed you.”
I reach out and hug her, and we hold each other for a beat.
“Well, I can guarantee you alone is not something you’re going to be now or in the near future,” I say, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “In fact, with the number of people in this house, you must be begging for a few moments of silence.”
We share a laugh.
“Speaking of not being alone,” she starts, “Lenny asked me out last night.”
I try to contain my enthusiasm. “Oh really?” I hold my expression in. “That’s nice.”
“Go ahead and celebrate. You know you want to.”
I silently clap my hands. “I think he’s so nice,” I say.
“It’s only dinner and a movie. They’re showing Casablanca at the downtown theater.” Alice shrugs. “We’ll see.”
The fact that Alice said yes is enough for me to let the topic go—for now.
We continue our work. Just as we pull the very last recipe from the box, we spot a cassette tape underneath. Alice grabs it and reads the inscription on the black-and-white label.
“Tunnel of Fudge Cake,” she reads.
“Do you have a cassette player?” I ask.
As Alice pulls out the relic of technology, I cross my fingers that the tape is still in working condition.
Alice presses play and we hear my great-great-grandmother Rose’s voice.
And from what she says, we gather she’s conducting a cooking class at the farmhouse for some local teens.
At the beginning of the recording, Rose gives a sort of introduction and mentions it’s 1966, and she’s been teaching the classes for three years.
She’s recording for one of her students, Linda, who is sick and can’t attend.
During the class, Rose shows the girls how to make a Tunnel of Fudge cake, which she says just won second place at the Pillsbury Bake-Off.
They bake the cake in a Nordic Ware bundt pan, because that’s the kind of pan the winner, Ella Helfrich of Texas, used.
Listening closely, we hear the names of a few of her students—Judith, Nancy, Donna—and realize these, along with Linda, are some of the names we found inscribed on the back of the Rosehill sign.
The new sign—cut down from the original and placed to the left of the door—must be a symbol of a new chapter in Rose’s life, a testament to Rosehill Farm’s endurance.
When we finish listening to the tape, we sit in silent awe. What a gift, a keyhole peek into Rose’s life after Alice left.
“See?” I say. “Rose didn’t give up after you left. She kept finding ways to connect with other people, by sharing her gifts, by sharing the things she loved.”