How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (15 page)

Chapter Six

My mom follows me out to the car. “Honey, here is her address. When you park, walk in through the entrance and the receptionist can show you to her apartment. She’s in suite two-zero-one.”

“Got it.” I take the paper.

I type the address into my phone. The trip is only a fifteen-minute drive. That’s convenient. My dad’s stereo stares back at me. I want to play some tunes, but I decide against it. Definitely don’t want to revisit yesterday with the chanting, pain-inducing sounds.

This is the first time I’m visiting my grandmother at her new place. Last year she took a really big fall at her house and broke a hip. My dad offered for her to move in with my parents, but my grandmother wouldn’t have it. She said she valued her independence too much. I study the building. It’s a four-story grey complex, it looks like a cross between an apartment complex and a set of commercial offices. The parking lot is lined with birch trees and the front of the building is planked by poinsettia plants.
Stay far away from those, Lauren.
I’m highly allergic. I walk up to the entrance as my mother advised. Does she think I’m an idiot?
Walk in through the entrance
. Thanks for that advice, Mom!

The mauve-colored receptionist desk is empty, which kind of makes sense as it’s Thanksgiving. The silver elevator doors are to the left of the desk. I push the translucent up button. An older man wheels out of the door when the elevator opens. He clearly doesn’t see me, as he almost knocks me down. I slide to the right to miss a head-on collision. Spending the day tending to a concussion does not rank high on my idea of fun ways to celebrate Thanksgiving. I bet Pinterest doesn’t have a board for concussions received over the holidays. No one would want to “Pin It To Win It” under that category, especially not me.

I push the number two circle and the doors slowly close. There is a familiar scent in the elevator. It’s not the “old people home” smell. It’s something else. I can’t place it. I inhale, trying to get a better whiff, but it’s gone, whatever it was.

My grandmother’s suite is right outside the elevator.
That’s nice
. Is this a good thing in a retirement home to be the near the elevator? I form a fist and hit the door, twice. The oak is solid underneath my knuckles.
Was that knock loud
enough for her to hear?

The door opens, and a large man is holding onto the knob. I take a step back. I need to get my head in gear. I know the mind is a powerful thing
, I know…I know.
But how is this possible? Have I seriously just created a hologram of Jack?

“Lauren,” Jack says to me. Not only a three-dimensional image of Jack, but with his voice. He’s wearing a starched blue shirt. The fabric is clinging to his biceps. I want to reach out and grab them, again. I swipe my hand over his shirt. The cotton is smooth against my fingers. This image does not waver. I shake my head and blink a few times.

Jack places his hand over top of mine and holds our hands over his chest. His warm thumb rubs the back of my hand. “Are you okay?” He cocks his head to the right.

I skim the paper my mom gave me. Two hundred and one is written clearly. My mother has good penmanship—a trait that wasn’t passed down to me.

“Um…what are you doing here?” I whisper.

“I’m visiting with one of my favorite residents. What are you doing here?” Jack whispers back. He squeezes my hand. “I’m happy you took me up on my offer.”

“Your offer?” I raise an eyebrow at him and pull my hand back.

“Yes, my offer last night, to join us for lunch. That’s why you’re here, right?” Jack braces himself against the roof of the door jam.

“No…I’m here to see my grandmother.”

“Sandra Hauser?” Jack whispers, lower this time.

I am speechless. My grandmother pulls the door open and wraps her arm around Jack’s waist. She’s dressed in a cream-colored blouse and a beige satin skirt that stops at her knees. Her hair is fluffed up in curls. It’s white—the kind of white you see on Mrs. Claus in the movies.

Jack smiles down at her like they’ve known each other for years. Yet, my grandmother hasn’t even lived here for an entire twelve months.

“Lauren, darling, come in. I see you’ve met Jack, yes?” A Cheshire grin creeps out from the sides of her mouth. She raises her eyebrows as if she is trying to force the grin into hibernation.

“Hi, Grandmother. How are you?” I’m intentionally avoiding her question.

“Mrs. Hauser, Lauren helped bake the pies I was telling you about,” Jack says. He’s talking to her ever so sweetly—not the abrupt man I’d met yesterday.

Does he have multiple personalities? Maybe I should be worried about my grandmother. Did he know who I was when we met? Is this some sort of set-up?

“Pies?” my grandmother asks.

Jack leads her back to the chambray ivory couch that is draped with her favorite beige and gold afghan. He helps her sit down. She places her hands in her lap and entwines her fingers.

“Remember the recipe you gave me? For the pecan pie that
had
to be made for Thanksgiving?” Jack asks her gently.

Did my grandmother give away the Hauser Family Pecan Pie recipe to a complete stranger? The same recipe I’m supposed to hold close to my heart and guard with my life. Is this the same recipe? I mean I know the recipe Jack had and the one my grandmother gave me were identical, but I thought it was fluke and my grandmother had just given me some recipe out of
Southern Living
. But did she actually give us both her real recipe?

A big, smashing disco ball turns on in my head. I’m internally screaming. Of course, that’s why the recipes match up. They’re the same recipe from the same person. I can’t question my grandmother now. Not in this semi-state of dementia. I bite my tongue.

“I think I need to rest my eyes for a few moments.” My grandmother closes her eyes and slowly lays her head on the gold silk pillow.

Jack pulls the afghan from her couch, and covers her from the shoulders down.

I stride back to the front door. “Jack, could I, um, speak with you over here?” I motion for him to come towards me.

Jack turns in my direction. He sighs, and his shoulders drop as he strides over. “Don’t worry. She’ll be okay after she rests.” He caresses my arms.

I almost melt on contact. His grip is firm. Little tingles swim underneath my skin. How can such a small gesture be so mesmerizing?

He retracts his fingers, and I’m brought back to the present. “What? Oh, okay.” I know after my grandmother fell my parents mentioned her being different. But this is really out of character. I knead my lips. “When did my grandmother give you the recipe?”

Jack smiles as though he’s remembering the moment fondly.

“Now that’s a funny story. Your grandmother entrusted her recipe to me, and specifically stated that Thanksgiving wouldn’t be able to exist without her special pecan pie.”

Odd, I seem to remember those exact same words in my letter. I need some oxygen. The fleur de lis printed walls of my grandmother’s apartment are closing in on me. I’m dizzy. I don’t understand why she would have given Jack the recipe and with the same message.

I turn the knob on the door. The hallway is empty. I lean against the wall outside my grandmother’s room and take deep slow breaths.

“Lauren, are you alright?” Jack steps outside of my grandmother’s room and closes the door behind him.

I blow out through my lips. “If she entrusted you with the recipe, why did you allow me to see it? Did you know who I was?”

Have I been set up? If so, I plan on figuring out who the puppeteer is in this ensemble.

“Did I know that you’re Sandra’s granddaughter?” he asks with his palm open. “No, I didn’t, but I can definitely see some similarities now.”

One would think he’s telling me the truth, but he didn’t answer the question in its entirety.

I decide to take a different approach. “Jack, why did you feel comfortable showing me the recipe?” I try not to bat my eyes. I only want a platonic level of charm to be asserted at this moment.

“Are you trying to seduce answers out of me outside of your sleeping grandmother’s apartment?” His mouth drops open and his eyebrows are raised, almost reaching his hairline.

His performance is okay. I would give him a six out of ten in believability quotient. Yet, we’re not participating in some sort of comedy improvisation. I want to know why he shared the recipe and if I’m being played. Something isn’t adding up.

“That’s absurd. I’m just trying to figure out this situation. And I’m asking for your help. Why do you think my grandmother would share her secret award-winning family recipe with
you
?” I smile gently at him.

“I’m not sure, but I haven’t shared it with anyone else,” he says and brushes his fingers over my arms. “And, I wouldn’t have shared it with anyone else.”

My stomach clenches. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“Let’s leave your grandmother to rest.” He reaches for my hands and massages them with his own. “Listen, when people get to a certain age, they have a hard time understanding connections and sometimes share things with people who don’t hold the same level of closeness as their family.” He takes my chin in his hand and gazes into my eyes. “I’m sorry your grandmother gave me the recipe. I promise I haven’t shown it to anyone else, and I’ll give it back to you.”

I’m acting like a child who doesn’t want to share. He’s being so kind. “It’s okay. For whatever reason she wanted you to have it.”

Jack massages my shoulders. “Come here. Let me hug you.”

I nod. Tears fill my eyes. Why am I crying?
This is ridiculous.
I shake the tears off. I’m not that upset. Maybe it’s seeing my grandmother in this place or the events from yesterday. Either way, the tears are in my eyes. I force them back to their deep, dark place. I’m definitely not going to cry in front of Jack. I flitter my eyelashes so that my eyes are clear of any excess liquid. The idea of my grandmother not being the same person forms a lump in my throat. She was always the sharpest person in the room. I can’t imagine her ever being different than this.

I’m okay. More than okay in Jack’s arms. I’m a marshmallow melting and he’s the hot cocoa. Staying in this embrace makes me want to nuzzle in closer, maybe read a good book, and relax. Or do something much hotter. Jack leans his face into my hair. His chest rises as he inhales.

He exhales and retracts his body. His eyes are clear like he’s considering something. He leans in and stops. A vibrating sound coming from his pants pocket has halted a possible kiss. Jack rolls his eyes. He retrieves the moving phone from his pocket and glares at it. Jack motions one finger in the air to me and meanders down the hall. I understand he wants to create listening distance between the two of us but I can’t help but wonder who might be calling him on Thanksgiving. I crane my head pretending to roll my neck. His voice is muffled.

“I’ll have Sherry call you tomorrow and sort everything out.” Jack proceeds back to where I’m standing. Our eyes meet as he slides the phone back in his pocket.

“I can’t promise any dancing, but would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please.” I laugh and follow him to the elevator. He presses the down arrow button and the dinging of a bell is followed by the doors sliding open. We both enter the elevator and he presses the circle with a one centered in the middle. The door rings before either of us speak a word.
Are fast elevators a good thing for the elderly?

We exit the small room without any near collisions from the other residents. He leads me to a small buffet table covered in white linen. Sitting on top is a coffee and tea machine along with cups, cream, and stirrers. It’s weird that I was just here. I guess with it being dark last night, it’s easy to understand why I didn’t recognize the building today. Then again, we did park at a different entrance, and it’s not like Jack gave me a tour of the place.

Jack pours me a cup of coffee. “Sugar or cream?”

“Cream. I think we both know I’m already too sweet.” I bat my eyelashes at him intentionally.

Jack raises his eyebrow at me and places some cream in front of me. I splash a few drops of the cream—
real
cream—into my cup. The white liquid spills into the hot coffee like a fearless cliff diver. Fearless
—
something I should consider perhaps.

I take a sip. Now this is a good brew. It’s robust and exactly what I need.

“So how long have you been holding down this fort?” I ask.

“Almost a year. This business has been in our family for years. Lewis was great at running it. However, my brother had his own system for things and it’s taking a while for Sherry to figure it out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand.

He takes mine and rubs his thumb over my knuckles. “Don’t be. He led an adventure-filled life.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I do miss him. Especially on the holidays.”

“I can only imagine what it’d be like to lose a loved one. Seeing my grandmother here is difficult enough.” I stir my coffee. The cream is no longer evident in the cup. The two colors have melded together to create a different shade. “How long do you think my grandmother will need to sleep?”

“Usually she rests for an hour or so, and then she’s back to her lively self,” he says with a warm smile. It seems odd that this stranger knows more about my grandmother’s routines than I do.

“I’m supposed to be picking her up for our Thanksgiving dinner.” I push the home button on my phone.

“What time is your dinner planned for?” Jack asks as he releases my fingers.

The little white numbers on the display show it’s almost noon. “I’m not sure. I think around five.” My eyebrows are scrunched together. I should have asked my mom before I left, but then again, I didn’t know that I would run into Jack.

“Well, our dinner here starts at one. Would you be able to join us?” He clinks his mug against mine.

“Sure. I bet my grandmother would like that.” I clink his cup with acceptance.

I wouldn’t mind staying either, especially if it means the possibility of another long embrace from Jack. Or dancing, or caressing his arms, or smelling his cologne. I debate coming up with a reason to cry, just to have his arms around me.
Lauren, get a hold of yourself.