The Memory of Lemon (5 page)

Nervously, I steered the conversation to the shallows.

“Dave Pearce hasn't changed at all,” I said.

“You two would have scored an A-plus on your wildlife check-off. Same as biology tests in high school, only he didn't look at your answers first,” said Ben.

When the Prosecco came to the table, we clinked glasses.

My hand was shaking a little bit as I took a sip. I so hoped we didn't see anyone who knew me or who knew Luke. In my world, being separated meant I could date other people, especially since I was leaving a husband who had no room to talk. But in the high-stakes, big-money divorce world, this was risky.

“Our first real date in how long?” Ben asked.

“Light-years,” I said. “I think the last time was when you took me for pizza and a movie our sophomore year in college.” The last date had actually been the frat party in which Luke had recognized “that girl from the bakery” and I was a goner. I wanted to forget that, too.

“Well, you look just as beautiful as you did then, Neely,” he said.

“Liar.” I smiled. But I did look good. I wore a form-fitting black lace dress and my good diamond earrings. My hair was up in a loose knot, with that messy, just-got-out-of-bed look that was so hard to achieve. I had spritzed on Chanel No. 5. And I made sure I had on sexy lingerie. I wasn't sure where the night would go, but I wanted to be ready.

Ben, in his navy blazer and crisp striped shirt, looked like he had gotten what little sun there was that day during the regatta. Ben was his own man. He didn't care how other people judged him. I found that confidence very sexy.

The signature potato puffs that came to the table were airy like a soufflé. Paired with the bubbly, the combination made me feel almost effervescent.

It was like stars twinkling. Or a camera flashing.

When I tried a second potato puff, I gently gilded it with the buttery sauce pooled on the side of the plate. Instead of the sinful bite that I expected, however, it turned extremely salty on my tongue. I wanted to spit it out, but instead I gagged it down, followed by a big gulp of water. Ben ate his nonchalantly, as if nothing was wrong. Maybe the chef had oversalted my sauce. Or maybe not.

I had learned to pay attention when I tasted the salty flavor of fear.

Another tiny flash.

When I looked up, I saw a well-dressed, well-groomed man approaching our table, just putting his little camera away in his pocket.

“You two look cozy,” he said. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

The salty flavor intensified, and my body started into full anxiety mode as fear kept repeating itself.

Here I was in a sexy dress, an iced-down silver bucket of Prosecco at the table, wedding ring missing in action. How was I going to explain this?

Why should I have to explain this?

I was separated from my husband. I was having dinner with an old friend. I wasn't committing a crime, just trying to fly under the radar a little bit.

Ben rose from the table and shook the man's hand. “Neely, you remember Charlie Wheeler. We used to give him crap about being a punter, but he has done all right for himself. Big-city lawyer.” Ben patted him on the shoulders as if Charlie still had football pads on.

“What brings you back here, Charlie?” I croaked. I hoped he couldn't see my heart thudding in my throat or the shaky way I held my champagne flute. Charlie was Luke's attorney, but that was no big deal, right? Luke, of all people, knew we had called it quits, knew that Ben and I had known each other since grade school. Why was I overreacting?

“Just business. And I could ask you the same. Looks like you two are off to a great start.” He gave me a cool, appraising look.

“We are. Lots to celebrate,” I said, lightly, I hoped. “Ben said he'd take me to dinner because the bakery turned a profit,” I lied. “So, here we are, way ahead of projections.”

“Well, cheers to you,” said Charlie, raising one eyebrow.

He wasn't a fool. But I decided to call his bluff.

“Why don't you join us?” I asked.

Ben shot me a puzzled look as I tried to telepathically tell him I was sorry that I could be ruining our date night yet again.

I hoped Charlie would decline, say he was meeting clients or wanted an early night.

But he didn't. “Don't mind if I do. And dinner will be on me. This is the most excitement I've had since I got back to Queen City,” Charlie said. “Which tells you a lot about this trip.” He grinned.

As our attentive waiter was bringing over another chair for our table, Charlie held him back for a minute.

“You two get close there and let me get another photo. A memento of the trip and old friends,” Charlie said, taking his camera out of his pocket again. I didn't want him taking another photo, but I didn't want to look guilty, either. I forced myself to smile. He took the photos and sat down.

When Ben sat down, I squeezed his hand under the table, and then he seemed to accept the charade.

“You got my letter last week, Neely?” Charlie asked.

“I did.”

“It's not personal, you know, just business. Have to take care of my client. But let's not talk about that now.”

Let's not, I thought. But that didn't mean the prenuptial agreement wouldn't be on my mind for the rest of dinner.

“So, tell me about this regatta,” Charlie said, before our entrees arrived. “I've been to the Henley Regatta in England, all ascots and straw boater hats and lots of champagne.”

“Well, this was more like sweatshirts and ball caps and empty Budweiser cans,” Ben said with a laugh.

“It's about the environment around the Mill Creek,” I said. “Water quality and wildlife. Muskrats and blue herons and carp.”

The waiter put my plank-roasted fish in front of me. The sauce smelled divine, but I knew everything would taste salty to me.

“I hope that's not Mill Creek carp,” Charlie joked.

I grimaced.

But Charlie plowed on. “Bet you two didn't know that old John James Audubon himself once ventured up the Mill Creek from the Ohio River, the opposite of the way Ben went today,” Charlie said.

“I didn't know that Audubon was ever in Queen City,” Ben said.

“Just a short while,” said Charlie. “One of my clients collects hand-colored Audubon prints, and they're stunning. Worth a fortune. Especially the birds that are now extinct. Passenger pigeons. Carolina parroquets.”

Charlie and Ben leaned back a bit from the table as the waiter put a sizzling steak in front of each of them.

As we took our first bites, I tried to imagine what Queen City must have looked like in Audubon's day, when all of this was new and green. When passenger pigeons and Carolina parroquets were unaware that their days were numbered.

“The Queen City Library has an original folio of Audubon's birds and they turn it to a new page every day,” Charlie said, washing down his steak with a glass of red wine, the pricey Brunello he had selected. And that Luke was probably paying for.

I wished I could turn a new page and end this evening.

After an interminable meal and the start of a tension headache, I tried to explain myself to Ben on the way home.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin our date. I should have suggested someplace off the beaten path. Can we try again next week?”

“I'm booked with work every Saturday night through June,” said Ben, morosely. “Our timing sucks.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this.”

We drove in silence.

“What's the big deal, Neely? Just tell me.”

Just the thought of this new threat shot a bolt of ice-cold dread through me. I explained to Ben about my prenup with Luke. How the “unfaithful” clause applied only to me. If I were proved to be unfaithful, and Luke chose to enforce this clause, not only would I walk away from the marriage with very little, but Luke would be entitled to a portion of any properties and monies accumulated during our marriage—namely, my house and business.

The letter from Charlie Wheeler had stated Luke's intent to
enforce that clause. I had dismissed it as chain rattling, but now I knew they were going after me.

Ben wanted to know why I had ever agreed to such a thing, but I didn't have a satisfying answer. In those early days with Luke, I couldn't even begin to imagine what the end of our relationship might look like. Instead, I only thought of happily-ever-afters. So I had signed the agreement, unread, no questions asked. Back then, I assumed I wouldn't want or need a slice of my husband's astronomically large salary if we split. But now I was less certain. Luke had wronged and humiliated me so many times—surely I was owed
something
for that. And there was Gran to consider, too.

“If it were just about me, I could happily divorce Luke and not ask for a cent. I would have just admitted to Charlie Wheeler that we were dating. But I've got Gran to think about. Her care at Mount Saint Mary's is expensive. In another few years, the money she received when I bought her house will be gone. And then what? Mom and Aunt Helen can't take that on. The bakery is doing well right now, but not that well.”

I twisted my hands in my lap. Tears filled my eyes, but I was too stubborn to give in to crying.

I waited until I was calmer to continue. “If Luke drags his feet on a legal separation, I can still file for divorce when I have established residency in Ohio, which will be on May 15. Then I don't have to worry as much when I go out with you.”

“But Luke was a bastard. He's got no room to talk. This isn't 1860.”

“It's the way things work if you're trying to divorce a wealthy man and want a settlement, even a modest one. Big double standard.”

“Is that why Charlie was taking all those photos? Not just for old times' sake?”

“I don't know,” I said miserably.

“Maybe Luke doesn't want to let you go,” said Ben quietly.

“It's too late for that. I've already gone,” I said, reaching across to touch Ben's arm.

“But he can make it really difficult for you.”

“I don't think Luke would do that. He's got too much pride.”

“Then why is he looking for proof that his wife has been unfaithful?”

We looked at each other and then sat in silence.

Ben drove carefully to my house, but didn't look over at me, didn't reach for my hand. He leaned over to open my car door, but didn't get out.

“We can't see each other, then, Neely,” he said, looking straight ahead. “It's too risky for you. Luke has enough money that he could have you followed twenty-four/seven. Maybe he's having you followed right this minute. Someone could be taking photos of us sitting here. The last thing I want is to hurt you.”

“But I will see you. Tomorrow. We're all going to Augusta, remember?” I said. “We can't let Luke control our lives.”

“I have to think about that. Good night, Neely,” Ben said.

I walked into my house alone. He waited, as I knew he would, until I was safely inside before he pulled away.

How differently this evening has ended from what I intended
, I thought as I pulled my nightshirt over my head. My sexy lingerie lay at the top of the hamper, not trailing a way to the bed. Now was the perfect time for a pity party.

Why couldn't I be with the man who truly, unselfishly, loved
me? I had given Luke everything I had and he still wanted more—a one-sided marriage that allowed him to stray and forced me to stay.

And then I got mad.

Luke didn't own me. I had left him and I wasn't going back. I would figure this out. I was not going to lose Ben.

But how was I going to fight
back?

Neely

After my Saturday night date debacle, I was dreading our trip to Augusta.

Why had I asked Ben to go with us? It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe he would simply beg off. I wouldn't blame him.

The clash between Mrs. Stidham and her daughter, Lydia, had taken an abrupt backseat to my personal dilemma. Roshonda, Gavin, and I might find a compromise to the mother/daughter stalemate through our visit to the family's Kentucky home place today, but I couldn't see a way yet to make things better with Ben.

The early morning drizzle did nothing to change that. I hoped Ben would still come with us. I would soon see.

I was relieved to see Gavin drive up with Ben in the front
seat. I left the bakery with a to-go carton of coffees and two boxes of my famous cinnamon rolls for the drive. I did a quick visual scan of the parking lot and Benson Street, both empty, before I got in the backseat with Ro.

I passed the coffees around, gave everyone a napkin, and opened the boxes.

Is there anything better than the scent of a still-warm cinnamon roll? Yes: the taste of one. Maybe that would give two star-crossed, would-be lovers a little comfort.

“I can't eat and drive,” moaned Gavin.

“You mean you're worried you'll get crumbs on your jeans,” Ben said, between bites. “Crumbs and a crease don't mix.”

“Let me drive, then. Crumbs would only improve my outfit,” Ro said, gesturing to her slightly rumpled appearance, which her quilted jacket didn't help. “Crumbs would add a little texture. Isn't that what interior designers say?”

“Hmph,” muttered Gavin, fastidiously licking frosting from his fingers. “Let me finish this, and then we'll get going.” He looked slightly horrified as Ben flicked a cinnamon roll crumb onto the upholstery.

Looking closer, I saw that Roshonda had little flakes of the previous day's mascara under her eyes.

“Late night, huh?”

“Nobody's business what kind of night I had,” she said and then smiled at me in a cat-that-ate-the-cream kind of way.

“Well, I'm glad someone had a good time,” Ben grumbled.

My heart sank.

Roshonda's look to me said,
What???

I sighed and made the cutoff gesture to her. I didn't want to get into all of that now. It would cast a pall on the whole day.

Roshonda rolled her eyes and went back to nibbling all the frosting off her roll.

“Let's get in the zone for this,” Gavin said, drinking the last of his coffee and patting his lips with a napkin. “Bluegrass music. A little Emmylou Harris to start our Kentucky trip?” He chose a disc from the console and slipped it into the CD player.

We drove out of the parking lot with “Blue Kentucky Girl” in Emmylou's distinctive meandering voice, a little tattered at the edges.

Gavin and Roshonda started singing. Ben and I just listened.

Bluegrass music tells it like it is. Lives full of high spots and low points. Lost loves. Moments of amazing grace. We just had to get through it all.

We took the tangle of highways to Route 52, the Ohio River Scenic Byway, which followed the river through little towns like New Richmond and Point Pleasant. To our right was the Ohio River, wide and slate gray as the sun just started to peep out from the low clouds. The sloping banks on either side were shedding the drabness of winter for new spring greenery.

Shortly after we passed Ulysses Grant's birthplace at Point Pleasant, we saw the sign and turned down the gravel road to the ferry landing.

We got out of the car to wait, watching the six-car ferry chug its way back from the Kentucky side. The air was warming, and we could see fog drift up from the cold water.

“This reminds me of that old movie
Brigadoon
,” said Gavin.
“Gene Kelly is on vacation in Scotland and comes across this enchanted village shrouded in mist. Brigadoon comes alive for only one day every hundred years. The mist parts, and, of course, he falls in love with this beautiful girl who can really dance . . .”

“Who wouldn't?” asked Roshonda, who, memorably, had tried to teach us the Roger Rabbit and the Tootsie Roll back in the day.

“Cyd Charisse! She was the beautiful girl who could dance.” Somehow I knew that.

“And they're separated by forces bigger than they are . . .” Gavin continued.

“Like a hundred years between dates,” chimed Roshonda.

Gavin and Roshonda laughed.

Ben and I were silent.

Again, Roshonda gave me a look.

Gavin drove the car onto the ferry, and then we all walked onto the deck. Soon, the ferry plied its way back across the river.

Like Lydia said, I could feel the river beneath my feet.

As we got closer, the Augusta skyline came into view. I was glad I had done my homework, so I could recognize what I was seeing firsthand. No wonder this late-eighteenth-century river town had been the setting of several movies. A row of houses fronted the river: an old brick Georgian from the late eighteenth century with a fanlight brought from colonial Virginia, a few white Greek Revivals, a carpenter Gothic, a Victorian painted lady, and at the end of Riverside Drive, the stucco facade of the old Methodist church, built in 1819.

“Genteel. Charming. Sort of a visual history timeline. It
would make a great Christmas card,” said Gavin, framing the view with his hands.

“Or a wedding invitation.” Roshonda snapped the view with her camera. As we got closer to shore, she said, “She was right. It is like stepping back in time.”

“This could work,” Gavin said suddenly, inspired. “We could make something beautiful here.”

“Sure could,” Roshonda agreed. “People always say they want a destination wedding, and then they pick someplace where half their friends can't afford to go. Here you get the best of both worlds. It feels like you're somewhere else, but you're fairly close to Queen City.”

“I'll bet the ferry company would keep going past its ten o'clock last call if the price were right,” Ben said.

“Note to self,” Roshonda said, typing it into her phone.

Ben had actually spoken. Maybe the day was going to improve.

“Or guests could just stay in Augusta. We'll have to check out the accommodation situation here,” I said. “I wouldn't like to drink at the reception and then face an hour and a half drive back to Queen City.”

I touched Ben's arm, but he didn't respond. He wouldn't look at me. I turned away, my eyes stinging with tears. How was trying to do things the right way somehow wrong?

I guess I was still following the rules. But that's what pastry chefs do. There is a proportion range for everything—ratios for the amount of dry ingredients to wet, how much batter can go into a pan, the time it takes to beat an egg white until foamy and one that is at its full billowy peak.

I wanted to be with Ben, but I wanted a cushion for Gran, too.
She would need it soon enough, and I had earned it twice over during the years I'd set aside my own dreams for my cheating husband's. I pulled a tissue from my purse and acted like the breeze had blown something in my eye.

We all got back in the car right before the ferry docked. I had to settle down, focus on the job at hand and not my personal life.

Gavin drove up the ramp in front of that gorgeous Georgian brick and we were on Riverside Drive, heading east. He took it slow so we could admire the historic homes as we passed.

In front of the old Methodist church, now a residence, we turned right onto Bracken Street and then left onto a gravel road that wound through the trees and up a hill, away from town.

According to Lydia's hand-drawn map, the log cabin we were seeking was off the beaten path, tucked back in the hillside near Bracken Creek.

With the windows down, I could hear a little waterfall somewhere. New leaves were just budding on the trees, but the ivy and other creepers high in the tree canopy provided a dappled light. A clean, sharp smell came in on the fresh breeze, and just as quickly, I could taste it. Really taste it. Citrus and spice mixed together.

I had a momentary flash.

An older woman and a younger man, sitting next to each other in the lantern light, traveling down the river on some kind of flat barge by night. The two of them again in a market stall, in some rough-hewn town, with a tiny, dark-haired woman carrying a market basket.

Just as quickly, they were all gone.

This didn't make any sense to me just yet, but I felt we were in the right place.

“If Lydia wants her wedding here, we'll have to shuttle the guests to the cabin,” Roshonda said, typing a note into her phone again. “We can't have women in stilettos or teetering great-grandpas traipsing up this road.”

We made a sharp turn up and to the right, following the road, and came out onto a clearing, a plateau on the hilltop, fringed with trees. And there were two cabins, with aged, silvery logs and clay chinking that still looked pretty good. A dogtrot, sort of a covered breezeway, linked the two cabins. A split-rail fence enclosed the garden, laid out in a foursquare pattern. To the side was a big barn, and that got Roshonda excited.

“A barn wedding! I've always wanted to do one,” she exclaimed, jumping out of the car.

“It's a tobacco barn,” said Gavin.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“See how they've left the wood dark and not painted it red or white? That's to increase the heat from the sun. The roof is high-pitched, and when we look inside we'll see tiers of beams where farmers hang bundles of tobacco leaves to dry. There will be a big door on each gabled end that opens to help the hot air circulate.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Nichols,” Ben said. “You could kick ass on a game show.”

“Hey, if this barn looks decent inside, we've all won the lottery with an event space,” said Gavin.

We walked through the split-rail gate to the grassy area leading to the barn.

We needed Ben to push open the weathered barn door. It was difficult to see the interior at first, until Ben opened the barn door at the other end. The light flooded in and we gazed at a simple, spare space of soaring proportions. It was rustic and yet somehow elegant at the same time.

“I can see those strings of Italian lights inside, along the beams,” Gavin said. “Or crystal chandeliers. Such a contrast. Yes!” He pulled a little gadget out of his pocket and aimed the tiny red beam from the front barn door across to the back door. “Sixty feet,” he said. “Probably three times that for the width of this barn. You could have a big party in here, all right.”

As he and Roshonda conferred about dance floors and bar stations and porta-potties, and Ben checked out how the barn was constructed, I left to wander in the garden.

Here would be my inspiration for desserts. I took out my notebook and sketched the rough design of the garden. Maybe this design on a flavored sugar cookie? At this point, I didn't know what I would use and what I wouldn't, so it was best to write it all down. Heirloom roses were starting to bud, probably rugosas or damask roses, ancient varieties that bloom once a year and are highly scented. Maybe rose in something?

Herbs were also coming up. I recognized mints, dittany, borage, horehound, and others used a long time ago for tinctures and liniments. I bent over to touch the lemon balm. I couldn't resist rubbing the aromatic leaf between my fingers and then tasting it.

Fresh lemon. The young man on the barge came to mind. Who was he? He made me think of my dad. And then I
wondered when I might get another letter from my father. If I ever would again. I still didn't trust that I could rely on him for anything.

And then I stopped.

I wasn't going down that rabbit hole today. I wanted to enjoy the garden and do the work that I loved.

In another section of the herb garden, I recognized plantings of scented geraniums. I could use these old-fashioned herbs as well. My favorite, Rober's Lemon Rose, was an intoxicating blend of citrus and floral with an elegant, sort of filigreed leaf. Maybe a flavored sugar sprinkle, like a sweet gremolata, on soft sugar cookies? Maybe the leaf as an edible garden garnish on a flavored custard tart? I jotted notes to myself.

I crushed each variety of leaf between my fingers, enjoying the scent. Apple geranium. Velvety chocolate mint. Nutmeg geranium with its tiny leaves that smelled—and then tasted—so evocatively of spice.

Immediately, I saw the old-fashioned woman in her straw bonnet give a small bundle of sticks to the tiny, dark-haired woman. A remedy of some sort? Something to brew a tea?

This was a long-ago story I didn't need to know today. Again, I swept it from my mind and focused my attention on the garden.

Another quadrant had trellises for climbing plants. English pea tendrils were inching up the wires. Reddish stalks of rhubarb leafed out in abundance. I recognized scallions and the famous Kentucky limestone lettuce that was so crisp and delicious. Someone tended this garden in the family's absence. I wondered who.