The Memory of Lemon (7 page)

Abigail got them settled on the seat, Fronnie's eyes wide and bright with fear. Abigail pushed the small boat off, then jumped over the thin sheet of ice at the shallow end and into the boat. She grabbed the oars and guided them around floating chunks of ice and into open water.

Abigail turned to see her lantern beam the way home through the trees. Lucky for them, the river hadn't frozen over this year. The past week's thaw had melted most of the ice and the air was milder than it had been in a while.

Halfway across the river, she was warm again from rowing. She didn't see any riders along the Kentucky shore. The Lovejoys would shelter Fronnie and the baby, then move them along to another house. Maybe Fronnie really would find her sister again. Abigail hoped it would all turn out well. She probably would never know for sure.

On the Ohio side, Abigail used just the one oar to paddle the skiff into a cove partially shielded by tall grasses and cattails. She helped Fronnie and the baby out and motioned them up the bank. Fronnie knew to follow the guiding light of the Lovejoys' lantern and hide in the woodshed.

As Abigail waited for them to disappear into the night, the cold started seeping up through the bottom of the boat, into Isaac's big boots and through the heavy woolen socks, up her legs and into her hips. Her buckskin coat felt as hard and cold as iron. She needed to get the boat across the river and warm up by her fireside.

When she was almost halfway across, Abigail heard a crack like a rifle shot and then a boom, like a cannon.

She ducked into the boat, put the oars down, and ran her hands over her chest. She must have been shot. Maybe Mr. Birdsall had come back early, had caught her ferrying his slave across the river.

But no, she was fine. She sat up and turned around in her seat. She couldn't spy anyone moving on the Kentucky shore, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

And then she noticed the current was starting to run faster, west toward Queen City.

Abigail had a hard time rowing a straight line across. She didn't want to drift too far downriver, past Augusta and settlement, and be out alone on a cold, dark river.

Abigail used one oar to push a log out of the way. It hadn't hit the boat hard enough to stove in the side, but it was close.

And then it came to her: In the freezing and thawing they'd had that month, an ice jam must have cracked wide open farther upriver, causing the boom. The debris it had held in its frozen grasp had dislodged and was racing toward Augusta. The current would only get stronger. And if history repeated itself, she would see a roaring wave of muddy water that could swamp the boat. Sweat rolled down Abigail's face as she rowed harder. She had to get to shore.

Abigail kept the Lovejoys' lantern in sight as she rowed backward to her own. It took everything she had to block out the rushing water and the fear that crept up her spine.

She never saw the dark shape in the water, the downed tree. One minute she was racing against time. The next, she felt like she was on fire in the freezing, murky water. She tried to get a handhold
on the overturned skiff, but her hands didn't seem to work. She kicked furiously, hoping to shed the boots that were weighing her down, but they wouldn't come off. She tried to heave herself up and over the hulk of the skiff, but she didn't have the strength. She slid down again into the water and went under. She kicked herself back up to the surface, gasping for air.

Stay calm,
she told herself.
You're not that far from shore.

Her hands had frozen to cold claws, but still she tried to get a purchase on the upturned skiff and turn herself toward the lantern light. But she knew the skiff was drifting with the current.

She couldn't stay in the dark water for much longer. She had to do something to reach the Kentucky bank, so she kicked out, her feet like lead weights. Her arms flailed as she tried to swim. When another log floated by, she hooked one arm over it to hang on and catch her breath. The light receded as she moved farther away into the black night.

And then it didn't matter.

She was getting drowsy. She didn't burn anymore. She didn't feel the cold. Her vision narrowed to a pinhole of light. The lantern. Home.

And then she felt Isaac's strong arms carry her there.

Neely

Simple paradise. Stepping back in time. Grandmother's garden. Going home.

I could almost recite Lydia's wedding mantra. Too bad her mother was not yet convinced.

Lydia's wedding team was meeting again, this time at Gavin's office.

Maybe he could paint the picture that would convince mother and daughter to go forward with the plans that Gavin, Roshonda, and I had hatched on the drive home from Augusta a few days back.

I was also going forward with flavor. From the moment we turned up the lane to go to the Kentucky cabin, the twin flavors of citrus and spice sparked long-ago stories. I wasn't sure,
however, what they had to do with Lydia and her mother or how these momentary flashes would help get us over this impasse.

I knew that sunny citrus helped put things in focus, sharpened the memory, just like a squeeze of lemon juice could sharpen and clarify the taste of sweet fruit. I was also well aware that too much citrus could indicate a corrosive anger. My first wedding at Rainbow Cake had taught me that. But this was a gentle, subdued citrus, like the taste of a Meyer lemon.

Spice usually indicated grief, a loss that lingered for a long time, just like the pungent flavor of the spice itself, whether it was nutmeg or allspice or star anise. The more pronounced the flavor, the more recent the loss and the stronger the emotion. So there was some kind of loss or remembrance involved here. Yet there was also a comfort in the remembering, knowing that people had gone before you. That they waited for you on the other side.

Maybe I was pushing myself too hard. Maybe if I just relaxed a little bit, the flavor Wi-Fi would do the rest.

As I drove to Gavin's office, I noticed a black SUV that seemed to follow me across the bridge to Lockton, through the industrial area that had devolved into a blighted business district. Past the brownfields left by torn-down factories, with pollutants that hadn't been cleaned up yet.

The SUV followed me along the overpass, with I-75 thundering below, where the former Miami-Erie Canal had once flowed. It was still tailing me as I reached Gavin's carriage house office in Fairview. When I pulled up to park, the black SUV went on its way.

Another bad driver in a hurry
.

Gavin had kept his living quarters below, his office above. His carriage house opened in the back to a private garden of lush hydrangea and scented roses enclosed with a tall hornbeam hedge. He had somehow made it classic in design yet romantic in feel. A contemporary bronze sculpture doubled as a fountain, the sound of running water doing its best to calm and center me.

When I walked up the stairs and into his office, a fresh breeze was wafting through the large windows. The loftlike space had a mid-century modern vibe complete with a black leather Eames chair and ottoman, which looked vintage fifties. A few Charley Harper contemporary bird prints hung over the credenza that served as office storage. A Sputnik-shaped chandelier lit the long, clean-lined trestle table near the bank of windows facing the garden.

“Oh, good, Neely's here,” said Gavin. “And she brought the most important part of our meeting—her cinnamon rolls. She's got me hooked on these things.” I gave him the bakery box and he put the rolls on a rustic wood platter. I would have made tartlets in Grandmother's garden flavors to get them in the mood, but after the first cake-tasting fiasco, I thought it better to wait until they were both on board.

Roshonda, chic in a blush pink sheath dress and a statement necklace of large crystal beads, gave us each a starched vintage napkin. “I have a box of these left over from a Victorian wedding we just did in Carriage Hill,” she said.

We were laying on the charm today, in whatever way we could. If this didn't work, I wasn't sure what we would do next.

“I'm excited to hear what you thought about Augusta,” said Lydia, in a purple maxidress, her hair in loose, pre-Raphaelite
curls. Her fresh face wore a look of hopeful anticipation mixed with wariness.

“Yes, I'd like to know what you think,” said Mrs. Stidham, who sat across from Lydia at Gavin's large trestle table. Her flawless makeup and bright turquoise silk suit suggested she had a fancy lunch appointment after this. She drummed her French-manicured nails on the table.

“Let us show you.” Gavin flipped the cover off the artist's easel at the end of the trestle table to unveil his idea board.

“Our theme is a Kentucky frolic from the 1820s, one that the famous artist John James Audubon wrote about,” Gavin began.

Both mother and daughter narrowed their eyes. This wasn't a grandmother's garden. This also wasn't a glitzy hotel wedding.

Gavin had unveiled their family's tobacco barn set up for a reception. Tables with burlap tablecloths. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Roshonda and I looked at each other. We loved it, but would Lydia and her mother?

“Why Audubon?” Mrs. Stidham finally asked.

“He actually lived and worked in northern Kentucky and upriver in Queen City for a while, back in the early 1800s,” Gavin told her. “I kinda got hooked on Audubon after bird-watching at the Mill Creek Regatta last weekend,” he said, turning to Lydia and then me. “Did you happen to check out the Mill Creek Regatta app?” he asked us. “There was a link to ‘Audubon in Queen City.'”

“I must have missed it. I downloaded that app last weekend,” Lydia said. She tapped her phone, searching the app.

“Audubon was all about discovering and capturing the American wilderness, bird by bird. He was a naturalist
and
an artist,” Gavin continued.

“I found it!” Lydia beamed, turning her phone to show us the artist's portrait in smartphone miniature.

Mrs. Stidham frowned.

“Audubon's original hand-colored bird prints bring in big money at art auctions,” I added, for Mrs. Stidham's benefit. “I just had dinner with an attorney whose corporate client collects them.” I had to admit, it felt good to use Charlie Wheeler a little bit.

“Maybe as a philanthropic gesture, in honor of your daughter's wedding, you and your husband could also purchase and donate a print from this American icon to a Queen City institution,” suggested Roshonda. “Or offer it as an auction item to support a favorite charity. Either way, such a unique gift inspired by your daughter's wedding would be sure to enhance your community profile.”

Mrs. Stidham's eyes widened with interest.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders, as if to say,
Whatever it takes.

But at least they had found a tiny patch of common ground, even if they arrived there from opposite ends.

“After the regatta, I read his autobiography and some of his journals,” Gavin continued. “He wrote about a Kentucky wedding frolic—what they used to call a party. It was all about bourbon and barbecue. Your family's heirloom crystal, which you had brought with you to this frontier outpost, set on burlap-covered tables. It showed you wanted the best life you could have, one
that honored the past but looked forward to the future as you were making your own way. One that celebrated the frontier spirit and the self-made individual. And all in this Kentucky paradise.”

Both mother and daughter smiled, but didn't look at each other.

Ooh, Gavin's good. A nod to Lydia's desire for a hillbilly wedding and Mrs. Stidham's pride in her husband's entrepreneurship in one go.

“Music and dancing and the local gentry in their best frocks whooping it up in a big, fabulous tobacco barn on the Ohio River. Great food. Lots of Kentucky bourbon. Live music. I think we have something really special here,” Gavin said. His enthusiasm was infectious. I could feel the mood lift in the room.

I looked from Gavin to Roshonda, then to the bride-to-be and her mother. Our idea might just work.

“Audubon's bird paintings are so vivid,” Gavin continued. “They'd look great, sort of large format, hanging on the barn walls. Local flavor but upscale at the same time.”

One by one, he unfurled rolled-up Audubon prints of parrot-green Carolina parroquets and then Bonaparte's Gulls, showing them first to Mrs. Stidham, then to Lydia. “We would blow these up at least three times the size, but still keep the incredible detail,” Gavin told them.

We were almost there.

“Just imagine your friends and family standing on the ferry as it crosses the river,” Gavin said. “They'll sense the power of the river rolling beneath them. They'll smell the fresh air. They'll see the historic homes getting closer and closer. They'll start to feel
they're going back in time. That they've left their other world behind, all their cares, all their worries. They're really starting to look forward to this wedding. They know it won't be like anything they've ever experienced before.

“We bring them from the ferry and the car park up through the woods to the clearing. They see the cabin. They sit in the beautiful, scented garden for a late afternoon wedding. They toast the newlyweds. And then they dine and dance a moonlit night away in the transformed tobacco barn. Magical. It will be a wedding they'll always remember.”

Lydia sank back into her chair in what looked like relief and pleasure.

One down, one to go.

“And the photos! I wouldn't be surprised if
Garden and Gun
picked this up,” he added, looking at Mrs. Stidham.

“I love
Garden and Gun
.” She gasped. “Do you really think so?”

“If you move the wedding to Kentucky, since they're all about the South. I know one of the editors,” said Roshonda. “But you have to get the best photographer. I'll have to do a little arm-twisting, but I know the perfect person. Doesn't usually do weddings, but I think she'll do yours.”

“So are you both on board with this?” Gavin asked.

“Yes,” they both said, a little too tentatively for us.

We weren't out of the woods quite yet.

“You'll have to have a couture gown if we want to get in the magazine,” said Mrs. Stidham to her daughter. “Monique Lhuillier, Vera Wang, somebody like that. We'll have to pay a lot extra for a rush order, but Gene won't have a problem with that.”

“I'm going vintage,” Lydia replied, sitting up again, ramrod straight. “I already have my dress. It's one that Grandma kept.”

“A dress from Vangie?” Mrs. Stidham sighed, but a text message diverted her attention. “Have to take care of this, sorry,” she said to us. “A problem with the caterer today.” She got up from the table and made a call, hissing into the phone from the back of the room.

“So we meet next week? Fill in the details? Map out our plan?” Roshonda said.

“Works for me,” said Lydia.

Mrs. Stidham looked up and covered her phone. “Shoot me a date and time. I'll make it a priority.”

When the bride-to-be and her mother had left, Gavin, Roshonda, and I waited until we could hear them driving away in different directions before we high-fived each other, barely containing ourselves.

“We've got no time to waste,” said Roshonda. “They liked the idea today, but if we don't flesh this out more, we could still lose them.”

She went into delegate mode. “Gavin, watercolor renderings. They need to see everything. Neely, sample tartlets. We have to wow them. I'll get the photographer with a portfolio and the caterer set up for a tasting.”

We high-fived again and went our separate ways, our wedding homework assignments moved to the top of our to-do lists.

I thought I spotted the same black SUV following me again. Coincidence? I didn't care. And frankly I wasn't doing anything wrong. Let Luke's investigators note my every move if they were indeed keeping tabs on me.

On the way back to the bakery, I picked up a quinoa and greens salad for my lunch.

I was trying to eat better, a challenge when I was surrounded by tempting carbohydrates at work.

When the mailman came, I was sitting in the workroom, spearing the last forkful of dried cranberry and baby kale.

“I hope you brought something good today,” I teased as he handed me both stacks of mail, for the bakery and my home next door.

“Hey, I don't send it. I just deliver it,” he said. “You know that saying—don't kill the messenger.”

“Maybe you need an incentive. Every time I get a big fat check in the mail, you get a cookie. Something like that?”

“Are you trying to impede the progress of the U.S. Postal Service?” he asked. “If I stopped and had cookies every day, I'd be slower on my rounds.”

At that moment, I got a flash of flavor—something tangy, something sturdy that had gone soft. A flavor that sometimes went
underappreciated
. So that was how he was feeling.

A husky boy with a homemade buzz haircut stands in the elementary school parking lot, holding the Stop paddle, a reflective vest in Day-Glo yellow making him visible in any weather. He takes his job seriously. No kid under his watch is going to be hit by an inattentive parent driving on school grounds.