How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [14]
“Do people ever name their scars?” I asked Dr. Bland one afternoon as the clouds filled the sky and the weatherman predicted snow by midnight.
He smiled and told me my scars would fade.
Chef B joked that it was good that Dr. Bland was a doctor and not a restaurant owner because who would want to eat at Bland’s Restaurant? “Not good for the business,” the chef said in his Spanish accent. “People think food won’t be spicy or very flavor.”
I am still in my bathrobe with my wet hair dripping down my neck when Sally calls. At first I can’t find my cell phone again. I rush down the stairs to answer before it goes to voice mail. I have no idea when I placed my phone on the kitchen counter.
“Glad you made it to North Carolina,” Sally says. “You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”
“So far, so good.”
“How’s the cabin?”
I think of the first thing that came to my mind when I entered the cabin yesterday. “Sunny,” I say. Sunlight had filled every inch of the downstairs area as it poured through the windows, even the windows in the sloping ceiling. Light streamed across the hardwood floors—floors partially covered by a collection of round and square throw rugs. Even the purple Mexican hat with yellow tassels hanging by a nail on the wall by the hallway glistened festively. I was so glad to see the sun after the downpour I’d experienced when leaving Georgia. “There’re windows along all the living room and dining room walls,” I tell Sally.
“Is there a fireplace?”
I know Sally thinks a fireplace makes or breaks a place. She told me that during her years at the veterinary school in Vermont, her apartment’s ceiling leaked whenever the upstairs tenant ran his dishwasher, the pantry had a live-in mouse, the odor of fried fish permeated the walls, and yet there was one saving factor: the apartment had a fireplace. Sally lit a fire every night during the cold months—of which apparently there are many in Vermont—and studied by the glowing flames.
“Yeah,” I tell her as I walk over to the white stone fireplace. “And even a hot tub out on the deck.” I push a blue drape back from the window to view the hot tub. Actually I don’t even know if it works. The thick tan cover spreads over it like a skin, and it looks too heavy for one person to remove. Maybe my aunt can help me with that, I think. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a memory hits me. The last time I sat in a hot tub, Lucas was with me. He asked what kind of engagement ring I wanted. He took my hand, caressed my fingers, and then kissed each fingertip. “When we get married,” he said, “let’s get a hot tub.”
“So”—Sally bursts into my thoughts—“what’s next? How are the brochures?”
The brochures are part of my plan to start my own cake-decorating business here in the mountains. Eventually, I want to expand to a full-fledged catering business, but I’m going to start with cakes and see how it goes. I did a mockup of the cover weeks ago, but I still need to work on the inside copy. Sally wants to hear something positive, so I say, “It’s so beautiful here. I know I’ll be inspired to work on the brochures.”
She sounds relieved. And I’m grateful I can protect her from how I really feel. I don’t want her to worry. Let me be the one who worries in this friendship. There’s no point in both of us filling that role.
When the conversation ends, exhaustion fills me, as though I’ve just made a five-course dinner in record time. I slide onto the bar stool. Resting my chin in the palms of my hands, my elbows supported by the counter, I stare at nothing. Then I feel warm tears fall along my fingers. Growling like a captured animal, I start to form the words. “I hate him.” The sound of my own voice scares me; the tears fall faster. “I hate that he left me,” I cry to the walls, the kitchen utensils, and the pictures. I turn to see the woman with the fan hiding half of her face. Annoyed that the picture