How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [72]
I turn Vivaldi on high. If I were in my apartment in Atlanta, surrounding tenants would be banging on the walls, begging me to turn down the volume. Here, in the mountains, on my own little steep winding road, one advantage is that I will bother no one with my music. Except perhaps the owl.
While the coffee cake fills the cabin with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar, I brew some French roast coffee. Yolanda used to say that I knew how to make the apartment muy magnifico with my cooking, music, and coffee. I pick up my journal, sit on the lone bar stool by the counter, and write.
Grandpa Ernest’s cabin. August 30th. 6:10 p.m.
It’s okay, really. I let my heart out of its cage for a short time against my better judgment. I got stung, but hey, I’m still living. I’m making coffee cake and coffee, and the kids want me to go on a camping trip. So I’ve lost whatever it was I thought I had with Zack. So I’m not where I hoped I was in his sky. But Darren smiled at me today when I asked if he’d put the orange-raspberry glaze on the cake we made in class. Then he took the glaze and evenly dribbled it over the top of the cake, just like I’d demonstrated. Bubba told me I am a good teacher and Joy said I look like Grandpa, not old or anything, but kind. Charlotte (she is like a gorgeous doll, but very scared, I wish she’d talk more) suggested we make a peach pie—my favorite! Bobby told the class that, with all the food they have learned to make, we should open a restaurant, and we could become more popular than the Fryemont Inn.
I see prayers being answered.
It’s all okay. Really. Zack can be a friend. If he’s happy with Rhonda, then I just have to be happy for him. Who knows, maybe one day someone will come along for me. I probably still need time to heal, anyway. My legs and arms don’t hurt as much anymore, so my Extra Strength Tylenol bottle is still half full.
When I eat the coffee cake, I enjoy each comforting morsel. I can taste the butter, the cream, the vanilla, and the brown sugar—all are parts of an orchestra in my mouth.
Then I decide to make some peanut soup because I have a feeling I’ll be able to pick out all the flavors tonight.
After all that food, I’ll need to walk a few laps around the cabin.
thirty-four
R honda spends time at The Center every afternoon. Although she’s assigned to Bubba, I note that Bubba is not her main concern.
Believe me, I am not in the business of stealing anyone from anybody. I have had that happen to me and don’t wish that pain on anyone. Besides, I’m allergic to men who break hearts, and I’m getting the feeling that that sums up every man.
I look at Jonas. He is checking the drain under my kitchen sink. I recall the time he retrieved the engagement ring for me. “Jonas? Have you ever broken anyone’s heart?”
He slithers his head from the drain and sits up to look at me. I wonder what he’ll say. He might ask for an explanation of what I mean. He adjusts his crimson bandana. “Oh, I carry superglue.”
I doubt he heard me correctly and get ready to repeat the question. Before I can, he says, “Superglue will fix anything. Superglue is durable.” His words sound like a commercial.
My smile breaks into a laugh. Jonas joins me. We laugh at what he just said, and then we laugh from hearing ourselves laugh.
I am relieved that he is feeling better. Everyone was concerned about his head injury from the fall off the church roof. Zack went to see him every day while he was in the hospital. They discharged Jonas with the warning to stay away from roofs. Zack told him to stick to pipes and drains, things that require only cupcake Band-Aids, not MRIs. Jonas said he’d miss the hospital, especially the kind nurses and the strawberry gelatin with whipped cream served at lunch.
Jonas eyes my camping gear, spread all over the