How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [9]
“He’s always happy,” I suppress the urge to say. If only some of that energy for living would rub off on Mom. And me. “So about what you said… ?” I hope to guide my aunt back to the original topic.
She nods while rubbing her fingers over her rings. Some have tiny jewels and others are plain silver. “Do you know where I got this one?” she asks, polishing a silver band with an index finger.
I shake my head. Swallowing, I want to say, “Rings make me sad.” But as surely as Giovanni likes dog treats, such a statement would cause my aunt’s interest to pique, and suddenly we’d be talking about Lucas.
She gives my hand a pat, a gesture that makes me feel that I’m five years old. “You’re supposed to teach.”
“Teach?” The word sounds hollow and foreign, like when I’m trying to repeat a word my missionary sister has taught me to say in Chinese.
“At The Center. Ernest’s request.”
“What’s The Center?”
I wait for her reply while she takes a long drink from her mug. Wiping moisture from her mouth onto a tissue she pulled from somewhere out of her robust chest, she says, “The Center is a program for middle-school-aged children. It’s held at the church along with the preschool.”
I picture a group of preadolescent kids and swallow again. The thought of preschoolers makes my nose itch. When I was small, I was known for squirming in my chair. I would move my bottom left and right, driving my mother to the point of glaring at me. “Deena, Deena, young ladies do not twist in their chairs.” The urge to twist is strong right now. I scratch my nose instead.
My aunt gently tells me, “Ernest started the program at the Presbyterian church in town. They get donations from local people and businesses.”
But what does this place have to do with me?
She tucks her tissue into her chest and smoothes her dress. “Ernest wanted you to teach there. The older kids, I mean. That’s why he left this cabin to you.”
No. No, I don’t have to teach. Teaching is not my gift. I cannot sing and I can’t teach.
“He wanted you to live here and teach.” She studies my face. “With pay, of course.”
At last I find my voice. “Teach what?”
“Flower arranging and martial arts.” She pauses to glimpse my expression.
I have no smile, just a solemn look.
Laughter overcomes her again. Even her glasses shake as she gives in to amusement. “Cooking, Shug! Cooking.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a cook!” Her words expand to the wooden ceiling, bounce off, and vibrate against the cedar walls. “Ernest loved to cook. Knowing Ernest, he probably had hundreds of other reasons, too.”
I wonder what plan he had in mind when he dangled kitchen utensils around the cabin. There is a whole assortment displayed in every room. There’s even a stainless steel whisk hanging over the washing machine. Did he whisk his clothes?
“He was so proud of you going to cooking school,” my aunt says warmly.
That much I know to be true. “He wrote and told me that,” I say. The letter arrived shortly after I started my first year at Chef Bordeaux’s. It was on paper decorated with drawings of figs and grapes, bananas and lemons. He wrote me many times after that, and I would reply with descriptions of my courses because that was what he wanted to hear. He seemed especially excited when I sent the recipe for mussels in tomato and garlic. Weeks later, he wrote, I think it’s wonderful to learn that my little Georgia granddaughter is creating Greek food—clearly, some of my favorite.
My grandpa was always traveling, so I never got to see him much, but through letters and recipes, over the miles, and as he traveled around the globe, we somehow connected. Somewhere in my belongings is the picture he sent of himself standing at the miniature village called Madurodam in Amsterdam. Towering over the replica with the tiny shops behind him, he looks larger than life. I think that must be the way his daughter, Regena Lorraine, will always remember him.
“Well, my goodness.” She produces another light laugh. “Now you