The Other Side - J. D. Robb [154]
Standing with enough evidence for several serious cookbooks in her hands, she asked, “Are these all your own original recipes?”
“Mostly, plus a few classics that I improved on . . . if I do say so myself. Although I’ll have you know I wasn’t the only one to say so. Everyone I knew thought I was an excellent cook.”
“I believe you.” She pulled on a red ribbon that marked a page in a royal blue journal. Odelia’s Delight it read, and below in parentheses, A Prizewinning Apple Pie. “So why didn’t you? You know, organize these a little and write your cookbook?”
Her aunt looked up, surprised. “I died.”
“What?”
“Well, it was always one of those things I was going to get around to doing one day, but then I died.” Carefully, she walked her newest creation to the counter nearest the stove to await its turn in the oven. She turned back to M.J. “It’s not like the world was going to miss another cookbook, dear.”
“But—” She was flabbergasted. “Did your father object to the cookbook?”
“Goodness, no. He was dead before the idea even occurred to me. It’s how Julia started, you know.” Odelia was looking at something on the floor on the other side of the counter.
M.J. stood watching her, her chest tight with a sadness that came from several directions. She didn’t for a second believe that the world would miss another cookbook, but one lousy cookbook could have been Odelia’s mark on the world, her declaration of having been present. Unmarried, childless, career-less . . . one stinking little cookbook with her name on it—with her pride and pleasure in it—could have made all the difference in the world to her life.
“Land sakes alive, where do all my apples go?” She stooped to pick up her basket, then headed for the back door. “I’d swear those girls are eating them”—she stopped to give her niece an arched brow and a pointed nod—“but we know that can’t be.”
“Hey. Where are you going? It’s daylight. You haven’t been gathering apples during the day all week, have you? What about Jimmy? You promised—”
“Jimmy’s grandparents came to fetch him for the weekend last night. They frequently do; they’re a very tight-knit family.” She paused in front of the door. “These are Jimmy’s father’s people, you understand, and they were very pleased to hear that he has a date tonight.”
M.J. was alarmed to feel the heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks. And looking blasé didn’t fool Odelia. She giggled. “We were very pleased to hear it, too.”
Seven
Did one knock on a ghost’s door or simply let oneself in? How much privacy did a ghost expect? M.J. pondered, as she knocked softly on Imogene’s door before entering. Not Imogene’s bedroom but the room at the end of the hall where she clearly felt the most comfortable—a child’s room when M.J. had been growing up, later a guest room during her mother’s influence. To Imogene, as she stood calmly among the surreal furnishings superimposed on those more tangible, it was a nursery.
“Come in, Maribelle, and please don’t give me any grief about using your proper name.” She took the sting out of the command by smiling fondly at her. “We Hedbos take naming our offspring very seriously. For instance, did you know that Imogene comes from the Latin for ‘likeness’ and that it became my cross to bear because I looked exactly like my father’s grandmother . . . when I was born!?” She laughed. “Can you imagine what a sad little wizened-up thing one of us was?”
M.J. chuckled. She did indeed like her aunt Imogene. The more she knew her, the more she liked about her . . . and, of course, the more she realized how little she knew her.
“Fair enough.” She sat on the end of the bed, which to her aunt was a cedar hope chest that sat at the bottom of an ornately carved crib. “I see now it could have been a lot worse.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I quite agree with you about the nonsensicality of our names in relation to the times we live in.” She sat gracefully in a lovely tall-backed wooden rocking chair that had a knit afghan in muted