“Your mother was a baking machine. Every Sunday afternoon, she’d roll out a new batch. There’s nothing better than a warm butter cookie, right from the oven. All that sweetness melting in your mouth.”
“Once a month, she made a double batch of the dough to keep in the freezer. I used to sneak into it when she wasn’t looking.”
Her father smiled. “Me too.”
“Pity neither one of us pitched in with the cutting out and baking. Mom could’ve used the help. Why didn’t she ever get after us? I tried to help a few times. I couldn’t get the hang of rolling out the dough before it melted.”
“You’ve always been more like me. Too impatient. I guess that’s why neither one of us has much knack in the kitchen.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t learn.” Rae layered her voice with false cheer. “The recipes I found aren’t complicated. I’m sure we can follow them.”
“What if we don’t want to follow them?”
“Dad, I get it. Gluten-free breads and tofu stir-fries aren’t my thing either, but our diets need an overhaul. Your blood pressure isn’t great, and I’m afraid to look at my butt. This summer I’d like to wear a swimsuit without total humiliation.”
“Fine. Eat rabbit food while you’re down visiting Gracie.”
“I’m not going to Florida.” Her father reached for the potato chips, the only item she’d purchased from the snack aisle. Playfully Rae slapped his hand away. “Stop pulling me off point. We used to eat the stuff she cooked. Some of it was rabbit food, but we didn’t complain. She knew we were both seriously inept when it came to respect for the food pyramid. And her meals were nutritious. Look at us! We’re turning into pudge-muffins.”
Grunting, her father patted his belly. “Speak for yourself. My extra padding comes off every spring. If you’re giving up bad habits, why punish me? At the risk of being indelicate, there’s only so much roughage a man my age can take. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Not when she went all out with those recipes.”
“Gosh, you’re whiny. Do you need coffee? I’ll brew a pot.” A caffeine jolt usually made him more pleasant.
“I’ll tell you what I need. Reconsider the trip to Florida. You should go.” Her father sat down at the table. “I promised Gracie I’d lobby hard. Use every ploy in the parenting guilt-book to make you see reason.”
“Why is everyone meddling in my life? First Yuna, and now you. And Gracie, but you put the idea in her head.”
“We worry about you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“You don’t sleep. You prowl every night.”
“If you hear me, you’re not sleeping either.”
“I’m not pulling down fifty hours on the job. A change of scenery will do you good.”
“I don’t need a vacation!”
“Qui n’avance pas, recule.”
A French proverb, one of Connor’s favorites. Who does not move forward, recedes. The proverb meant that life offers us the choice to evolve and accept the changes that inevitably come. Resist those changes, and we devolve into something less—a mere shadow of our true potential.
Weary, Rae leaned against the counter. Why did he expect her to heal? Her life was irrevocably diminished.
“You’re missing the bigger point, Dad. I’ve never moved forward in the right way. I’ve done everything out of order. The ‘carefree twenties’ people talk about, finding your soul mate or taking a gap year for self-discovery? My twenties were hard and demanding—and wonderful. There’s nothing I’d change about those years. Even on the days it felt like I was walking on hot coals.”
“You hardly dated. Young adults are supposed to have fun. Even the ones with lots of grown-up responsibilities.”
“I won’t pretend I wasn’t lonely. The men never stuck around.”
“You never gave any of them a hint they should stick around. You have more defenses than a porcupine.”
The amusing retort made her laugh, even though her heart ached. “Yeah? Well, my defense mechanism is more torqued up now. I’m only thirty-three, but I’ve dealt with more troubles than lots of women twice my age. I’m road weary. If I didn’t have thick skin, I’d crawl into bed and never stop crying. But I don’t see how that would solve anything.”
“Take some advice, Rae. No one gets through life without dealing with the bad stuff. Death or betrayal, or a financial hit you don’t see coming. I’ve had a few of those . . . I expect you remember. I wasn’t myself after we lost your mother, and you grew up too fast. When I consider everything I put you through, I’m ashamed. Right down to my bones. I’m also grateful. You had good reason to hate me, but you never did. I love you for that.”