Page 25 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
Winnie and Russell had been old enough to be her grandparents, but they’d always seemed so much younger. Their deaths had caught her unaware.
Some people had to come to the realization that their parents were imperfect humans who were doing life for the first time too. She always knew that about her mom. It was Winnie and Russell who seemed like superheroes, unmovable and steady forces who she thought would always be there to save the day. “Didn’t you arrive in town about the same time Winnie did?”
“I was little then.” He tipped back his drink, taking his time while avoiding her gaze. “I don’t remember much about my life before coming to Bent Oak.”
Did no one else understand her need for timelines? “Do you have any idea what Gia meant about the cookbook having a code?”
“Not a clue.”
“Your mother seemed to know something,” she pressed, frustrated.
“Mom is confused.” He rolled the can between his palms. “Maybe Gia just heard how kindhearted Winnie was.”
“Possibly, but the recipe book she held was old, and she seemed so ... convinced.” She shook her head, staring into the woods at the fat oak trees cloaked in Spanish moss. The dense forest kept its secrets hidden from prying eyes. “I should just ask Gia tomorrow.”
“Sorry I can’t help you.” He crushed his can with his bootheel. “Well, I’m gonna head on back to the Airstream. Call me if you need anything, and I’ll be here in a heartbeat.”
And he would be. Keith might have been a troubled teen. While he might not be the best husband or employee, he was loyal to those he considered family. Family by choice rather than by blood, he would say.
She hadn’t thought about how she would miss Keith too, even though he’d been a part of her life for decades, always there to help. The realization of how she’d overlooked him left her feeling guilty and small. He came in second for so many people he considered family. Bailey Rae had Winnie and Russell. Thea had her husband and two children. He just had his mother, who would soon forget he even existed.
“Hey Keith? Hold on just a second. I have something I want to give you.” She took his empty can and tossed it in the recycling beforegrabbing the photo album. Back outside, she thrust the worn book toward him. “I thought you might want some pictures of you and your mom. Maybe one of Winnie and Russell too.”
He opened the fat album, flipping pages slowly. Nostalgia spilled out of pages touched with dust. Shades of happiness and heartache wove together to make the fabric of memories.
“Wow, I haven’t seen some of these.” He skimmed a finger over a photo of him swinging from a rope into the river. “Back when I was a kid, we had more freedom to explore. Especially once I was in junior high. Mama would go to work, and I would meet up with friends. We would float on an old inner tube. We didn’t have cell phones to check in and take a million selfies. No live streaming. Just us, getting to exist in the moment and make choices. Good ones and bad ones.”
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like. No cell phones or chasing social media perfection.” Less pressure. “It was a different time.”
“Easier to hide what we were up to.” He plucked a photo from the album, the one she’d noticed earlier of him as a child clinging to his mother’s hand. He slid it into the front pocket of his button-down shirt. “I’ll check the yard once more before heading off to bed. Don’t worry. I’m a light sleeper.”
Clutching the album against the dull ache in her chest, Bailey Rae stayed on the porch long after Keith had slammed the Airstream door closed. She chalked up the twinge to change, not that it lessened the discomfort.
Back inside the cabin, she placed the photo album in a box markedkeep/storage, full of files and important papers. Newspaper clippings. Letters. She’d felt guilty and emotional reading them, although some were more benign, like the ones from some guy asking for more information about paper mill employees back in the 1970s. She grabbed an unused cookbook and added it to the box for good measure since hers would be covered in cooking splatters. She thumbed through the pages. What about this simple publication had drawn Gia?
Bailey Rae scanned the recipes from everyone in the town, from Uncle Russell’s catfish stew to his grandmother Annette’s skillet cornbread. Women from the factory had contributed, as well as ladies from the garden club. Some of the recipes were accompanied by a picture of the “chef,” while others included photos of Bent Oak, the factory, the town hall, the river.
Quite the homage to local flavors on so many levels.
Flipping a couple of pages, she lingered on one of Winnie’s recipes. No image of Winnie stared back, though. Just a snapshot of canned preserves with a pound cake on a picnic blanket with a large satchel and floppy hat resting beside. Signature Winnie. The sight of the jam recipe stirred tears in her eyes and flavors on her taste buds.
Sleep wasn’t even remotely on the horizon with her mind racing and her heart missing Winnie. So one by one, she pulled out the ingredients and lined them up on the counter. She would take solace in the kitchen for a little while.
She had a pantry to clear and memories to pack away.
Ninety minutes later, Bailey Rae washed the bowl, beaters, and spatula while the cake cooled on a rack. The warm scent of vanilla lingered in the air. Her pantry and fridge were now shy a pound each of flour, sugar, butter, and eggs, but her mind was full of the memories associated with this recipe. She’d stood at this counter the day she’d realized her mother wasn’t coming back.
After Winnie had dried all the tears, she’d offered to share a secret recipe that would be known only to the two of them, the connection coming at a time when Bailey Rae felt so adrift. Somewhere between sifting the flour and scraping the last bit of batter from the bowl, her chest eased enough that she could breathe without hiccups.
Now, as Bailey Rae dried her hands on the skirt of her dress, a flicker of light in the woods caught her attention. Her breath hitched.She checked in with Skeeter, but the hound snoozed on the rag rug by the mudroom door. She looked back at the window, pushing the curtain open farther away from the pane that needed a good cleaning. The faint glow still shone through the trees. In the distance. Like a car parked at the top of the lengthy dirt driveway.
Her stomach knotted even as she told herself there were a thousand benign reasons. A couple parking to have sex. Teens out drinking.
Or an angry, abusive husband stalking his wife.
She snatched her cell phone off the counter and didn’t question why she bypassed calling Keith to phone Martin instead.
He picked up after one ring. “What’s wrong?”
