But even as we sweep and clean our grandparents’ shared grave, even as we set Miss Lily’s flowers in the attached vase, even as Grace and I part ways at the store, even as I drive the hour back to Oak Crest, I hear Miss Lily’s question in my mind:
What frightens you more?
Chapter 21
Iriseearlyandthrow on my kitchen togs. I have lots of thinking to do, and there’s nowhere better for me to do it than with a knife in my hand.
Lisa’s in the kitchen already, of course.
But so is my mom. And it’s only then do I realize I never talked to her yesterday.
I’d planned to stop by the house on my way out of town, but I was so distracted by Miss Lily’s question that I’d driven on autopilot all the way back to Oak Crest.
I’m a crap human. There is no way around this fact.
“Mom. I’m so sorry.”
She gives me a bright smile, but she’s a bad faker. Grace is the same way. You can read their faces like a clock. “Hey, honey. I thought since I missed you yesterday, I’d come here and see you.”
I walk over and hug her, resting my head on her shoulder. “Mom, I really am sorry.” There’s literally no way to explain how I accidentally blew her off that won’t make her feel worse.I was so distracted by my college crush that I forgot to come see you.
“I had a feeling I’d find you if I hung around the kitchen long enough,” she murmurs into my shoulder.
“I’m helping Lisa prep for the gala dinner tonight. Want to help?” My mom and I don’t work well together in the kitchen—she forgets I do this professionally, and I forget she was my first kitchen instructor—but I owe her at least this much.
“Would love to.”
I grab her a clean apron from the supply closet and introduce her to Lisa as my mom.
“I connected the dots,” Lisa says.
“You ready to do this?”
“I’m ready,” Lisa says.
I planned the weekly camp menus, and this gala dinner is meant to be elegant while referencing the food Camp Oak Crest will serve the kiddos. I chose a theme of “Campfire Deconstructed,” polished versions of summer camp classics.
The trusty foil dinner of ground beef, green beans, and corn will become a filet mignon—portobello mushroom for our vegetarians—with rosemary fondant potatoes, sweet corn tamale cakes, and nut-roasted green beans.
Similarly, instead of s’mores, we’re doing a decadent chocolate cheesecake on a graham cracker crust topped with chocolate ganache and finished with house-made marshmallows we’ll toast with the mini-torches usually reserved for crème brûlée.
It’s a good menu with enough novelty for the meal to feel special without being so innovative that the guests won’t enjoy it. The big money donors filling up the other seven cabins later this week paid two thousand per person for this dinner, so their enjoyment is paramount.
There’s plenty of prep to do, and while Lisa doesn’tneedmy help, I need to be here, keeping busy.
“Let’s make crusts, Mom. We need enough for eight cheesecakes.” Enough to feed our guests plus all the counselors later.
We take our boxes of graham crackers and large Ziploc bags to a corner out of Lisa’s way and set about crushing them. It’s cathartic. Pounding and smooshing things in the kitchen usually is. They have to be ground fine, so I go over the crumbs with a rolling pin for good measure.
After we each demolish two boxes of crackers, my mom breaks the silence. “Why didn’t you come see me yesterday?”
“I…” I haven’t thought of an answer that isn’t hurtful. So that’s what I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“How did you think I was going to feel when you never stopped by the house?”
This feels intentional to her, and I understand it. “I forgot, Mom. I know that sounds bad, but I was distracted, and I got in my head and zoned out and drove here. I know that’s thoughtless, but I hope it’s better than thinking I blew you off on purpose.”
“That you didn’t even remember to come see me?” She pounds even harder at her crackers. “It’s not better.”
