Everything We Keep

~ Part Eleven ~

I eased up and a small scrap of paper underneath a kitchen chair caught my attention. It was bent in half and propped like a miniature tent. I went over and picked it up, peered at the text. Lacy Saunders. The psychic from James’ funeral. I had almost forgotten about her.

Nadia must have left the card when the contents of her purse spilled. I stared at the card. James is alive. Lacy’s words whispered through my head. What a nut job. I tossed the card onto the countertop and moved through the house, blowing out candles, locking doors, and turning off lights. I double-checked the garage, and sure enough, Kristen had left on the single overhead light.

I flicked it off only to flick it right back on. Behind my VW Beetle was a large empty space where there should have been eight boxes loaded with James’ bubble-wrapped canvases. They were gone. I walked around my car and gazed stupidly at the bare cement floor. Only one box remained.

Where were the others? How long had they been gone? I had been so out of sorts these past months the boxes could have disappeared at any time. Maybe James had wanted more space in the garage and had moved the paintings to his company’s warehouse. Thomas might know where they were. I should call him. Tomorrow, I thought, yawning. I returned inside and crashed in bed.

OCTOBER

Days came and went, each blurring into the next. Endless nights out with Nadia, dinners with Kristen and her husband, and countless evenings alone watching movies from the couch. When there wasn’t anything interesting to watch, I baked.

Every so often I drove to The Goat and worked my shift, but the certainty it would close soon only served as a reminder that I had to figure out what to do with my life. So I stopped going. Mail piled higher. Newspapers stacked taller. Dishes collected in the sink. Glasses littered any available surface through the house.

Casseroles, cakes, and cookies sat uneaten on the kitchen table. The washer and dryer were used only when my situation was dire. Like when I’d run out of underwear. I packed my days and crammed my nights until I crashed. When I woke, my mind and body dragging, I got creative with espresso. I mixed exotic beans and syrups to keep me wired, and then I baked some more.

My house was a mess. My life was a disaster. I was a wreck. Until the day I woke up. It was to the sound of a lawnmower. I peeked through the front window blinds and saw Nick move back and forth across the lawn. The front door opened and Kristen gaped at me.

“You’re awake?”

“I thought I’d join the human race.”

I thumbed out the window.

“He’s got to stop doing that.”

Kristen shut the door.

“He wants to help, and I think it helps him.”

I collapsed an empty tissue box.

“How so?”

“He misses James.”

“We all do.”

I collected dirty glassware around the front room.

“The yard looks gorgeous, but it’s been eleven weeks. He can’t cut my grass for the rest of his life.”

“So said the woman who just returned to the land of the living.”

Kristen followed me into the kitchen.

“I’ll tell him you’ve hired a gardener.”

“Perfect.”

She sniffed the air. Scents of cinnamon and maple syrup hovered sweetly in the room.

“Coffee cake?” she asked.

I motioned toward the casserole dishes and platters crowding the kitchen table and her eyes bugged.

“You’ve been busy. Are you planning to eat all this?”

I gave her a sheepish look.

“I’ve sort of been feeding the neighborhood.”

While my next-door neighbor and her husband appreciated the warm dishes to go with their dinners, and their three kids loved the treats I brought them, they did ask to stop feeding their family. I was spending too much money on them. Money I didn’t have in the bank because I still couldn’t convince myself to cash Thomas’ check.

Even though my credit card was almost maxed out from groceries, I would probably end up donating the results of the most recent cooking binge to Saint Anthony’s soup kitchen, where Mom volunteered. Kristen helped herself to a slice.

“Oh wow, this isn’t your mom’s recipe.”

She moaned.

“It’s better.”

“I added sour cream. It changes the texture. Makes the cake light and tender.”

She shoveled the last bite and added another slice to her plate.

“So what’s with the cooking frenzy?”

“You know me. I have to keep busy. Keeps my mind off . . . things.”

A soft smile touched her lips.

End of the Part 11!

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