I feel my father leaning toward me then. He puts his arms around me, hugging me as best he can from across the car. “What happened to Jack wasn’t your fault, Lucy,” he says gently. “Long before he walked into your garden, he was struggling with things that had absolutely nothing to do with you. We all sensed that. I think it’s why we all cheered so loudly for him at those football games. Even when he was winning, he always seemed like the underdog.”
Tears slide down my cheeks. If my mother were alive, she would have understood why I feel that I am responsible for what happened to Jack and his family. I’m sure that’s why I could never bear to tell her.
I put my arms around my father and rest my head on his shoulder. Even if he doesn’t believe me, saying the words aloud for the first time, talking about Jack, sends a small shaft of light into the darkness I have carried for so long.
Chapter Sixteen
Seaside daisy: A flowering plant native to the West Coast in the aster family with cushion, lavender-pink blossoms whose herbaceous, grassy scent inspires awakening
From the moment I step into the Oceanview Home lobby on Monday morning, I know that something has changed. The air, normally laced with that awful starch-and-disinfectant scent, smells warm and malty with rich, sweet layers of chocolate and yeast. And instead of the usual heavy silence broken only by the lonely screech of utensils scraping against plates, I hear the rise and fall of voices and… is that jazz?
“Morning, Lucy!” Noreen calls from behind the large front desk. She’s wiping something from the corner of her lip, and her hair has fallen a bit from its usual scraped-back bun and now frames her face in soft wisps.
“Hi, Noreen.” I study her for a beat, thrown off by the change in her appearance, and then allow the scent of chocolate and yeast to pull me deeper into the home. Beside me, Gully sniffs the air hungrily.
I stop in front of the dining room’s open doors, and feel my mouth fall open in surprise. There are more residents than I’ve ever seen in the room, and instead of tiredly leaning over their plates, they’re chatting in pairs and groups, exclaiming happily as they pick up—what are those? Croissants? The bright sound of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice flits and soars over the room. And the windows! They’re each open a couple of inches, the curtains thrown apart, and the scents of lavender and lemon and sea salt pour into the room, mixing in delicate swirls with the richer scents of butter and sugar, yeast and chocolate.
A door on the far wall of the dining room swings open and out steps Vikram, a crisp black apron tied around his waist and his silver hair neatly combed. The sallowness I saw around his eyes has faded; his skin looks dewy and healthy, like soil that has been freshly watered. Even the hollowness of his cheeks seems less dramatic than when I saw him last. He still moves stiffly, but he seems steadier now, his stride more purposeful and his expression relaxed. I hope it means he is in less pain.
“Lucy!” he calls from across the room, catching sight of me immediately.
All eyes in the room swing toward me then, and it seems as though the vibrant hum of chatter increases. I walk toward Vikram, but before I can say a word the door behind him opens again and out steps Adele. There is a beautiful dark green paisley apron tied around her waist and a gleaming wooden cane in one of her hands.
“Did I hear—oh! Youarehere!” she exclaims in her elegant voice, beaming at me. She’s still tiny and delicate-looking, but her face is all coy smile and sparkling blue eyes. “Well?” she says. “Did you try the croissants?”
I shake my head. “I just walked in. They smell divine, though. Did you make them?”
“Adele has been my hands in the kitchen all weekend,” Vikram tells me. His dark eyes glisten with emotion. “She is a natural.”
Adele blushes. “It’s only because I have such an accomplished teacher.” She looks at me. “I love baking. Who knew? I’ve really never tried it before.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say.
Vikram chuckles. “Don’t look so surprised, Lucy. It was your idea, after all.”
“Hardly,” I protest. “I thought Adele might like to hear about your recipes since I knew she enjoyed pastries. I didn’t suggest that you teach her. But,” I add quickly, “I’m glad you did.” I look around the room. “It seems likeeveryoneis glad. What are you putting in these croissants, anyway? Everyone is very chatty.”
“Oh,” says Adele, “it’s just—”
“We’ll never tell,” Vikram interrupts, nudging Adele gently with his elbow. “The recipe isoursecret now.”
“I was only going to say the secret is Ella Fitzgerald.” Adele tuts. Then she smiles at me. “It turns out Vikram likes listening to jazz while he bakes.”
“Oh yes,” Vikram says. “The croissants are made possible by Adele, Ella, and my secret recipe. Oh, and it will soon be Peter’s secret, too. That’s Adele’s grandson. We’re going to teach him the recipe when he visits in a few weeks.”
Adele nods. “I never know what to do with the poor boy. I know coming here bores him silly. What teenage boy wants to visit his dusty old grandmother in the retirement home? He’s a musician,and I know he’d rather be playing his music.” She holds up one tiny finger, her eyes twinkling. “But Ialsoknow he inherited my sweet tooth. And he’s clever—I think he’ll like the science of baking quite a bit.”
“Maybe you’ll want to take Peter for a walk around the gardens, too,” Vikram suggests to Adele. He looks at me. “They’ll all be open by then, won’t they?”
“In a few weeks? Definitely.” I’m surprised to feel a slight pang as I say the words. In three weeks, my work here will be finished, and then what? I’ll move on, just as I always have.
“Well, you can’t get to work without a croissant,” insists Adele.
“Two!” says Vikram.
Adele takes my elbow and steers me to a sideboard where a silver tray is piled with golden croissants. “We might have made a few more than strictly necessary,” she admits. “It’s just such fun.”
“The way I’m eating them,” Vikram says, “they’ll be gone in an hour.” He picks up a croissant and bites into it, closing his eyes as he chews. “I can’t seem to stop,” he murmurs, smiling.
