1
My life is a lemon.
I faced the truth afresh, bent over a cold stainless-steel mixing bowl, whipping egg whites and sugar into stiff French meringue peaks.
“ ‘Lolly’s life goal number two,’ ” my sister, Daphne, read aloud, perched on a stool across the gleaming stainless-steel prep counter of the diner’s kitchen. She paused and eyed the list of adolescent ambitions a far younger me had optimistically scribbled in sparkly purple gel pen in my middle school diary.
“ ‘Own my own restaurant somewhere amazing.’ ” She glanced over at me skeptically. “Does managing our family diner in Magnolia count?”
I shot her a wry look. “I don’t think Danish comfort food in a fifty-year-old diner was quite what I was imagining when I wrote that.” So much of my life was not what I’d imagined when I wrote that. I leaned over the hand mixer with renewed vigor.
Outside the huge French-paned windows, the winter darkness was beginning to lighten with a touch of pearl as morning broke. More than likely the clouds would settle into a daylong light drizzle. Late winter in Seattle was often wet, chilly, and unremittingly gray. I usuallyloved this time of the morning—pie-making time, alone in the kitchen with a serene sense of purpose and Tanya Tucker warbling plaintively on the radio—but not today. Today the weather matched my mood.
“ ‘Number three. Fall in love.’ ” She paused and squinted at the page. “You scribbled a note in the margin that says ‘I’d like him to look like Freddie Prinze Jr. or Brad Pitt.’ ” Daphne shot me a curious look and wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Freddie Prinze Jr.?”
“Did you ever seeShe’s All That? No, I guess you were too young.” I brushed a wisp of hair back into my bouncy ponytail. “It was the nineties. Freddie was dreamy, a total heartthrob.” I redoubled my efforts on the meringue, which was now stiff enough to stand by itself in frothy white peaks.
Daphne studied the page. “What was this list for anyway?”
Closing my eyes, I was instantly catapulted back to my seventh-grade classroom, the buzz of hormones and invincibility, the smells of old linoleum, adolescent boys wearing too little deodorant, and girls wearing too much fruity body spray.
“Ms.Beeson’s English class. We were supposed to write out a life goals list, a plan for the next twenty years. Which is sort of crazy given that most of us couldn’t plan our way out of a paper bag when we were thirteen. She was big on plans. Pencil skirts and plans.”
“That’s ambitious,” Daphne said, looking again at the list.
“It’s kind of sad to read it now,” I commented lightly.
“Sad how?”
I turned off the mixer. “Next month I’ll turn thirty-three. It’s been almost exactly twenty years since I wrote that list, and I haven’t done a single thing on it.” My tone was matter-of-fact but the realization stung, sharp and true. I had not thought about the list in years, but the reality that I hadn’t managed to accomplish even one goal was disappointing.
Daphne closed the diary and tossed it on the counter, thenstretched, young and lissome in her yoga gear. Her sleek chestnut hair swung over her shoulders. Hair color was the only thing we shared in terms of appearance. Daphne took after our dad, small and leanly muscled, a dancer’s build. I favored our mother’s Danish side of the family—taller with rounded curves and high, broad cheekbones. She slid off the stool and surveyed me. “Do you still want all those things?”
“Freddie Prinze Jr. has aged really well. I like the whole silver fox look.” I grinned, spooning meringue onto the deep-yellow fillings of six lemon pies, dodging her question. I wasn’t even sure I knew the answer or could risk thinking too hard about it. I’d stopped dreaming about what I wanted roughly a decade ago. It was a luxury I simply could not afford.
Daphne glanced at her phone and gave a yip of alarm. “I’ve got to teach a vinyasa session in fifteen minutes.” She yanked open the huge industrial refrigerator and grabbed an apple. “I’ve got class till four thirty, and then I’ll come help with the dinner rush. Damien will give me a ride.”
She was in her junior year studying for a dance degree at Cornish College of the Arts in downtown Seattle and was teaching yoga on the side to help pay for the outrageous cost of tuition. Her boyfriend, Damien, was a student at Cornish as well. I sighed and wiped my hands on my fifties-style green-and-white-polka-dot frilled apron, the standard uniform at the diner ever since I could remember.
“Help with dinner would be great. It’s tough going when it’s only Aunt Gert and me handling all the tables.”
We exchanged a knowing look at the mention of our feisty great-aunt.
“Okay, see you tonight.” Daphne threw open the back door and blew me an air kiss. “Love you much.”
I caught it against my cheek. “Love you more.” It was a childhood exchange Mom had taught us and one we still copied.
Daphne traipsed out the door, then poked her head back inside, looking thoughtful. “You know, it’s not too late for you to do those things if you still want to.”
I waved away her words. “Who would keep everything together around here? Who would be the glue?”
“I knew you would say that.” Daphne pulled a face. “That’s what they’re going to put on your gravestone when they find you old and gray and collapsed face-first into one of your lemon meringue pies. ‘I was the glue.’ ”
It was a horrifying thought. And sadly probably not untrue. I stuck my tongue out at her.
“Aren’t you late for something?”
She shrieked and darted out the door. I watched her go with a mixture of maternal fondness and sisterly exasperation. Twelve years younger than me, Daphne had been only ten when Mom died. I’d stepped in to fill the hole in her life as best I could. Some days I thought it was almost enough.
