“Okay, have it your way.” I scooped some ice cream into my mouth and stared at my laptop screen. Where to start? My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and on impulse I typed in “home health care Seattle.” Instantly a long list of results sprang onto the screen. I scrolled through a few agencies, checking Google reviews, getting a feel for services and prices. It was far more expensive than I had anticipated, and my heart sank. How were we ever going to make this work? And who should I choose? I stared at the list of options, something niggling in the back of my mind. Where had I heard about home health care recently? I shut my eyes and tried to think back. And then Iremembered. Rory’s fridge. My father’s wedding invitation. Ramona. Wasn’t she a caregiver of some sort?
No. It was an impossible long shot. But on impulse I googled Ramona Flores. The top search hit caught my eye. “Helping Hands: Kind and Caring Personal Home Health,” the tagline read. It had dozens of five-star reviews. Was this agency somehow related to Ramona? I clicked on it, scanning the “about” page. The agency had been in business for twenty-two years providing skilled nursing and home health care. Its goal was to provide individual care for patients in their own homes. It had a staff of five care providers. I clicked on the staff page and four pictures popped up. The first one stopped me in my tracks. There she was. Her wavy red hair and warm dark eyes were so familiar.
“Ramona Flores, Owner,” the caption below the photo read. It was her, the woman from Rory’s fridge. The woman my father had been gazing down at as though she’d hung the sun and the moon and maybe the stars to boot. I’d found my father’s second wife. She was a registered nurse with twenty-five years of experience, and she specialized in rehabilitation from surgery and strokes.
“It’s you,” I murmured, staring at Ramona, dumbfounded. What were the odds I’d actually find her? Her hair was shorter, a little brighter red than in her wedding invitation, but her eyes were just as kind. She was wearing pale pink scrubs. I swallowed hard and clicked on the contact tab.
There was an address listed in Burien, Washington. Just a few miles south of Seattle. She was here, within reach. Heart pounding, I didn’t stop to think. I just picked up the phone and dialed her number. A click and then a woman’s voice answered. “Hello, this is Ramona at Helping Hands. How can I help you today?” She sounded both compassionate and competent.
I took a deep breath, heart pounding in my ears. What was Ithinking, meddling this way? But it had been too many years since Dad had lost the love of his life. He was lonely. He deserved to be loved. I couldn’t do anything about my own broken heart, but I could try to help mend his. And this might be the best chance I could give him. I didn’t know if it would work. He was, after all, now so physically diminished, but I had to at least try. I crossed my fingers and said a little silent prayer.
“Hi, Ramona. My name is Lolly Blanchard. I’m calling on behalf of my father, Marty.”
41
“Okay, folks, who wantsanother slice of pie?” From the open pie case I held aloft one of the fifteen lemon meringue pies Daphne and Eve had helped me bake that morning. A cheer went up from the gathered crowd. It was six p.m. on a Saturday night, and the diner was crammed with people, every booth brimming, every seat full. People were standing along the walls and leaning against the counter. We were probably violating every fire code in the book, but tonight it didn’t matter. This was the Eatery’s last night, and we were celebrating its closing in style. It was also my thirty-third birthday, but I wasn’t telling anyone that. A farewell to the Eatery made a far bigger reason for a party.
Eve and Daphne wove their way through the crowds, doling out complimentary slices of pie to everyone. Damien stood at the door, taking coats and directing folks to open spaces, only a few inches of his high-top fade visible above the crowd of patrons. Aunt Gert was trundling through the aisles, double fisting coffeepots and visiting every table and booth for top-ups.
From the jukebox June Carter Cash twanged out “Keep on theSunny Side.” I smiled at the irony. Someone had a sense of humor and a quarter to spare. I picked up a copy of my mom’s famous lemon meringue pie recipe, printed on nice card stock. There was a stack on every table. At the top I’d dubbed it “Irene’s Best Lemon Meringue Pie.” It was a secret no longer. Time to share it with the world.
The door opened with a gust of cool, wet air, the bell’s faint jingle audible just above the din. I glanced up. It was Dad, navigating the doorway with his shiny metal walker. Beside him, holding the door with one hand and gripping his arm with the other, stood Ramona. I’d had to beg, plead, and finally drive down to Burien to convince her in person before she finally agreed to care for Dad herself, but from the first day she’d been a godsend. She was quick, efficient, and compassionate. And best of all, she cheerfully made Dad toe the line. Somehow she got him to do what she wanted with a mixture of good-humored cajoling and an iron will. I’d never seen him so agreeable. And she assured me he was making good progress in his recovery.
We cleared a place for Dad and Ramona at a small table near the center of the room, and Daphne got them each a slice of pie. I banged a clean pie tin with a spoon, and the chatter slowly died away until every eye was trained on me.
“Thank you for coming tonight to celebrate the Eatery with us.” I cleared my throat. I’d had a stiff little thank-you speech planned out for days, but now, in the warmth of the room with the fug of wet outerwear, bitter coffee, and live bodies packed in like sardines, those preplanned words escaped me. I glanced around. Helen, who had given my mom her quarterly cut and color for over twenty years, was sitting by the jukebox. Aunt Gert was pouring Norman a second cup of coffee at his usual table, which he was sharing with a few other regulars tonight. Aunt Gert was even smiling at him, albeit a little grudgingly. Over in the corner the entire celebrity memoir book club was squeezed into their regular booth. I scanned the rest of the room. Julio andAngel and their family stood in the back near the kitchen. The staff of Magnolia’s Bookstore was there, as was our mail carrier and the folks from many of the businesses up and down the street. So many familiar faces. So many I had grown up with. I swallowed hard, then said the words that rose in my throat without thinking about them.
“This restaurant was founded by my grandparents because they wanted to provide a warm, welcoming gathering place in Magnolia. Their dream was to bring people together in the community over a good Danish meal and a slice of homemade pie. And for more than sixty years our family has been doing just that.” A few people around the room gave solemn nods.
“I look out at so many of you tonight and realize you have years of history at the Eatery. This place has seen so many celebrations—birthdays, anniversaries, a few proposals, even a funeral luncheon or two.” A polite titter of laughter ran through the room. There had been thousands of smaller celebrations too. Family dinners, book clubs, old friends meeting for coffee and a chat. So many years. So many memories.
“My parents raised two strong girls in this diner.” I met Daphne’s eyes and smiled. She smiled back. Since I’d decided to close the diner, we’d been working on making peace with each other. “This place was a gathering spot for the people of Magnolia. It helped build our community. It helped make us who we all are today. And that legacy will last long after the Eatery sign is taken down and this restaurant is gone.”
“Hear, hear!” someone shouted from the back. A few people banged their tabletops in agreement. I continued.
“Tonight we are saying goodbye not just to this much-loved space but to an era, a shared experience. And I know that can be hard and sad. There is grief in the goodbye. But we are saying goodbye so we can embrace better things for all of us. It is time to move on now. As we close, we want to say thank you. Thank you for being our lovingcommunity. Thank you for walking through those doors for birthdays and anniversaries and ordinary mornings too. We are so appreciative. And while the Eatery’s doors are closing, you are still our larger family, and we continue to value the friendships and community we’ve helped build here in Magnolia.” I raised my bottle high. “To the Eatery. To Magnolia. To us.”
There was loud cheering and thunderous applause and then the clinking of cups and glasses, and that was it. After more than sixty years, all of my life and my mother’s life and most of her parents’ lives, it was over.
Someone put another quarter in the jukebox, and the decibel level of chatter elevated quickly over Hank Williams. I stood by the counter, sticking my fork into a piece of lemon meringue pie over and over but not taking a bite. Now that my speech was over, I felt removed from the party, weary and a little sad, but also very, very relieved.
Aunt Gert swung by, empty coffeepots in both hands. Tonight she was wearing an elegant three-piece suit in powdery blue brocade. She even had a matching pocket square in the breast pocket. She looked like a cross between the French Sun King Louis XIV and David Bowie. She leaned close to me and yelled over the din, “I’ve come to a decision.”
“Oh?” I raised my eyebrows.
“You were right. There’s still time for me to live the grand adventure. I am going to continue to follow my bliss.” She nodded firmly, decisively. “I thought you should know.”
“That’s great,” I said, genuinely pleased to see her so lively and determined. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I still felt a twinge of disappointment about my birthday, about the list and my failure to accomplish anything on it. I’dstashed the unicorn diary in a drawer at home and tried not to think about it. Instead I was moving forward, determined not to dwell on all I didn’t have. I’d spent enough time stuck in regret.
“Come with me. I have something for you.” Aunt Gert gestured with the coffeepots. I followed her back into the kitchen, which was brightly lit but quiet and empty, a relief from the loud crowd. She slid the coffeepots back in the coffee makers and punched the buttons to make fresh coffee.
“Here.” She withdrew a hard rectangular package wrapped in a brilliantly colored silk scarf from the pocket of her brocade pants. For a wild moment I wondered if she was giving me a box with another lemon drop inside, if she had found one somehow. My heart thudded against my chest as I unwrapped it. But it was an old book with a cracked spine and an embossed silver flower on the cover.
“The Art of the Edible Flower Garden,”I read the title. “Thank you.” It was kind of her to think of me, although I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the book. Gardening was the last thing on my mind right now.
