“Of course. She made the house smell divine every Sunday.” The smile on Ethel’s face confirmed how vivid the memory still was, even if other ones sometimes faded away.
“I was thinking of trying to recreate them. Do you have the recipe?”
“Nope. I could never remember stuff like that.”
“Oh.” My heart sank, but Ethel smirked.
“That’s why I insisted she write all her favorite recipes in a notebook.” She added an ice cube to her tea from a bucket on the table. I had never interfered in her ways of consuming the beverage, and I wasn’t about to start now.
“You’re a genius.” I clapped my hands. “Any idea where it is?”
“Do you know that shelf with fashion books she collected? It’s somewhere between them. Pink cover with flowers on it.”
“I’ll look for it tonight. Thank you.” I kissed her cheek.
She patted my hair. “Bring me a sample to try, and I’ll judge whether it’s anything like Anna’s. Gods how I miss her.” She sighed, added a sugar cube to her tea, and stirred it, clanking the spoon loudly.
“Me too. So much.” I hugged her side. She smelled of the Cryptique perfume she’d been using since I was a kid, the elegant golden bottles always present on her dresser, next to her makeup brushes.
“But we’ve had our time together. Seventy-eight years to be exact. You won’t find your partner for life if you don’t open your heart and try.”
“I’m actually meeting up with someone tomorrow, if you must know.” I lifted my teacup and took a sip theatrically.
She gasped. “Who?”
“Just a guy who buys coffee at the shop.”
“How hot?”
“Very.”
“Well then, what the hell are you still doing here?” Ethel delivered a slew of tiny smacks on my forearm. “Shoo. You should be at home getting ready!” She shook her head. “Not sitting here with an old lady all day.”
I rolled my eyes. “I like spending time with you.”
She squeezed my cheeks in her hands. “You’re too cute for your own good. Go away. But tell me about him when you visit me next.” She released my face and booped my nose.
I grinned. “Okay. I have a test online on Monday, but I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
She waved me off and sipped her tea, grinning.
At home, I rummaged through the living room shelves, looking at old albums with photographs from my childhood, happy pics of Ethel and Anabelle, until I made myself put them away and switched to the fashion books. Between the Alexandra DeQueen collection and Viv NorthWood stood a thick notebook with flowers on the cover. Bingo.
The first page said “Anabelle’s Pretzels (Ethel’s favorite)” at the top. With a squeal, I skipped to the kitchen.
I followed the recipe perfectly. Or so I thought. The countertops were a mess, but eight clumsily twisted pretzels were in the oven. Time to squeeze in a practice quiz before the next test.
I sat at the dining table with my laptop and pulled out the notepad with my scribbles for the course. The business parts were interesting, even fun, but the math classes were killing me. I yawned, but continued clicking through the numbers and solutions.
I was walking through a park with my parents, ice cream in one hand and a purple balloon in the other. They were talking about a trip to an amusement park for my next birthday, just the three of us. But I was an adult now, still clutching the string of a balloon, eating a hot dog, and holding someone’s hand. I couldn’t see who it was, but their presence calmed me.
A loud screech sounded, and we all turned toward the direction of a car swerving through the flower gardens and nearing us at an alarming speed. The person holding my hand pulled me out of harm’s way, but it was too late for my parents.
A beeping sound penetrated my brain, and I mumbled into a hard surface under my cheek. Was something burning?
Pretzels!
Oh shit, I’d fallen asleep. I jumped to my feet, sending the chair I’d been sitting on toppling backward. I ran to the kitchen, which now looked like a pub in the nineties—I could barely see through the smoke. Patting my way in, I grabbed a towel and waved it close to the alarm on the ceiling, then pressed the button to turn it off.
