Page 22 of Something About September

Cort clutched his chest in mock horror. “My own flesh and blood betrays my culinary secrets.”

Rebecca watched as Pip laughed, his red hair falling across his forehead in a way that reminded her of autumn leaves cascading from branches. Back in the kitchen, the scent of applewood smoke and burning leaves came in through the window on the breeze. On the counter behind the stove, Rebecca saw a battered tin recipe card box she hadn’t noticed before. As the sound of Cort and Pip chatting in the dining room drifted toward her through the pass, she pulled the box toward her and took out a random card. It was a recipe for her grandmother’s “famous” applesauce cake, which, she said in the recipe, was actually even better made using frozen applesauce from the previous season. “A great way to use up the inevitable leftovers forgotten in the freezer—and time only deepens the flavors.” This made Rebecca smile. It was typical Lenore. She had been raised in a different era, when wastefulness was more than frowned upon. She had always found a use for everything, from apple peels, which she used to make apple jelly and homemade apple cider vinegar, to the decorative gourds once harvesttime was over, which she composted in her small back garden to enrich the soil.

Rebecca set the recipe card aside. The applesauce cake was a simple recipe. Even she, who had never had much interest in baking, could manage it. The idea of baking one of her grandmother’s recipes shifted something inside her, as did pouring out the rest of the hot chocolate to bring to Pip, looking out through the pass and seeing people at the tables in the diner. A friend and his son. She had fought it, but already she knew hiring Cort had been the right thing. That having him around was something she was grateful for, despite herself.

Chapter 15

“Rebecca McIntosh? Oh my God, it is you!”

Heather Walsh stood in front of Rebecca in the grocery store aisle, between her and the baking soda and brown sugar she was looking for so she could make the applesauce cake she had decided on the day before.

“Heather Walsh!” Rebecca forced a smile.

“It’s been forever, hasn’t it? It’s Heather Prescott now, by the way. Todd and I got married.” Todd Prescott had been on the football team with Cort, a mountain of a teenage boy who seemed designed to block passes. “I haven’t seen you in, like, a decade, which is weird, but most other people know.” It actually wasn’t weird. Since graduating high school and leaving town, Rebecca had steadfastly managed to avoid Heather Walsh—now Prescott—by going the other way every time she saw her. Once, she had even hidden in a bush, a fact she was not proud of, but there it was. Today, though, she had been lost in her thoughts and caught by surprise.

Now Heather’s eyes scanned Rebecca from head to toe, assessing. Rebecca tried not to feel self-conscious, the way she always used to around Heather in high school. “I heard you were in town. And about time—that building of yours is about to fall down.”

“It’s not that bad,” Rebecca said, feeling defensive. “I’m fixing it up.”

“So, are you back for good?”

“Just temporarily,” Rebecca replied, reaching around Heather for the baking soda.

“Right, right.” Heather nodded, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You were out of here first chance you got.” Then Heather paused. “Such a shame about your grandmother. I didn’t see you so I didn’t get the chance to say it. She was a real fixture in town. She is missed.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said automatically.

“So, Toronto, huh? Big-city life suits you?” Heather asked the question as if she couldn’t imagine big-city life suiting anyone.

Rebecca’s posture straightened. “It does,” she said. “I work at U of T. I’m an adjunct gothic literature professor.”

Heather let out a tinkling laugh. “Adjunct. What does that even mean? My eyes just glazed over there. I’m so glad I never have to go to an English class again.” She gave Rebecca another sweeping glance. “But you never outgrew your Brontë sisters phase, I guess. Cute.”

People did change, but it seemed Heather had not.

“Heather, I should really—”

But Heather was still talking, as if Rebecca had asked her questions about herself and she was now answering them. “I manage the bank branch now, over in Milltown—and Todd has his own company. He’s in blockchain solutions. Whatever those are, right?” She gave another laugh, then pulled out her phone. “We have a daughter, Ambrosia, she’s nine, and twin boys, Brady and Rodger. They’re seven.” She swiped to show perfectly posed family photos, everyone in matching outfits, Todd clearly sucking in his potbelly. “This was our trip to Disney last summer.”

Rebecca made appropriate noises of admiration, wondering when was too soon to try to make an excuse again and walk away. She looked longingly at the bag of brown sugar behind Heather.

“Anyway,” Heather said, tucking her phone away, “I heard you hired Cort to do your diner renovation.”

“I did indeed,” Rebecca said. “He’s the best in town, after all.”

“The only in town, but whatever,” Heather said. She raised a thin penciled eyebrow. “Melanie and I are still best friends, so I am of course Team Melanie all the way.”

Rebecca knew Cort and Melanie had simply grown apart and now co-parented their son amicably. But it seemed Heather was still trying to manufacture drama—and engage in gossip. “Listen, I should really—”

“Pip is in the same class as my twins,” Heather continued. “Quirky kid. Loves to read and, like…garden, or something. Not much of an athlete, though Todd’s tried to get him interested in football like his dad.”

“I think Pip is lovely,” Rebecca said. “He’s a great kid.”

Now Heather’s eyebrows rose even higher. She seemed to be filing Rebecca’s words away for later use, and it made Rebecca feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know what this was supposed to mean and had no intention of asking. “I should really go,” she said.

“We should catch up properly while you’re in town! Coffee sometime?”

“Sure,” Rebecca said, knowing it would never happen. “That would be nice.” Then she coughed, feeling like she had just choked on the lies her grandmother had always advised her against telling. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it—words have a way of sticking to the walls.