The Secret Ingredient of Wishes (7 page)

“Since we were kids,” Everley said. “My boyfriend, Jamie, is his best friend, so we're sorta like family.”

The door opened a few minutes later, letting in a wave of hot air and Ashe a step behind. His eyes swept over Rachel and settled on Everley. “Thanks for calling, Ev,” he said.

Everley winked. “No problem, cutie.”

“You okay?” he asked Rachel.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry I walked away,” Rachel said, hoping the flush was gone from her cheeks. “Just wanted to do a little sightseeing.”

“C'mon, Ashe, what do you think's gonna happen to her here? Nowhere's like the safest town ever.”

“Have you looked at her?” Ashe gestured to Rachel. He didn't look happy. “She looks like she's seen a ghost.”

There's no way he knows.
Rachel pinched the crook of her arm.
Snap out of it.
She looked up, his icy-blue eyes narrowing on her. She forced a smile.

“It's just the heat. I gave her some water. She'll be fine,” Everley said.

“Yeah, 'cause your water's about as refreshing as drinking a salad.”

“I gave her
bottled
water, smartass.”

Ashe grinned at her and turned to Rachel. “You ready?”

She nodded. “Thanks for your help, Everley. It was really nice to meet you.”

“Sure thing. Come back and see me sometime, okay?” Everley said.

Ashe cupped Rachel's elbow and ushered her out into the steamy air. Whether he was trying to steady her or keep her from wandering off again, Rachel couldn't tell.

“Please don't tell Catch about this,” she said. “I don't want her to worry.”

“Wasn't planning to. But are you gonna tell me what happened?”

“It's not important.”

“Sure it's not,” he said. His voice was a mix of annoyance and amusement. But he didn't push. He turned a corner and gently pulled her with him.

“Do you think we can just go—” Rachel stopped herself. Nowhere wasn't home. It was just a town she was temporarily living in. “Back to Catch's?” she said.

“Whatever you want to do.”

The thought of lying to Catch about why she'd left Ashe made her dizzy. She concentrated on the steadying hand on her arm. His palms were calloused, his fingers rough. She stared at the spot of sweat that blossomed on the front of his shirt instead of watching where they were going.

They reached his truck within minutes. She'd walked up and down the street and still had no clue where she'd gone or how she'd gotten there. She swiveled to look at the ancient buildings and wooden street signs behind her, but it was like seeing them all for the first time. No flash of navy or mop of brown hair in sight.

 

7

Rachel would've told him not to walk her in, but she somehow knew he wouldn't listen. Her legs held steady as she slid from the truck into the gravel driveway, all shakiness from her brief hallucination gone. Ashe walked beside her with his hand resting on her lower back. The air smelled like rain. Damp, sweet, and electric. She heard the first rumble of thunder as they walked in the back door.

The kitchen was empty. Without Catch, the room seemed sterile, like a demonstration kitchen that was all for show. The stand mixer was tucked under one of the cabinets, gleaming, and bowls of whole fruit were lined up on the island looking almost too perfect to be real.

“You gonna be all right?” Ashe asked.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “I'm fine, okay?”

“Want me to wait around until Catch gets back? She usually goes out delivering pies in the mornings. Depending on how many she made, she could be a while.”

“Thanks, but like I said, I'm good. I think I just need to go lie down for a bit.”

“Okay, well, my cell number is in there.” He pointed to the top drawer on the end. “There's a whole list of numbers. You can't miss it. I can be here in ten minutes if you need me.”

Southern gentleman to the core
. It made her smile.

“Go,” she said. “And thanks.”

The smile he gave her made her legs go weak again. She held on to the counter until he'd jogged down the steps and she heard his truck growl to life.

Sitting on a stool at the island, she lifted a corner of the tinfoil covering one of Catch's pies and sniffed. It was buttery and nutty with a hint of something dark.
Comfort in pie form
. She sighed and peeled off the rest of the foil. The surface of the pie was jagged with pieces of pecans that jutted out at all angles. One slice was already gone.

After opening a drawer and finding whisks and spatulas and measuring spoons, she tried another. She located the knives and forks in the third one she opened, then cut a sliver of pie, not even enough to be called a slice. The filling oozed as she scooped it onto her fork, dribbling melted chocolate and pecan chunks in gooey brown sauce onto the plate. She wiped the blade of the table knife with her finger and thumb. Then she licked them clean.

The bitterness of the semisweet chocolate lingered on her tongue.

Rachel took a full bite of the pie and reached for the stack of recipe cards held together by a rubber band. Curiosity got the better of her manners, and she slipped the band from the cards. Pale dust settled on the counter along with pieces of brittle rubber when it broke.

The recipes were in shorthand, only a third of which she understood. She'd always thought baking was about precision, and Catch's methods were anything but. The measurements consisted of a
handful
of this,
two scoops
of that. One called for a
half bucket
of what she thought said key limes. She skimmed half the pile before shuffling them back into one stack. She tossed the rubber band in the trash, rinsed her plate, and loaded it and the utensils into the dishwasher.

A clock chimed from one of the other rooms. She followed the deep tolling through the dim dining room, its thick tan curtains flanking the shuttered windows into the foyer. The front door was propped open with a crumbling brick. The screen door was latched, as if one hook and eye would keep anyone out. Not even the sunlight had to force its way in.

She hesitated at the foot of the stairs as the spines of dozens of books in the room to the left of the door caught her attention. The wood creaked beneath her feet. Before she could talk herself out of it, she moved into the room. It was small, cozy, with wall-to-wall bookshelves and two faded wingback chairs. A fireplace was set into the middle of one bookcase. The hearth was swept clean. Fresh logs sat in the dormant cavity.

Like the rest of the house, the library was stuffed with cookbooks with titles like
Whip It: 25 Quiches in 25 Minutes, The Secrets of Vegan Baking,
and
Soufflés and Cakes That Won't Fall Flat.
There were books on hot peppers and fruit-producing trees, and cheeses of the world, and harvesting your own honey. Some were still shiny and stiff. Others were the muted yellow of the inside of a lemon peel. Rachel left finger smudges on their glossy covers when she pulled them from the shelf at random.

Nestled in among the books was a frame made of twigs. Bubbles of dried hot glue held the crumbling sticks in place. Bark shavings flecked off when she picked it up. They scattered to the floor when she blew on them. She studied the boy in the picture. Ashe's face was rounder and his smile unrestrained, but she could see how the boy had grown into the man.

“Making yourself at home?” Catch asked from behind her.

The frame made a cracking sound when Rachel dropped it back onto the shelf.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snoop,” she said, heart pounding. She hoped she hadn't broken the frame.

“If you went through my underwear drawer, it would be snooping. Otherwise, it's just getting familiar with your surroundings. Now, how about keeping me company while I make a few more pies? I picked some peaches on my way in.”

“Sure,” Rachel said, even though Catch hadn't waited for a response before heading back to the kitchen. She glanced at the photo again and then followed.

“So, I hear you went and got yourself lost again,” Catch said.

Rachel stared at her, mouth dropping open. “Ashe said he wouldn't tell you.”

“He didn't. But things have a way of coming out around here. Some people take precautionary measures to keep their secrets, well, secret. Others just let things happen as they will. And there are a few that simply ain't worth helping.”

“Where do I fit?” Rachel asked.

“Jury's still out.” Catch plucked a peach from the cloth sack on the counter and held it out to Rachel. “Now, how are you at peeling peaches?”

She took it and rubbed her thumb over its velvety pink skin. It was still warm from hanging in the sun a few minutes before. It smelled sweet and hopeful. “I'm sure I'm not near as good at it as you, but I'm happy to help.”

Catch placed a paring knife on the counter before setting a pot of water on to boil. “You gotta blanch 'em first, and then the skin peels right off.”

“How long have you been baking?” Rachel asked.

“Too damn long.”

“Do you still enjoy it?”

“Some days yes, some days no. But it's what I do, so I can't turn my back on it.”

They worked side by side, dropping a few peaches at a time into the boiling water for thirty seconds, and then transferring them to a bowl of ice water to stop the heat from cooking them.

Rachel fished them out of the ice bath and lined them up by the cutting board. When she slid the blade into the first one, red juice dribbled down her fingers. She made a second incision and pried out the wedge. Her fingertips sank in, leaving subtle indentations. Setting it on the counter, she worked on the next slice, piling them up until there was nothing left but a knobby pit, which she dropped in the sink with a metallic thud.

The skin was soft, pliable. She picked at the edge with the tip of the knife and peeled it from the yellow meat of the peach. It came off in one long, flimsy strip, curling around her thumb. She flicked it onto the counter.

“Not exactly the way I woulda done it. But it's effective. I'll give you that,” Catch said.

“It's how my mom always did it.”
Because Michael loved peaches, but didn't like the fuzz.
Even when her mom didn't remember him anymore, she still skinned the peaches. It was one of the ways Rachel tried to convince her mom that he had existed. It was one of the things that helped push her mom over the edge.

Catch eyed her as if she could tell that Rachel had held something back. Rachel focused on the peaches and almost wanted to tell Catch everything. Almost.

*   *   *

They were back in the kitchen after dinner, Catch with her nightly scotch and Rachel with a glass of white wine. The knock on the back door was so light at first Rachel thought it was a branch brushing the side of the house. It sounded again a little louder, a little more urgent. She jolted when the pale face appeared in the window.

Catch let the girl in with a shake of her head.

The girl wiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands and stared at the floor. Her doughy face turned a blotchy pink and her wrinkled dress drooped at the neckline. She pressed her lips together as if trying to keep words from escaping.

“Well, c'mon now. Out with it,” Catch said.

The girl glanced at Rachel, her long dark lashes fluttering as her eyes widened.

Catch pushed back from the counter. “Oh, don't worry about her. She's not telling nobody what happens here.”

“O-okay. Um, I need your help, Miss Sisson.”

“I kinda figured that since you're here. Just tell me what you need. I can have the pie over to you in the morning before your head stops spinning.”

The girl's head bobbed up and down as she blurted, “I had … I was with Duke Davis tonight. Like,
with him
. I don't know why I did it. I didn't mean to. It just sorta happened. I know what everyone already thinks about me. Please don't let them find out about it. Please.”

Catch put a hand on the girl's shoulder to keep her still, focused. “How many am I baking for? Just him this time?”

The girl didn't seem fazed by the insinuation, though she couldn't have been older than late teens. Rachel shifted on the stool and looked away.

“Just him. And me. Can it make me forget it happened in the first place too?”

“You know it doesn't work like that, child. But no one else will know, you can be sure of that,” Catch said. “I'll take care of it. Though I hope you were smart about it, because you know I can't do anything about all that.” The girl nodded, and it seemed to Rachel this wasn't the first time the two had had this conversation.

“You just go on home now and get some sleep. I'll bring it to you first thing in the morning.” Catch ushered the girl to the door. She turned the lock once the girl had vanished into the dark and pulled down the white vinyl shade. “Looks like I've got a pie to make. You interested in helping?” she asked.

Curious as to how a pie had anything to do with the girl and a boy she clearly regretted sleeping with, Rachel agreed. She scooted the stool closer to the counter and waited.

Catch worked the dough into a loose ball the size of an orange with nimble hands. Sprinkling more flour on the counter and rubbing it around with one hand, she pressed and pulled the dough five times before slapping it down in the center of the white circle.

“Hand me that rolling pin,” she said.

Rachel lifted it from its nest on a towel and passed it over. She studied Catch's face for some sign that the old woman was messing with her, implying the pies had magical properties. When Catch raised an eyebrow at her, Rachel caved and said, “Okay, so I have to ask. How can a pie make sure no one finds out?”

“My pies are well known around these parts for their silencing powers. If someone's got a secret they let slip, and they want to make sure it doesn't get blabbed all over tarnation, they come to me and I help them out.”