Andrea notices the price—$1,600. The one next to it is $1,200. “Beautiful work, Larry.”
“That one there was a black walnut tree out at the Hurley farm. It had to be over a hundred years old and—”
Andrea lifts her hand. Gloria warned her that Larry would give the history of each project beginning with the tree when it was just a sapling. “It’s beautiful, but we can’t afford either of these desks. They are too much desk for what Glory’s Place needs. Do you have anything else?” He shrugs and leads her to two more desks, one that has obviously been created by Larry with a price tag of $700 and the other a simple oak desk with single drawer that costs $350. “This one’s nice and simple.”
“It’s an old library table I refinished,” he says.
“It’s really nice,” she says, looking underneath the table.
He bends over to look as well. “What are you looking for under there?”
“I have no idea, but it feels like I should do this.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “When you’re done looking under the hood, we can talk business.”
“I think it will work great. Would you be able to take—”
“If Gloria needs it. Gloria can have it. I’m happy to donate it.”
“That’s awfully kind, Larry. Gloria said you’re one of her favorite people.”
“Ah,” he says, making a growling sound in back of his throat. “She doesn’t get out much.”
FOUR
May 1972
Joan holds the recipe card in front of her and turns on the oven, preheating it to 350 degrees. She places four bananas in their peels on a cookie sheet and pours two and a half cups of pecans into a shallow baking dish. While she waits for the oven to reach the proper temperature, she takes the pineapple from the grocery sack and stares at it, then grabs a large knife from the drawer. She whacks off the top and then the bottom and goes to work on the sides, just as her mom instructed, each time realizing she needs to cut away more of the skin in order to remove what Gigi calls “the prickles.” She cuts off a piece for the little girl.
“What is this again?” Gigi says, observing the moist yellow fruit in her hand.
“Pineapple,” Joan says, handing a piece to Christopher.
“Mmm,” Gigi says with her mouth full. “Good apple pie.”
“Pineapple,” Joan says, chuckling. She quarters the pineapple and cuts it into small chunks, enough for one cup. “I can’t believe I’m putting bananas in the oven, but here we go!” She places the bananas and pecans inside the oven and closes the door, setting her timer for ten minutes. “The peels need to be black, and the pecans need to be getting darker and smell fragrant,” Joan reads aloud from the recipe card.
“What’s ‘fabrant’?” Gigi asks, squatting down to look inside the oven.
“Fragrant,” Joan says, reaching over and scratching the little girl’s back. “It means they should smell good. Ready to mix everything together?” Gigi nods and Joan stands up. “Let’s do it!” She smacks the countertop and moves to the refrigerator. “I totally forgot to put the eggs out. Okay, we’ll put them in some water.” She hands three eggs to Gigi and fills a bowl with lukewarm water. “Put them right in here.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandma says so. If the eggs aren’t at room temperature you can put them inside a cup of warm water for a few minutes.”
“Why?” Gigi asks, filling a cup too full of water.
“Because Grandma says the eggs shouldn’t be really cold when you’re making a cake. They should be room temperature.” Joan peers again at the recipe. “Okay, you can hold the sifter and I will put flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and…” She reads the recipe again to make sure she’s grabbing everything. “Salt!” She measures each ingredient into the sifter and helps Gigi hold it while she turns the handle, sifting the ingredients into a bowl. “So far, so good!” Joan says, reassuring herself. When she smells the pecans, she opens the oven door and gives them a quick stir before closing it again.
“The bee-annas look bad,” Gigi says, pointing.
“According to Grandma, that will make them taste really yummy.” Joan combines the eggs and the sugar, and Gigi stirs the mixture as Joan adds the oil and vanilla. Reading from the card again, Joan pulls out a potato masher from a drawer and begins mashing the pineapple.
Gigi reaches for another piece. “I love this apple pie!”
Joan laughs. “Pineapple!” She adds the crushed pineapple to the batter and when the timer goes off, she runs to the oven, pulling out the pecans. “Ugh. They look too dark.” She sighs. “Please don’t be ruined.” She sets the timer for another five minutes for the bananas.
“Who are you talking to, Mommy?”
“The pecans.”
“I don’t think they can hear you.”
Joan sets the pan down on a hot pad, laughing. “Well, if they can, I’m hoping they will cooperate.” She stirs the batter just until everything is incorporated; she is sure not to overstir, just as her mother cautioned on the recipe. After pouring some pecans into the top of the nut grinder, she lets Gigi turn the handle. Christopher reaches up, wanting to help, and Gigi sets the grinder on the floor in front of him so he can turn the handle, too.
“He can’t do it,” Gigi says, disappointed or flabbergasted at her brother.
“Put your hand on top of his,” Joan says, pulling the bananas from the oven. “This just seems so wrong to do to these. They’re black.” She uses a knife and fork to open the peels and then scoops the mushy bananas into a bowl, where she mashes them with the potato masher. In order to complete the batter, Joan asks if she can finish crushing the pecans and takes the nut crusher from Gigi and Christopher, making him cry. She adds the bananas and one cup of the nuts to the batter and stirs it with a spatula.
“Looks like vomit,” Gigi says, squinching up her face.
Joan agrees but knows if she says it out loud that Gigi will never try a bite. “Oh, this is just part of this cake’s walk. Wait till you see what the cake looks like at the end of its journey!” Joan lifts the recipe card again, realizes she forgot to prepare the pans, and groans, wondering if she’ll ever get the hang of cooking.
May 2012
Lauren waits inside the small patient room at the walk-in clinic and flips through the same magazine she’s been reading for the last thirty minutes. When she hears someone opening the door, she looks up to see Debra, the physician assistant who was helping her earlier. “Your urine test results came back,” Debra says, leaning up against the exam table, smiling. “You’re pregnant.”
Lauren’s face drops. “What?”
“Pregnant.”
“Pregnant.” Lauren says the word as if she’s trying to pronounce it for the first time.
“Is this good news?”
Lauren shakes her head as if rattling it so an answer will spill out. “I guess! I mean, yes! We just didn’t plan it.” She looks down at the floor and back up at Debra. “I thought it was food poisoning! Then I thought I had a virus! Did you suspect that I was pregnant when I came in here?”