A Recipe For Reunion. Vicki Essex

had spent three whole days baking twelve dozen cookies, all of them her original recipes.

      They were her life’s work—and they’d been rejected. Dismissed.

      Like Steph.

      “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Helen laid a hand on her daughter’s arm, and Steph snapped out of her haze.

      “Nothing.” She looked away to hide her sudden tears. “Maybe I am a little tired.”

      Helen drew her away from the table. “Then leave this all for tomorrow. Lucena can take care of it—that’s what we pay her for.” She urged Steph toward the stairs. “Go take a nice hot shower and get some rest. You don’t want bags under your eyes.”

      “But, Mom...” She nearly tripped as her mother hustled her along.

      “Go on, baby.” She stopped abruptly and cupped Steph’s cheek, an almost manic look of love shining in her face. “As long as you live under this roof, you don’t have to worry about a thing.” The words were uttered in a low coo, but Steph felt something more behind them this time, as if her mother knew exactly what was wrong and would fix everything.

      That’s what she did. She fixed everything.

      Helen shooed her up the stairs the same way she had throughout Steph’s high school years. As fast as Steph climbed, though, she felt as though she were sinking deeper into the rut of her life. In the seven-hundred-square-foot suite that was her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and leaned against the door frame.

      Cold winter light gleamed off all the surfaces. Her mom had filled the suite with mirrored furniture, saying how she loved the way it made her daughter look like a queen standing in her diamond palace. Steph had loved it, too, but right now she thought the room looked sterile, the light casting weird shadows across the walls and distorting her image in every reflection.

      It used to be easy to simply go to her room and whittle away her worries with a manicure while watching a DVD, followed by a shopping trip into town. That’s what she’d done since she was a teen.

      But she wasn’t a teen anymore. She was thirty...and still living at home with a closet full of designer clothes, the latest in home fashions and anything else she could ever want or ask for. She had a job to give her days meaning and show the world she wasn’t just a princess waiting for her prince to sweep her away. She volunteered at the old folks’ home and at many charity events her parents supported. She had a well-padded bank account, a pretty nice car, a loving family and not a care in the world.

      But it wasn’t enough.

      Something had to change.

       Now.

      * * *

      “I’M SEVENTEEN MINUTES AWAY,” Aaron Caruthers declared over the hands-free cell phone, keeping the rumbling U-Haul truck at a steady forty-five miles per hour along the gray, slush-slickened road. His life’s possessions rattled around the interior, and he winced every time he hit a pothole. He hoped he’d used enough bubble wrap.

      “Oh, Aaron, you didn’t need to call me to tell me that. I’d rather you have all your focus on the road.” Georgette Caruthers’s tone held a note of anxiety only her grandson could detect above her voice’s buttery warmth.

      “I didn’t want you worrying. Traffic was heavier than expected out of Boston, and I stopped to help a lady change her tire just outside the city.”

      “Well, aren’t you the superhero?” His grandmother chuckled, each word curling with the slight English inflection she’d never shaken. “Was she pretty? Did you get a phone number?”

      He laughed. “She was married and very pregnant. I actually stopped because her baby bump flagged me down.”

      “You’re a good boy, Aaron. Thanks for calling. I’ll have a nice cup of coffee and your favorite bran muffin waiting.”

      “You’re the best, Gran. See you soon.” He hung up and focused on driving, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

      Even though the road here had been paved and widened, with additional barriers, signs and reflective markers delineating the solid cliff face rising up on the turn, Aaron always took this particular stretch slowly. He never took chances here—or anywhere, for that matter. He brought the truck down to thirty, leaned on his horn as he made the turn to alert any oncoming drivers, then sped up once more as he caromed around the corner.

      His shoulders gradually slackened, the tension draining away as he moved past the spot where his parents had been killed in a car accident. He hated that stretch of the highway. He could’ve taken the long route to avoid it, but frankly, that road wasn’t any safer. At least he knew exactly what to expect on this route to Everville and how to deal with any emergency that might crop up.

      Fourteen minutes later, the truck rumbled past a new hand-painted sign that said Welcome to Everville: The Town That Endures. He slowed as downtown hove into view. The buildings were painted blue-gray by the early evening light, prettily framed between wrought iron latticework streetlamps and small piles of flecked snow. As he pulled onto Main Street, the pavement gave way to gray-brown mud and gravel that splashed and scattered beneath his tires. Bright orange pylons and construction signs jutted from the ground like oversize, mutated flowers in a post-apocalyptic small-town Americana landscape. His gran had said the town was undergoing a massive renovation as the old sewer mains and pipes were replaced. It was a good thing his grandmother’s bakery was on the road outside town; he couldn’t imagine how this construction affected businesses in the area.

      Change is good, he reminded himself. Even if it was a little scary.

      Gran’s house was just off Main Street. He pulled the truck onto the curb as Georgette opened the door to the bungalow. Warm light spilled into the street. He hopped out of the cab.

      “It’s so good to see you...and all in one piece.” She opened her arms.

      “You shouldn’t be out in the cold in your condition,” he said, hugging her.

      “Pshaw. I’m not that frail, Aaron. Come inside. There’s plenty of time to unpack later. I asked some friends to come help.”

      “You didn’t have to do that.” Since Gran was in no shape to carry anything heavier than a plate of biscuits, he was grateful for assistance, even if he wasn’t wild about near-strangers poking into his personal belongings. Pretty soon, everyone would know he was back. It’d been a while since he’d been home. The fishbowl of small-town living was something he’d have to get used to all over again.

      The bungalow Aaron had grown up in hadn’t changed since he’d first moved in when he was barely eight years old. The immaculate carpets were still that odd shade of pink-gray, which went with the floral wallpaper and powder-white floral-themed light fixtures throughout the house. The place had always reminded him of a wedding cake. Gran still had the same furniture, too, meticulously kept despite those years of having a school-age boy living under the same roof. Then again, Aaron had always been a neat freak. He hated messes.

      Georgette slipped off her shawl, and Aaron flinched. Gran had always been dancer thin, but seeing how her clothes hung off her now shocked him. And she moved so much more slowly. He followed her into the kitchen, insisting on getting his own coffee though she fussed over it. Nothing in here had changed, either, from the glass-fronted cabinets to the chintz-pattern china. The aroma of coffee and baking permeated the air.

      Aaron made her sit while he took out the cream and sugar. Everything was exactly where it had been all those years ago. Muscle memory took control as he poured coffee into the mugs he’d always thought of as his and Gran’s. The promised muffins were warming in the oven, and he put two on chipped saucers for each of them.

      “How are you feeling?” he asked as he sat.

      “Tired. I’ve got a headache most days. Nothing serious.”

      “Of course it’s serious.”