Page 162 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

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To my Faye.

From my heart to your stomach.

Love,

Nana

I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to find calm, to steady my shaking hands.

Then, when I’ve got my shit together, I carefully turn the pages.

Mom’s Buttermilk Biscuits

Verna’s Sugar Cookies with Salted Caramel Filling

Easy Chicken Pot Pie

Homemade Fudge Cake with Double Chocolate Frosting

Dad’s Beef Stew

Faye’s Stupendous Chocolate Soufflé

And…

Nana’s World-Famous (at least to her) Banana Bread

“Fuck,” I whisper again, carefully closing the binder. It must have once been blue, but the outside and edges of the papers within are charred and coated in black ash. Combined with the texture of that scorched fabric, it was easy to assume it was just another block of melted plastic.

But it’s not.

It’s probably the most valuable thing in Faye’s house.

I start to stand.

But I don’t get the chance.

“You found it,” Faye whispers, kneeling at my side, tears streaming down her cheeks as she carefully opens the cover, thumbs through the pages, taking her time, not protesting when I draw her into my lap, when I wrap my arms around her middle.

She reaches the end of the book then just as carefully closes it, holding it gently to her chest before she spins to face me.

Her eyes blaze with emotion as she whispers, “Thank you.”

I touch her cheek. “You don’t need to thank me, Red.”

A nod to the mess of boxes I’ve slowly been making my way through. “I kind of think I do.”

God, I love her. “Then thank me by kissing me.”

Her smile is warm and sweet and her kiss is equally so, but as is often the case with Faye, I find my control eroding, my need taking over.

Unfortunately, just as I start to pull her more firmly into my arms in preparation of standing, I hear a familiar pounding on the front door.

Faye looks at me.

I look at her.

Then I sigh and stand, extending a hand to help her to her feet.

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