Page 76 of Whisking It All

Chapter 23

Tessa climbed the steps of the white, Greek revival in the center of town, two large plastic platters of assorted cupcakes and pastries stacked in her arms. She drove her elbow into the doorbell, unable to free even a finger from her balancing act. When no one answered, she set the trays down on the wicker side table beside the porch swing and called, “Mrs. Blumenthal?”

“Around back!” came the answering shout.

Sighing, Tessa took up her trays and picked her way back down the porch steps, through the little gate at the edge of the driveway, and around the house. Dot Blumenthal’s backyard was immaculately landscaped, lined with mature trees, their leaves painted in bright orange, yellow, and red for fall. An elaborate grape arbor sat at one end of the yard heavy with purple-black grapes, and a garden full of flowers in every color and variety was situated at the other. There, amidst the fiery orange daylilies and the purple asters that had given the town its name, stood Dot Blumenthal, her low-heeled pumps sunk into the dirt as she carefully pruned her flowers.

“Oh, Tessa, sweetheart, it’s you!” Dot said, her face lighting up.

“Got your pastry delivery,” Tessa said, as though the heavy trays in her arms weren’t a dead giveaway. “Where would you like them?”

With a final snip, Dot tucked the pruning shears in the back pocket of her chinos and tugged off her gardening gloves. “Let’s get those inside so the frosting doesn’t melt,” she said. “It’s unseasonably warm today.”

Tessa followed Dot through the back door of the house into a tidy, if dated, kitchen, the red Formica countertops and flower-patterned wallpaper spotless though worn around the edges.

“You can set those right over there on the table while I wash up,” Dot said, moving to the sink to scrub any errant dirt from her hands. “I appreciate you taking such a large order at the last minute, dear. Cheryl DaSilva’s baby was born yesterday.”

“Oh! I hadn’t heard. How’s she doing?” Tessa asked.

Dot beamed. “Mother and child are both doing well. But poor Ricky seemed a tad overwhelmed when I spoke to him last night. With so many folks dropping by with their well wishes, and knowing how much of a sweet tooth Cheryl herself has, I thought it might be nice to bring them some of your delicious treats.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Tessa said.

“We all have to look out for each other,” Dot said, drying her hands on a dish towel bearing a picture of a rooster.

Tessa glanced around the kitchen, taking in the bowl of silk fruit in the middle of the counter, old Mother’s Day and birthday cards tucked in amidst the fruit. A black and white photograph of a young man in an army uniform with a stunning brunette on his arm hung on the wall, and finger paintings were stuck on the fridge with a magnet in each corner to flatten out the marks where they’d been folded into envelopes and mailed. Dot lived alone, long ago widowed, and Jamie had told Tessa that her children and grandchildren were overseas on an army base. Still, her kitchen was teeming with family.

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to deliver them personally,” Dot said.

“It’s no trouble.”

Tessa’s gaze settled on a photograph in a clear plastic magnet photo frame on the fridge. In it, Dot, Ruth, Helen, and Judy sat with Tessa’s grandmother, each raising a beer towards whoever was taking the photograph, laughter making their cheeks pink. The photo had to be at least thirty years old, judging by the hair styles and clothing.

“That was after your grandmother’s pie won first prize at the church fair,” Dot said, coming to stand behind Tessa and looking at the photograph fondly. “Sweet potato, I think it was. Louise always did know how to bake one hell of a pie.”

Without thinking, Tessa reached out and ran a finger over the edge of the photo. She could practically hear her grandmother’s laugh pouring from the picture.

“Would you like to stay for a bit and have a glass of cider with me?” Dot asked, looking at her fondly.

Tessa’s shoulders relaxed in gratitude for the opening. “I think I would. Thank you.”

Dot poured them each a glass of apple cider and produced a tin of rock-hard chocolate chip cookies from the refrigerator, arranging it all on a decorative wood tray and ushering Tessa back out into the yard, where a wrought iron table and chairs sat in the shade of a giant maple tree. Once they each had their glass and an inedible cookie on a crisp white napkin, Dot folded her hands in front of her and looked at Tessa with kind eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Tessa Jayne?”

Tessa took a sip of her cider to buy herself a minute. How did a person go about asking questions they’d had their entire life?

One at a time.

“You and my grandmother were friends,” she began, a hint of a question in the inflection of her voice.

“Still are,” Dot said, beaming. “My late husband always said, ‘That Louise Hart is too much mustard for one hot dog!’”

Tessa chuckled, not entirely sure she understood the phrase, but appreciating the spirit with which it was delivered and feeling more confident in coming to Dot with her questions.

“And you were friends with her when my parents…when I was born,” she continued.

Dot leaned back in her chair, as though settling in for the conversation they were about to have. “Ah. Yes, I was.”

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