“That doesn’t surprise me.” There was a world of sorrow in his expression.
Jenny ached with it, too, thinking of all the times, growing up, that she’d wondered about her father.
“Did you know,” Philip asked, “that my dad’s best fishing buddy was your grandfather?”
“Yes, my grandfather told me.” Jenny felt a pang of regret. Charles Bellamy’s son and Leo Majesky’s daughter had fallen in love. They’d made a baby. But neither man had ever known it. Regrets pierced her sharply, and she quickly changed the subject.
“Daisy’s working here now, did you know that?” she said.
“I didn’t. Moving here is bound to be a big adjustment for her. It’s good of you to include Daisy at the bakery.” He hesitated. “She’s, uh, having a hard time with my brother’s divorce.”
Jenny suspected there was more he could say about his troubled niece, but he wouldn’t, of course. Jenny was still more stranger than daughter to him. She hoped Daisy would like working here. Zach had brought her by during the week, and she’d seemed eager to start training. Jenny scarcely knew her cousin, but she felt sorry for Daisy. Something had happened at her school in New York, though Jenny wasn’t privy to exactly what. And Daisy’s mother was working overseas, and Greg Bellamy had returned with his kids to the small town where he’d grown up. In the middle of her senior year in high school, Daisy had transferred to Avalon High. There was something wistful about the girl. Perhaps when Jenny got to know her better, she’d understand more.
She led the way back to the café. “Check this out.” There was a wall covered with permits, certificates and memorabilia. Jenny pointed out the first dollar ever earned by the bakery and her grandparents’ first permit from the health department.
And then there were the photographs, most of which had hung there so long that she hadn’t really looked at them in ages. Showing her father around the bakery, Jenny was struck by how drab the place looked. It could definitely use some sprucing up. A fresh coat of paint, perhaps some artwork on the walls.
“The Avalon Troubadour gave the place a rave review the first summer they opened. Over the years, the bakery’s been mentioned five times in the ‘Escapes’ section of the New York Times.” She showed him the framed clippings.
Philip checked out the most recent. “Catskills Hideaway—100 Miles to Paradise.”
“There’s always a surge in business after a mention like that,” Jenny said. She noticed Philip studying a shot of her standing on a step stool behind the counter, helping her grandmother with a display of cookies. Jenny was about eight years old, her hair in two fat pigtails, a crooked, gap-toothed grin on her face. “Before the fire, I had a lot more pictures to show you,” she said. “The usual stuff, candid shots of Christmas and Easter, the first day of school, first communion…”
Philip cleared his throat. “Jenny, it would’ve been great to see all those photos of you growing up, but that’s not what I regret. In all of this, what I really regret is that I missed those years.”
She had no idea how to respond. His yearning seemed to reach for her, touching tender, lonely places inside. “It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice husky. She swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Why do you think she never told you about me?”
“I don’t know. Your mother was…” He shook his head. “I thought I knew her. I thought we wanted the same things. And I did love her, Jenny, but something changed for her. I don’t know why she kept you from me.”
Jenny felt Laura watching her. “I’m sure she had her reasons,” Laura said.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Jenny said. She showed him a picture of her mother at eighteen, laughing into the camera. “This is the picture Olivia noticed last summer, the one that made her realize there was a connection between our families.”
Jenny had never realized that the photograph of her mother was actually only half a photograph. It had been cropped by someone, years ago. And that someone who had been cropped out of the picture was Philip Bellamy. It was only when Olivia had found a copy of the intact photo of Mariska and Philip together that they realized there was a huge story behind the picture. Olivia had come across the picture while going through Philip’s old camp memorabilia, and the discovery had opened up a Pandora’s box of the past, punctuating the way people had of coming and going in each other’s lives.
“I wonder who cut me out of the picture?” Philip asked. “I assume it was your grandmother.”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” Jenny said, “unless my mother magically reappears someday.” She regarded the yellowing photograph of the beautiful young woman who would never get any older than she was in that instant. Was that the girl Philip remembered when he thought about Mariska?
“Listen, you two,” Laura said with sudden briskness. “I need to get back to work.” She hurried through the double doors.
Food for Thought
BY JENNY MAJESKY
Chess Pie
Nobody knows the origin of the name “Chess Pie.” It surely doesn’t have anything to do with the game of chess. My grandmother got her recipe decades ago from a tourist visiting from Texas to see the turning leaves. I don’t know anything else about the woman except that her recipe is called “Miss Ida’s Buttermilk Chess Pie.”
Don’t be put off by the buttermilk. This pie is so sweet and intense, you need a large cup of coffee to go with it.
MISS IDA’S BUTTERMILK CHESS PIE
4 eggs
¾ cup sugar
2 tablespoons flour
1-½ cups buttermilk
¼ cup butter, melted
grated peel of 1 lemon
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 9-inch graham cracker pie shell
fresh berries for garnish
In large bowl beat eggs and sugar until light and lemon colored. Beat in flour, then buttermilk, melted butter, lemon peel, lemon juice and vanilla. Pour mixture into pie shell.
