Life Without You (36 page)

I had no doubt that, when they were older, Ivy and this new little goddaughter of mine would be fast friends, family not by blood, but by the forged bonds of innocence and childhood.

My fingers fluttered on my bracelet as I took another deep breath.

What were Vivi, Savannah, and Annabelle doing at this very moment? I wondered.

No doubt Vivi was scurrying through the dining room at Azalea’s, which had become even busier over the past few months. She’d shored up her courage and made some changes to the restaurant, reworking the menu more to her liking, simplifying some things, adding new dishes, and taking some stale items away. It was amazing, the buzz it had all created, and she’d even been visited by one of the writers at Eater, a social media powerhouse whose stamp of approval could cause a crowdswell.

Not that she’d hogged all the gustatory glory for herself. In fact, while Eater had been in town, she’d graciously put a bug in their ear about a new food truck that was making tracks through Hampton. Since Eater’s eater had sampled her menu, business at Savannah’s little food truck had increased exponentially, and she was actually beginning to turn a profit, which gave her high hopes of quickly paying Annabelle back for the loan she’d finally, finally agreed to take.

As for Annabelle herself, the woman’s social media feed was as busy as ever; and she was moving and shaking things up in and around Hampton at a rate of speed that seemed to defy logic. The woman was worthy of a case study. As I had predicted, her powers of persuasion had been effective with Savannah, and I had little doubt that she had played a hand at alerting the press when it came to the ears at Eater. Annabelle worked in mysterious ways, and she was never hesitant when she had her mind set on something. Amazingly enough, those mysterious ways had also worked wonders with Grandpa; and, while the two of them might never become Facebook friends, Grandpa’s enmity toward her had become a healthy respect, and he now no longer considered her to be entitled or self-seeking.

One reason for that change of heart had come only a few months before, when a scholarship had been established at Bethel High School in Grammie’s name, one offering financial aid to students who showed perseverance, community spirit, faith, and high academic skills. It wasn’t just any scholarship, though. It was for those individuals whose dreams for the future required a healthy dose of butter, sugar, and flour. Those who saw the magic in simple ingredients and transformed them into works of art. So far, seventeen applicants were in the running for the Meredith Rose Samuelson Pastry Scholarship, and I could hardly wait to see what happened next.

As I took my place next to Bette and the baby, with Steve on the other side and Mason looking just as uncomfortable as I, we waited for the pastor to begin the short ceremony, to dip his finger in the water of the baptismal font and trace the sign of the cross on the slumbering infant’s forehead. He would speak his benediction over her and charge us all with her spiritual guidance, and we would all answer that charge, promising to teach her the ways of the faith—and Mason and I would each vow our time and love to this tiny bundle, promising to stand in for her parents if anything should ever happen to them. It was a great responsibility to take, one I still felt unworthy of. But as I watched the short service unfold, the love in my heart swelled to overflowing, and I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this little girl’s future was destined to be something special—and I wanted to be there for every minute of it.

“Welcome to the family of Christ, dear child,” the pastor intoned, sounding a bit formal to my ears. “Jesus welcomes you with open arms, Hannah Odelle Cole. You are loved,” he said, his chubby little face finally breaking into a smile.

At the sound of her name, Hannah’s eyes opened, and she waved a tiny fist in the air, stretching and straining her little body as a yawn tugged her rosebud lips. She snuffled and snuggled back into Bette’s arms, her wide brown eyes blinking away the last traces of sleep as she looked around the room. Bette jiggled her and kissed the top of her head, resting her cheek on the little tufts of black hair that sprinkled her daughter’s scalp. It was a picture-perfect moment, one that once again brought the reality of this family’s making to light. All the pain that had come before was now only a memory in the glow of the love that poured out on this little girl as her mother held her—Bette, with her peaches and cream complexion, so pale in comparison to the milk-chocolate skin of the baby girl she now called her own. Hannah Odelle had been the treasure they had waited so long to find, the baby their hearts had been readied to welcome without a moment’s hesitation.

I smiled, watching as Steve slipped his arm around his wife and daughter, his eyes bright with unshed tears and a wobbly grin playing over his lips.

This
, I thought,
this is what it’s all about.
So much testing of their strength and their faith in one another had all come to this moment, and I knew that they would say it had all been worth it because of
this
.

It was the way I imagined Olivia felt, every time she looked at Ethan, the unexpected gift in her life. She had been willing to sacrifice so much for him, closing her eyes to a dream in order to give him the best life she could—and now we were all watching as that dream was being given the chance to be realized.

One look at Olivia’s Facebook page testified to her talents, showing a constant flow of newly taken photos of elaborate cakes and festive little cupcakes far too pretty to eat. But eating them was precisely what people were doing. That, and keeping her calendar full of custom orders that ranged from cake-ball bouquets to five-tier wedding cakes. It was amazing to see how fast and how far word had spread, once her very first official order had come in…courtesy of a Junior League lady in Richmond in desperate need of a three-tier anniversary cake for one of her fellow League ladies, whose sixtieth wedding anniversary celebration required nothing short of perfection. A certain League lady in Hampton had given her Olivia’s name, and so contact had been made with the urgency of a war room on red alert. Olivia had hesitantly taken the order, but only after first refusing it out of fear that she would be unable to deliver everyone’s expectations.

Since that first cake, however, such a steady stream of demands had been rained on Olivia that she was unable to meet them all—unless, of course, she took the leap and made cakes her sole focus. It seemed impossible to her at first, the idea of relying so heavily on the whims of people’s sweet teeth, but once they’d sunk those teeth into Olivia’s unique flavors and airy, fluffy cakes, they came clamoring for more. She’d taken a three-week paid vacation from work, just to test things out before she dove all the way into the mixing bowl; and now she was so busy that there was hardly time to lick the beaters clean. That had been three months ago, and now The Cake Server was up and running full-time.

He never would have admitted it, but I had great suspicions that that first order had truly sealed the deal on Grandpa’s peace agreement with Annabelle. Naturally, that “certain League lady from Hampton” remained nameless, but we all knew who had been such a ready source of information. The anonymity of the tip proved to Grandpa that Annabelle’s heart was in the right place, that the money and influence she wielded were not squandered on frivolities at whim. Nor was it self-seeking. He’d taken that proof and made steps of his own in a way that only he could, stopping by one Sunday after church to replace the light bulb in a porch light that he’d noticed had burned out. It was a small gesture, but for Grandpa it had been huge—and I’d heard from Annabelle that he’d stopped by more times since then, always with an offer to fix something that had broken.

“Bette wants us to sign the guestbook,” a man’s voice broke into my thoughts and brought me back to the small chapel, where the baptism had come to a close and people had begun milling about, striking up conversations as they shuffled their way toward the adjacent reception room. I turned, startled, to see Mason just behind me, clutching a white leather-bound book in his hand.

“Apparently, everyone’s signed it but us,” he smiled self-consciously, his brown eyes catching the light, sparkling like chocolate diamonds. “I tried to find a pen to sign it, but someone seems to have run off with it. You don’t happen to have one in your purse, do you?” he asked, nodding toward the small leather clutch in my hand.

I blinked, feeling my face flush yet again under his gaze, noticing just how pleasant his face was. He was handsome in a quiet way—not the
GQ
type, but certainly a man who would enjoy his fair share of female attention. He was kind, and his eyes and his face reflected that kindness. His teeth were ever-so-slightly crooked, and he had a strong jaw that somehow gave him a manly, capable air. He ran a hand over his closely cropped dirty-blonde hair. It was a habit I had noticed the first time we’d met, the first failed attempt that Bette and Steve had made at setting us up, years before. A habit that seemed just a touch nervous. It made him even that much more approachable, that much…
nicer
.

Nice
. Precisely the descriptor that had taken him out of the running, back before I’d gotten married and had been deep in the throes of dating.

I smiled back, marveling again at my own foolishness in those days. “A pen?” I repeated.

He nodded.

“Um,” I said, finally dropping my eyes to look at my purse. “I think so…” I trailed off, unzipping the little bag and rifling through its contents. “Ta-da!” I held up the pen in triumph, offering it to him as my cheeks burned an even deeper shade of red.

“That’s some pen,” Mason said, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

I nodded, looking back at the pen I now held in my hand. “It is,” I replied. “It’s a very special pen, with a very special story.” I paused, mustering up my courage. “I’ll have to tell it sometime.”

Mason reached for my pen—the pearl pen that Olivia had given me. The pen she had wanted me to use as a reminder. Of my strength. Of my beauty and uniqueness. Of my value.

“I can’t wait to hear it, Dellie,” Mason said, his fingers lightly brushing against mine as he took the pen from me. “I’m guessing that bracelet has a story, too.”

Two charms dangled now in addition to the one Annabelle, Vivi, and Savannah had given me: a pearl, given to me by my parents to remind me of the beauty I was reclaiming after my struggles; and an airplane, given to me by my sister to remind me of the journey I had taken to begin again. More would come, as I worked through my bucket list and took adventures that needed to be remembered, as I continued to write the story of my life. As I continued to heal and become the woman I was meant to be.

“There’s cake in the other room. Would you like to go get a piece?” Mason asked, smiling tentatively as he handed back the pen.

I smiled in return, thinking back over the last few months of my life as I grasped the pen in my hand, feeling the pearls in my fingers and remembering the day I had stumbled over the writing contest.

Take a long shot.

I had, and I’d written the story and sent it off with a prayer, knowing that it was, indeed, a long shot; but it was mine to take. And it was a story that needed to be told—not only for me, but for all of the women in the world who lived their lives in fear and doubt as well. I had sent it off, and now all I could do was wait.

And keep on learning how to live. There was a future to celebrate and cake to eat, sweet moments to savor and taste with abandon.

“That sounds good, Mason,” I replied. “We wouldn’t want to miss out.”

My name is Odelle Pearl; my life has been full of struggles that can be made something beautiful. My future looks sweet, and I want to taste every moment of it.

I want to lick the bowl clean.

Chapter One

November 2005

I burned them all when I got home that day, a thick stack of bridal magazines that were dog-eared and flagged with a rainbow of Post-its that peeked from the edges of the pages. It’s strange, the acrid smell that comes from burning magazine pages – glossy and slick and heavily coated in ink. The pile seemed to burn painfully slowly as I watched, perched on the couch in my darkened living room, staring unblinkingly until the blaze became an indefinable blur of angry oranges and reds.

It was over. He was gone, and I was alone.

It sounded so simple, but it wasn’t. The situation was far from simple, at least for me. For Matt, it seemed the most uncomplicated decision of his life, one even easier to make than his decision to propose. The words slid from his mouth smoothly, almost silkily, as we sat across from each other at the table in the restaurant.

Our
restaurant. The one we had eaten at on a weekly basis for the past three years.

Matt looked up from his nearly empty plate of cheese tortellini and said it as though he was telling me he was disappointed by the consistency of the sauce.

I think this engagement is a mistake.

I felt the floor falling out from under me as I sat in my green vinyl-padded cafe chair.

I think this engagement is a mistake. I need some time to figure things out, to know what’s best for me.

The handsome man sitting across the table from me suddenly seemed a stranger, a soulless replica of someone I loved and trusted. The face I knew – every angle, every freckle, every line etched by time – became an unfamiliar arrangement of features dulled by those crushing words.

Words that I didn’t even have the presence of mind to answer. How could I? The man I loved, the man who was supposed to love me, was now sitting across from me and saying words that eradicated every confidence I had in that love. There was a sick desperation growing in the pit of my stomach, a roiling mix of panic and anger that seemed to make speech impossible.