Love & Other Disasters(83)

She glanced over at her mother, wrapping up mugs on the opposite counter.

Why had Dahlia decided to pack the kitchen last?

Everything was heavy and awkwardly shaped, and there was simply too much of it, and Dahlia was cranky.

She was going to have to get more boxes.

Dahlia hated boxes.

She especially hated boxes when packing them in uncomfortable silence next to her mother.

Guilt chipped away at her as she moved on to the plates. It had been late when her mom arrived last night. Dahlia had found extra sheets from a previously packed box and made up the couch for her. They hadn’t talked much.

But when her mom first stepped into the apartment, she’d said this: “Your dad told me you’re moving home. Since it sounds like you’re staying with him, I thought I’d help you pack. I’d like to be useful somehow.”

And Dahlia had immediately felt like shit.

She hadn’t even thought to ask her mom.

Not that every parent’s dream was to have their grown daughter move back in with them. But she hadn’t even sent a text telling her mom she was coming.

Horrible wife, horrible girlfriend, horrible daughter. Mediocre chef.

They had gone out to breakfast this morning, and Dahlia had attempted to make up for it. She’d prattled on about the show, which challenges had been her favorite, breaking her NDA left and right in an attempt to make her mother smile. Her mom, in turn, filled Dahlia in about changes in New Bedford, the latest updates about family acquaintances. It had been perfectly pleasant.

And then they returned to Dahlia’s apartment, and awkward silence had descended once again.

They were an efficient team, though. With her mother’s help, Dahlia might be ready to move back to Massachusetts within a day.

And she still wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it.

But, Dahlia reminded herself, life wasn’t simply about feelings. Sometimes, being an adult meant accepting facts. And the fact was that Dahlia had lost Chef ’s Special and couldn’t afford to live here anymore, and taking a breather back in New Bedford was the only real option. She’d look for copyediting jobs in Boston. There was a lot of publishing work there, and her old boss from the paper would write her a stellar recommendation. It would be nice to be close to Hank. Maybe she’d sleep on his couch for a while as she rebuilt her savings, paid down some of the scariest bills.

Dahlia taped one box shut and moved on to another that was half full. She could fit her immersion blender in there, some ladles and wooden spoons.

Something caught her eye as she riffled through it, trying to rearrange things for optimal space utilization. She reached into the corner to pull it out, its cover soft and smooth against her fingertips.

Dahlia’s heart gave a small flutter.

Had she really tossed this in a box without a second thought earlier this morning? Or maybe her mom had.

The notebook was bigger and fancier than the small notepad she’d always used on set. Dahlia ran to her bedroom, suddenly wanting that one, too. It was on her dresser, where she’d tossed it her first night back, untouched since.

Back in the kitchen, she pushed aside boxes and newspaper on the counter to make room. She stood, hands on hips, studying both notebooks in front of her.

The smaller one was messier, prone to more spillage during the frantic timed cooking stints on the show. The larger, neater Moleskine she’d just unearthed from the box had lived in her own kitchen, where she could take her time—hours, most nights—to figure things out. To practice, to experiment, to taste and try again.

Her mom came to stand next to her.

“I sense these are important?” she ventured.

Dahlia handed her the Moleskine. Her mom opened it, turning carefully through the pages.

“The first half are recipes I found online or in cookbooks. I only copied them in there when I had adjustments I’d figured out that I wanted to remember.” When she had replaced an ingredient, or altered the seasoning, or added something new to the mix.

“The last half,” Dahlia told her mom, “are my own.”

Nothing compared to that first recipe, about halfway through the notebook, that she had made herself.

It had been exceedingly simple, just a rice dish with random ingredients thrown in, a casserole essentially, but Dahlia had still felt nervous while she was making it. Choosing all of her building blocks, on her own, for the first time. Certain it would be a mess.

But then it had tasted good. Really good.

Tanner Tavish’s voice popped into her head.

This is a dish for moms on Pinterest.

She laughed silently to herself now, that he thought this was such an insult.

Moms on Pinterest made some delicious food.

An idea burst into Dahlia’s mind, refreshing and bright, like a crocus after a long winter.

“Hey, Mom, do you mind if I pop over to Food Lion?”

Her mom looked up from the Moleskine.

“Want me to come with you?” she asked.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll make us lunch when I get back.”

Dahlia rustled through her bag for her keys. This might be one of the last times she drove her old clunker before she sold it. She already had some decent offers online; it would help offset the cost of the U-Haul.

“Sounds good,” her mom said, her face turned back toward Dahlia’s notebook.