The Secret Ingredient by Stewart Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

proud smile and a hug. Then he picks up one of my feet and cradles it in his palm—a tender gesture he’s always made—and says, “Working girl.”
    “Not that kind, Dad.”
    He smiles, puts my foot back down, and says, “Bravo.”
    After he leaves, I take the cookbook out of my bag. I open it to a random page. Next to a drawing of a woman singing on a mountaintop, there’s a heading that reads CONFIDENT CARROT CAKE . The note scrawled in the margin was probably once in black ink but has faded to brown:
11/9/66
Made this for you, Matthew, as it would have been your second birthday. For those few minutes I held you, before the doctors took you away, I thought I could finally give Mother what she needed. Little did I know, it would only make things worse. I still carry you in my heart .
    I look again at the inside cover. Rose Lane, 18, 1966 . So she got pregnant at my age? I know people got married early back then, but was teen pregnancy normal? I try to picture a girl, maybe in a dress with a bold print, cooking carrot cake for the child she lost. Did her mother blame her? Hold it against her? How could you not love and support your own daughter? But I guess mine didn’t even have a chance. Does she still think about me?
    My thoughts are harshly interrupted by the door squeaking open, and for some reason I instinctively hide the book.
    In comes Lola with the scent of chlorine in her hair. She’s been swimming at her parents’ club pool.
    “You okay, Livie? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
    “I’m fine. Just going to throw together a salad from what’s in the fridge, okay?”
    “Coming from you, Livie, it will most likely win some salad award regardless.”
    I go over to the fridge, grab a cucumber, and toss it to Lola. “Thin, like dimes.”
    “Right. You must tell me, though, how was your first day?”
    I start washing the lettuce and tell her about the little people. Then, trying to play it down as an afterthought, I fill her in on the return of Dish Boy.
    Lola stops chopping and says, “No!”
    I start to fry up slices of prosciutto while mincing some garlic for the dressing.
    “Yes. Crazy, right? We didn’t have time to do the screen test ’cause he had to go help his brother, Timothy, who has some problems, but we made a plan to go to the Griffith Park tomorrow.”
    “How frightfully romantic!”
    “I’m trying not to get too excited.”
    “Why did he disappear?”
    “He’s going to fill me in tomorrow. He acted like it all could be explained easily. Like, ‘I just took off for a year, pass the butter.’ ”
    I finish the salad—field greens, garbanzo beans, and fetacheese, topped with cucumber, shallots, and crispy prosciutto. It’s a weird combination, but it works. It’s like this entrepreneur who spoke at our school said—you must always keep your mind open; half of the world’s great ideas were born out of unlikely pairings. Dressings are the key to making salads sing, and usually all it takes is a really good olive oil, fresh black pepper, and high-end mustard. As we begin to eat, Lola is quiet, so I know it’s doing the trick. A quiet dinner table equals a good cook.
    When we’re almost finished, Enrique comes home smelling of whiskey. I can tell he’s buzzed ’cause his eyes, which are normally over-alert, aren’t focusing very well. Enrique isn’t the type to get drunk often, and the fact that he starts asking Lola about her earrings is beyond awkward. I tell Lola we should go and she quickly obliges.
    On our way down the hill to where Lola parked, she expresses what we’re both thinking. “Well, that was a bit strange.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “You know, it’s funny, when I first came to the States I didn’t know that expression, so when people said ‘Tell me about it,’ I used to take it literally, blabbing away.…”
    In spite of everything, we start laughing. Some little kids who clearly shouldn’t be out this late run by with sno-cones in