Chapter 10 - The Scent of Strawberries and Flour
Six months later, the spring arrived in North Texas with a wild, golden fury.
The wildflowers along the highways between Austin and Dallas were in full bloom—oceans of bluebonnets and scarlet Indian paintbrushes rippling in the warm prairie wind.
The house on South Lamar sold in February for six hundred and forty thousand dollars to a young family with twin girls who promised to plant new crepe myrtles along the driveway and strip the faux-rococo moldings from the foyer.
After Andrea’s legal fees, title clearing expenses, and the establishment of Carter’s modest housing annuity, I had four hundred and twelve thousand dollars sitting securely in my personal account at the Dallas credit union.
Richard Vance, Maria’s notary attorney, surrendered his law license to the State Bar of Texas in March to avoid a formal felony indictment for deed fraud.
Maria Santos and Hazel were currently living in a cramped, two-bedroom garden apartment in Killeen, Texas. Hazel had taken a job processing returns at an online retail warehouse, while Maria was working the front desk of a dental clinic, spending her evenings dealing with collection agencies seeking forty-eight thousand dollars in unpaid credit card balances that Andrea had successfully severed from Carter’s estate.
Carter lived in a quiet, sunlit duplex in San Marcos, forty miles south of Austin, near the river. He sent me a postcard every two weeks—pictures of the Texas Hill Country with brief, humble updates about his garden, his warehouse shifts, and the stray beagle he had adopted from the municipal shelter.
He never asked for more money. He never asked to visit. He respected the boundary I had drawn with the precision of a surveyor’s laser. In his last card, he wrote only seven words: *I am learning what family respect means. Love, Dad.*
I kept the card on my desk, beside Evelyn’s photograph.
In Dallas, I had moved out of the four-hundred-square-foot warehouse studio. I had bought a small, historic 1920s craftsman bungalow in the Bishop Arts District—a house with a wide, wraparound front porch, original hardwood floors, and a massive pecan tree in the backyard that shaded the entire roof from the brutal summer sun.
The front two rooms had been converted into the studio headquarters for *Evelyn Miller Creative*, my independent brand identity and print design firm. I had two full-time employees now: Clara, who handled our production and packaging design, and a brilliant young typography graduate from UNT named Leo.
It was the twenty-fourth of October.
A Saturday evening.
The sun had dipped below the skyline of downtown Dallas, casting long, purple shadows across the wooden porch of my bungalow. The French doors leading from my kitchen to the cedar back deck were wide open, letting in the cool, crisp breeze that smelled of fallen pecan leaves and woodsmoke.
Inside the kitchen, the counters were covered in a light dusting of white flour.
A cast-iron skillet sat on the stove, warming slowly. On the marble island sat a three-tier strawberry sponge cake, frosted by hand with pure white mascarpone cream, decorated with fresh strawberries from the farmer’s market and twenty-seven slender, gold candles.
The recipe was Evelyn’s. I had found the handwritten recipe card tucked inside the back of her cedar jewelry box: *Three cups of sifted flour, one teaspoon of vanilla bean paste, fresh pureed berries, and never rush the folding.*
From the living room came the sound of laughter and music—a warm, acoustic jazz record spinning on the turntable Clara had given me for housewarming.
"Zoe!" Clara called out from the living room, stepping into the kitchen with a bottle of chilled prosecco and four flutes between her fingers. "Marcus and Andrea just pulled into the driveway. Are the candles lit?"
"Not yet," I smiled, wiping a speck of flour from the bridge of my glasses with the back of my hand. "Give me two minutes."
"Take your time, boss," Clara grinned, leaning over to kiss my temple before heading out to the front porch to welcome our guests. "It's your day."
I stood alone in the center of my kitchen.
The room smelled of sweet strawberries, toasted pecans, and warm butter.
I looked at the gold candles standing tall in the white mascarpone frosting. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a long wooden match, struck it against the phosphorus strip, and watched the small, steady flame burst to life.
One by one, I touched the fire to each wick. Twenty-seven points of golden light illuminated the kitchen, reflecting off the clean subway tiles and the glass jars of spices on the open shelves.
I looked at the twenty-seven flames dancing in the evening breeze.
There was no one in this house to tell me I was difficult.
There was no one to roll their eyes, to check their watch, to demand that I surrender my small joy to keep an insecure tyrant from screaming.
There was no one to strike my face and demand that I call it love.
May you like
I leaned forward over the island, the warmth of the fire kissing my cheeks, and for the first time in fourteen years, I closed my eyes and made a wish that was entirely, exclusively, and beautifully my own.
I blew out the flames, picked up the bone-handled knife, and cut the first slice myself.
