The Memory of Lemon Read Online Free PDF Page A

vaguely threatening, reminding me that according to the terms of that long-ago document I had naively signed, Luke held all the cards. I was at his mercy. He could take back the worldly goods he had so generously bestowed upon me—Gran’s house and the bakery, both of which I had bought with money he had given me. In other words, if I were smart, I’d forget about this silly divorce business and go back to being Mrs. Luke Davis, the little woman. At least in public. Fat chance.
    I tossed the letter on the marble countertop, which was way too good for any contact with Luke. Basically, he was stalling, bringing up some nonissue that he hoped would prevent me from filing for divorce in a timely fashion. The NFL football season was over. Now it was golf, with every gridiron great sponsoring a golf tournament for charity at a five-star resort with plenty of sun, beer, and babes. And, of course, Luke, the NFL quarterback always tagged by sports journalists as
this close
to making it in a Super Bowl, couldn’t miss any of them. What else was new?
    The other letter. Hmm. I didn’t know anyone at the City Vue Motel in Independence, Missouri.
    The stationery looked old and smelled like cigarette smoke, but the spiky handwriting was familiar.
    My heart in my throat, I stood up and began to pace. The workroom now seemed to close in on me, so I strode out to the baking area. Norb was gone, so the area by the ovens was quiet.
    I sat on his stool by the rolling metal rack of sheet pans and began to read:
    Dear Claire,
    A guy at Project Uplift stopped by and gave me your letter.
    I have read it so many times, it’s about to fall apart.
    It sounds like you’re doing well with your bakery. You can do anything you set your mind to, honey.
    Please forgive me for the harm I never meant. I’ve been messed up for as long as I can remember, but I’m getting help now.
    For some reason, I’ve been thinking about my mom’s—your gran’s—lemon pie and dreaming of home. And you know what that means, don’t you, sweetie?
    I never intended to be gone this long. But one thing just led to another and here I am. I have nobody to blame but me.
    In my mind, you’re still a beautiful fifteen-year-old with your whole life before you. You deserve the best.
    Love you, for what that’s worth—
    Dad
    P.S. Please write back.
    It was too much to take in.
    My dad
.
    In January, I had gotten a postcard from him with a return address of Project Uplift, a nonprofit group that fed the homelessin Kansas City. He had abandoned my mom and me when I was in high school. I had mixed feelings about him, to say the least, but still, I didn’t like imagining him destitute, without a roof over his head. I had kept the postcard, but hadn’t responded right away, not sure what to do.
    And then the sour flavor of anger that had tormented me for weeks also brought a surprise gift—a glimpse into my dad’s high school days, when his drinking problem had started. I had seen him sneaking sips of whiskey in a neighbor’s garage to calm his worries about going to Vietnam.
    At the same time that I had this vision, I had been ending things with Luke, my charming, handsome, successful husband with the chronic wandering eye. I realized that I had stayed with Luke for much longer than I intended. But not for the most obvious reason. I hadn’t been hanging on to Luke because I desperately needed a male in my life after my father abandoned his family. I had taken Luke back time after time because I had been unconsciously trying to keep my dad’s pattern from being mine as well. Love ’em, leave ’em, then fall off the face of the earth.
    After I finally gathered the courage to leave Luke and start over, I had a breakthrough idea.
    Why not write to my dad?
    Now my homeless, missing-in-action father had written me a letter that actually said something. And was from an actual address. Not just a