By Wednesday morning, the Bellamy sisters had a problem. They had planned Art's birthday party. They had planned the food. They had planned the decorations. They had even planned what Lou called the “emergency cake.”
But now Emily had told them about Margaret's birthday tradition. And suddenly, none of their plans seemed quite good enough. They were sitting around the kitchen table when Emily said, “Mom always made Dad his favorite cake.”
Vivian looked up. “What kind?”
Emily smiled. “German chocolate.”
Martie immediately reached for a pencil. “How did she make it?”
Emily laughed. “I don't know.”
Martie stared at her. “You don't know?”
“I was eight the last time I helped her.”
“What do you remember?”
Emily thought. “Chocolate.”
Martie waited. “That's all?”
“And coconut.”
“That's something.”
“And pecans.”
Martie nodded.
“Good.”
Emily smiled. “She always made the frosting from scratch.”
Martie sat up straighter. “Now we're talking.”
Lou raised her hand. What shape was it?”
Emily thought. “Round.”
Lou frowned. “That's boring.”
Vivian looked at her. “It was a cake, Lou.”
“Everything can be improved.” Martie pointed the pencil at her. “Do not improve Margaret's cake.” Lou lowered her hand. “Yes, ma'am.” Vivian smiled. “What else did she do?” Emily's expression softened. “She always put one candle in the middle.”
“One?”
“Just one.”
“Why?”
Emily smiled. “She said the number didn't matter.”
Vivian nodded slowly. “What mattered?”
Emily looked toward the window. “That Dad was still here.”
The kitchen went quiet. Martie put the pencil down. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Then we're making that cake.”
Across the street, Art was blissfully unaware. He was repairing the loose hinge on the back gate. Hank lay nearby, supervising. Art tightened the screw. “There.” Hank looked at the gate. Then at Art. Art nodded. “Good enough.” Hank wagged his tail.
Art stood and stretched. Then he heard laughter from across the street. He looked over. The three sisters were huddled together. Emily was with them. Art frowned. “What are they planning now?”
Hank barked. “I don't know.” He watched for another moment.
Lou suddenly pointed toward him. Art froze. All four women turned. Art lifted a hand. They waved. He narrowed his eyes. Then walked inside. “I don't trust any of them.” Hank followed.
By Thursday afternoon, Martie had made three cakes. The first was too dry. The second was too sweet. The third was declared “acceptable.” Lou disagreed. “It needs more chocolate.” Martie looked at her. “Go away.” Vivian tasted the frosting. “It needs something.” “What?” “Love.” Martie stared. “It has plenty of love.” Vivian replied, “Then perhaps more pecans.” Martie sighed. “That's what I said.”
Emily stood at the counter watching them. “You know Mom's recipe wasn't written down.” Martie looked up. “What?” “She never measured anything.” Martie looked horrified. “She cooked like Lou?” Lou gasped. “I am an intuitive chef.” “You burned toast yesterday.” Lou laughed, “It was emotionally complex.” Emily laughed. Martie shook her head. “So how are we supposed to get it right?” Emily smiled. “I remember something.” “What?” “She always added a little coffee to the chocolate.” Martie's eyes widened. “Coffee?” Emily nodded. “And a pinch of salt.” Martie grabbed the bowl. “Now we're getting somewhere.”
That evening, Art was sitting on his porch when Emily came home. He looked at her. “Where have you been?” “Across the street.” “Why?” “Dinner.” “You already had dinner.” “I know.” He frowned. “Then why were you there?” Emily smiled. “Because I like them.” Art shook his head. “You've been here a week and they've already gotten you.” Emily laughed. “They're easy to like.” Art smiled. “I know.”
She sat beside him. “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you remember Mom's birthday cakes?”
Art smiled. “Of course.”
“What kind did she make?”
"Whatever I asked for.”
Emily laughed. “That isn't what I mean.”
Art thought. “German chocolate.”
“She always made it?”
“Every year.”
“Even when you weren't home?”
Art looked at her. “I was always home for my birthday.”
Emily smiled. “I know.”
Art leaned back. “She'd get up early.”
“How early?”
“Before me.”
“That must have been very early.”
Art laughed. “Your mother could sleep through a thunderstorm.”
Emily laughed. “She'd make coffee first.”
“She'd make coffee before anything.” Then Art's smile softened.
“She'd put music on.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever she felt like.”
“Do you remember?”
“Sometimes country.” “Sometimes she'd put on those old records you kids hated.”
Emily smiled. “I remember.”
Art looked toward the yard. “And she'd dance.”
Emily smiled. “Mom danced while she cooked.”
“She danced everywhere.”
Art laughed. “She once danced while carrying a casserole.”
“Did she drop it?”
“No.”
“Impressive.”
“She was talented.”
They sat quietly. Then Emily said, “I'm going to ask you something.”
Art looked at her. “What?”
“What was your favorite birthday?”
He didn't answer immediately. Then he smiled. “The fortieth.”
“Because of the party?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Art looked at his hands. “Because Margaret stayed up with me after everybody left.”
Emily smiled.
“The porch?”
“The porch.”
“What did you talk about?”
Art's eyes softened. “Everything.” He looked at her. “And nothing.”
Emily smiled. “I understand.”
Art looked toward the street. “That's what I want this year.”
“What?” “A quiet night after the party.”
Emily smiled. “I think you can have that.”
Friday arrived. The Bellamy house was decorated. Not excessively. At least not according to Vivian. There were flowers on the porch. Lights around the railing. A banner that Lou had made herself. It read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ART!
Underneath it:
79 YEARS OF BEING GRUMPY AND STILL LOOKING GOOD
Art stared at it. “I told you I didn't want a big party.”
Vivian smiled. “This isn't big.”
Art looked around. There were eighteen chairs. “That's eighteen chairs.”
“People need somewhere to sit.”
“There are twelve people coming.”
Vivian shrugged. “People move.”
Art looked at Emily. “Help me.”
Emily smiled. “No.”
“Traitor.” He shook his head. “I raised you better.”
She kissed his cheek. “You tried.”
The party began at six. Neighbors came. Edna arrived carrying a pie. Someone from church brought potato salad. Mr. Jenkins from three houses down brought a fishing lure. Lou introduced him to everybody as “the man who once caught a catfish bigger than a toddler.” Mr. Jenkins corrected her. “Bigger than a six-year-old.” Lou nodded. “That's what I said.”
Art spent most of the evening smiling. Not the polite smile he'd learned to use over the years. A real one. He laughed when Lou put a paper crown on his head. He laughed when Vivian insisted on taking photographs. He laughed when Martie threatened anyone who touched the cake before dinner. And when everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” Art looked around the room. At Emily. At the sisters. At the neighbors. At the people who had somehow become part of his life. His eyes filled.
He blew out the candle. Everyone cheered. Lou shouted, “Make a wish!” Art looked at her. “I already got it.” Lou went quiet. So did Emily.
Art looked around the room. “I got my wish.”
Later, after everyone left, the house became quiet. Not empty, just quiet. Art carried two cups of coffee onto the porch. Emily followed. She sat beside him. He placed one cup on the railing. Then he looked across the street. The Bellamy house was still glowing. Four chairs sat on their porch. One was tipped slightly sideways. Someone had forgotten to bring it inside. Art smiled.
Emily leaned back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He looked at the cake sitting on the table. Martie's attempt at Margaret's recipe. It wasn't perfect. The frosting was a little too thick. The coconut was uneven. The pecans were scattered. But it smelled like home. Art cut two pieces. He handed one to Emily. She took a bite. “It's good.” Art smiled. “Your mother would have complained.” Emily laughed. “She'd have said it needed more chocolate.” Art nodded. “She always did.”
They ate in silence. Then Emily said, “Dad?” “Hmm?”
“Do you want to tell me about the day you met Mom?”
Art smiled. “I've told you that story.”
“Not lately.”
He leaned back. “All right.” He looked up at the stars. “It was raining.” Emily smiled. “Of course it was.”“I was twenty-nine.”
“How old was Mom?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Where were you?”
“At a little diner.”
“What were you doing?”
“Trying to stay dry.”
Emily laughed. “And Mom?”
“She was working there.”
“Was she pretty?”
Art looked offended. “She was beautiful.”
Emily smiled.
“What happened?”
“She brought me coffee.”
“That's it?”
“She smiled.”
Art looked down at his hands. “And I forgot what I was saying.”
Emily laughed. “You fell in love because of coffee?”
“No.” He smiled. “I fell in love because she laughed at me.”
“What did you do?”
“I dropped my spoon.”
Emily laughed. “You dropped a spoon?”
“I was nervous.”
“Dad.”
“I was twenty-nine.”
“You were a mess.”
“I was in love.”
Emily smiled. “Yes, you were.”
Art looked toward the house. “I knew that night.”
“You did?”
“I knew I wanted to see her again.”
“And did you?”
“The next day.”
“And the day after that.”
“Pretty much.”
Emily smiled. “What did Mom say?”
Art laughed. “She told me I was persistent.”
“You were.”
“I married her.”
“That'll do it.”
They laughed. Then Art grew quiet. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me.” Emily rested her head on his shoulder. “You were the best thing that happened to her.” Art closed his eyes. “I hope so.”
“You were.” They sat together. Just as Art and Margaret had sat together all those years ago.
Same kind of porch. Same kind of night. Different person beside him. But somehow...not so different. Because love doesn't always leave when somebody does.Sometimes it changes chairs, crosses generations, or moves in across the street Sometimes it arrives with a chocolate pie, and sometimes it sits beside you on a quiet porch and reminds you that your life isn't over.
Art looked at Emily. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I think your mother would like this birthday.”
Emily smiled. “I know she would.”
Art took another bite of cake. Then frowned. "This needs more chocolate.”
Emily laughed. “Mom would be proud.”
From across the street came a shout. “WE HEARD THAT!”
Art looked over. Vivian was standing on the porch. Martie stood behind her. Lou was holding the broom-handle fishing pole.
Art shook his head. “You three spying on me?”
Vivian called back, “No!”
Martie yelled, “Yes!”
Lou waved. “Good night!”
Art laughed. Emily looked at him. “You really love them, don't you?”
Art looked toward the three women. Then toward his own house. Then back at his daughter. “Yeah.” He smiled.“I really do.”
And for the first time, saying it didn't scare him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.