Morning Glory(34)
“Looking for me?” a man says from behind me.
I turn around, and there he is, holding two empty wineglasses. He points to the barstool next to me. “May I?”
I think back to that night, and I write exactly what happened. How James made me laugh until my sides hurt. How we stayed out until two talking at a greasy spoon diner. How I came to realize that some of life’s most beautiful things grow out of the darkest moments.
Chapter 11
PENNY
Dex is coming home today, and my heart skips with anticipation. I’ve dusted the living room and changed the bed linens. On the walk home from Pete’s Market, I stopped and picked sweet peas on the roadside, and now they wait attentively in a crystal vase we received as a wedding present from one of Dex’s society friends. I reapply my lipstick before checking the cinnamon rolls in the oven. He told me once how much he loves them, that his beloved nanny used to make them for him when he was a boy. I wish he would talk about his past more, but when I ask questions, it only makes him cagey and uncomfortable. I know little of his formative years, only that his father, a wealthy shipping magnate, ruled the home like a dictator, and his mother died when he was young. He experienced so little joy as a child, and I want so desperately to make him happy now.
I slip my hands into a pair of oven mitts and pull the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. I let them cool for fifteen minutes before inching each out onto a platter. I drizzle them with icing, then turn to my notebook of recipes and open a new page. I’ve made these from memory so often, I’ve decided it’s time to write the recipe down:
Cinnamon Rolls (Dex’s Favorite)
Makes 1 dozen
INGREDIENTS
¾ cup milk
¼ cup butter, softened
3 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup white sugar
1 package yeast
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
¼ cup water
FOR FILLING
1 cup brown sugar, packed
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
½ cup butter, softened
PREPARATION
1. Heat the milk in a small saucepan until it bubbles, then remove from stove. Mix in butter; stir until melted. Let cool slightly.
2. In a large mixing bowl, combine 2 ¼ cups flour, sugar, yeast, and the salt; mix well. Add egg, water, and the milk-butter mixture; beat well. Add the remaining flour, ½ cup at a time. Knead dough until smooth. About five minutes.
3. Let dough rise for about an hour or more. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, mix together brown sugar, cinnamon, and softened butter for filling.
4. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Punch down dough, then roll out into a 12×9-inch rectangle. Spread filling mixture on dough. Roll up and pinch seam to seal. Cut into 12 equal-size pieces and place in a greased 9×12 glass dish. Cover and let rise until doubled, about an hour.
5. Bake for 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Let cool, then drizzle with royal icing if desired.
I make a little heart beside the recipe, then close the book, just as I hear Dex’s key in the door. He tosses his gray hat on the davenport, and I run to him. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you so much!” I cry.
He kisses me and then carries me upstairs the way he used to, and I think for the first time in a long while that everything is going to be all right.
Dex reaches for my hand, but I stand up and dress. “I have a surprise for you,” I say.
“Another?” he says, grinning.
“Come downstairs,” I say, fastening the buttons on my dress.
He sits up and reaches for his pants on the chair, then follows me down the stairs to the kitchen. I put a cinnamon roll on a plate and hand it to him, smiling.
He shakes his head. “I already had breakfast.”
“Oh,” I say, wounded. “I thought you liked my cinnamon rolls.”
“I do. It’s just that I already had a huge omelet at Gill’s.”
My heart sinks. He used to take me to Gill’s. Now he goes alone. I nod and walk out to the deck.
“Penn,” he calls after me. “What is it?”
It’s so many things. His absence. His distance. The way my heart longs for a baby. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I try to smile like the wife I know he wants me to be.
“I feel awful,” he says, leaning against the doorway. He’s so incredibly handsome with that dark hair, those eyes. “But I have to go back to the studio today.”
“Why?” I protest. “But you just came home.”
“I know.” He looks guilty, conflicted. “But I’m so close to completing the painting. It’s being installed next Tuesday. I can’t afford to be late this time. It’s for the Duboises.”
I know who they are. I know that they are very rich and that Mrs. Dubois has taken a liking to Dex, the way all of his female patrons seem to do. I saw the way she smiled at him at the theater last spring. It was intermission, and she wore a peach dress with a sweetheart neckline. She batted her eyelashes at Dex between sips of champagne.