“She helped arrange for it to be preserved. She said you shouldn’t have to lose something you spent so much time writing.”
I closed the box.
“I appreciate that.”
Ethan looked toward the kitchen.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”
“What?”
“Would you show me how to make Dad’s lemon cake?”
I laughed.
“Your father never followed the recipe.”
“I remember. He always put too much zest in it.”
“He insisted that was the secret.”
Ethan smiled.
“I thought we could make one before we leave.”
I picked up the coffee cups.
“Let’s see what ingredients the caretaker has left in the pantry.”
We went inside.
Ethan found a mixing bowl in the cupboard while I opened the refrigerator.
There were eggs, butter, and a fresh carton of milk.
He set the bowl on the counter.
“Do you remember how much flour?”
“Two cups.”
“And the lemons?”
“Three, if you’re making it your father’s way.”
He grinned and reached for the fruit bowl.
I placed the little wooden box on the windowsill, where the afternoon light fell across the polished lid.
Then I took an apron from the kitchen drawer and handed it to my son.
“Wash your hands, Ethan,” I said. “You can grate the lemons.”
