The Welcome Home Diner by Peggy Lampman

2017

0.00 Avg rating—0 Votes

Author:	Peggy Lampman
Genre:	Contemporary Romance
File Name:	the-welcome-home-diner-by-peggy-lampman.epub
Original Title:	The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel
Creator:	Peggy Lampman
Language:	en
Identifier:	ISBN:9781542047821
Publisher:	Lake Union
Date:	1507564800
File Size:	668256.256

Betting on the city of Detroit’s eventual comeback, cousins Addie and Samantha decide to risk it all on an affordable new house and a culinary career that starts with renovating a vintage diner in a depressed area of town. There’s just one little snag in their vision.
Angus, a weary, beloved local, is strongly opposed to his neighborhood’s gentrification—and his concerns reflect the suspicion of the community. Shocked by their reception, Addie and Samantha begin to have second thoughts.
As the long hours, problematic love interests, and underhanded pressures mount, the two women find themselves increasingly at odds, and soon their problems threaten everything they’ve worked for. If they are going to realize their dreams, Addie and Samantha must focus on rebuilding their relationship. But will the neighborhood open their hearts to welcome them home?

Table of Content

1. Awards and Praise for The Promise Kitchen First Place, Fiction, 2015, Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Winner, Best New Fiction, 2016, National Indie Excellence Awards Silver, Bill Fisher Award for Best First Book: Fiction, 2016, IBPA Ben Franklin Awards “First-time author and food blogger Peggy Lampman knows the exact ingredients needed to create an appealing story . . . an eye-opening and thought-provoking must read.” —San Francisco Book Review, 5 stars “A sweetly told saga, bubbling with appealing characters and food-related talk . . . A poor country girl and a fashionable city woman learn about life in a tasty novel that blends romance and recipes.” —Kirkus Reviews “Peggy Lampman is an engaging writer, capturing the heart of Southern living with wit, charm, and vivid detail as she alternates chapters between Shelby, Mallory, and Miss Ann . . . For readers who enjoy a Southern flavor to their stories, spending time in the company of these fine folks . . . will go down as easily as a slic
2. Unnamed
3. OTHER TITLES BY PEGGY LAMPMAN The Promise Kitchen (previously published as Simmer and Smoke)
4. Unnamed
5. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 by Peggy Lampman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542047821 ISBN-10: 154204782X Cover design by Laura Klynstra
6. For Lucy
7. Contents Start Reading PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three The Recipes Book Club Discussion Questions Author Note Acknowledgments About the Author
8. Pot Liquor: The broth leftover in a pot after simmering greens with smoked pork. Potlikker: Viscous brew, leaked from the soil, savory and bold. Heaven’s field of blackened greens, bitter and sweet.
9. PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER Babcia: grandmother (BAHB-cia) Bolesławiec: a town in southern Poland famous for its pottery (BOL-e-swa-viets) Delikatnie: gently (de-lee-COT-neh) Dziadek: grandfather (JAH-deck) Gołąbki: stuffed cabbage (ga-WUMP-key) Obrzydliwe: disgusting (OB-ze-dlee-veh) Sytuacja swiatowa jest tragiczna: The situation in the world is tragic. (sit-u-AT-sia SHVIA-tova YEST tra-DICH-na) Włocławek: a town in central Poland on the Vistula River (vwo-TSWA-vek)
10. Prologue I take my seat behind the breadboard and plunge my hands into the sticky mound. The dough is a revelation, the suppleness warm between my fingers. “The magic rests between your hands,” my grandmother says, “and like your fingerprints, the bread will be your own.” I clutch the dough tighter, clenching these elements of life: flour of the earth, air, and water, which release the yeast. “Delikatnie,” she whispers, in her native Polish tongue. “Gently, my child. Let me show you.” As she kneads the mass, folding and turning, it contracts and then swells. She stretches and tucks the dough into a round. Beneath her touch, everything blooms. After returning to the stove, she stirs her spoon into a simmering soup. The kettle sings, the pans hiss. Yet the kitchen is silent. As I wake with a start, my body’s limp, loose, and my eyes are wet. I kick out of the sheets, and they twist around my feet. Adjusting the pillows smashed up against the headboard brings clarity; I’m twenty-four year
11. Chapter One Addie If you’re the last person to leave Detroit, don’t forget to turn off the lights. The saying amuses me, as it does my cousin Samantha, known as Sam among our friends. Several months ago, we bought a house and opened a diner together in the city. Perhaps we are, as my stepfather says, out of our minds. Time will tell. In the meantime, here I sit, settled into the chair at my desk, gazing through the office window. Braydon, who was our first hire, is in the kitchen garden, harvesting lettuces that we’ll use for tomorrow’s menu. A tall, thin man with a quiet manner and perfect teeth—white, shiny, and square—he possesses an air of gravitas. At this moment, however, his motions appear broad, his gesticulations wild. What could he be saying to Sam and Sandra—nicknamed Sun Beam—that would arouse such passion? I straighten with a jolt, my smartphone jarring me out of my reverie. Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch” ringtone alerts me it’s David, my live-in boyfriend. Feeling his pre
12. Chapter Two Addie The diner’s closed for the Memorial Day holiday today. It’s the first time we’ve shuttered the place since our grand opening in March. At last we’ve a day off, the weather pitch-perfect for the picnic we’ve planned. Sunlight spreads through the living room, the sky the brilliant blues of a peacock’s feather, and I stretch on the sofa, summoning the energy to face the day. Done with the frigidity of winter, of snow and more snow, followed by weeks of howling, bitter hail. I’d heard it on the roof, waking me in the morning, the downpour of frozen pellets pummeling our house like a machine gun. I’d heard it as I organized my backpack for work, click-clacking against the panes as I put on my fur-lined hat, as I tucked my hair into my down jacket. I’d heard the rat-a-tat against asphalt, plopping into pothole baths, as I waited for the bus that took me to the diner. And then came the rainy season. It was as if a spigot burst, and there was no way to stop the flow. Consider
13. Chapter Three Sam The buzzer zaps my nerves, a terrible jolt of a sound. I check the clock: ten fifteen. With a ferocious gnashing of teeth followed by an eerie whine, Hero gallops to the door. The Hound of the Baskervilles comes to mind, as if he races baying across the moor. With his white coat of fur, Hero resembles a ghost, as well. Standing on his hind legs, he stretches long against the doorframe, his front paws scratching the weathered oak panels. Amid his yowls, I hear a commotion, sounding like it’s coming from Addie’s bedroom above. She screams, “Stop it,” her words followed by a loud thud. A chunk of plaster dislodges from the water-stained ceiling and hurtles down, crashing next to my foot. Thank God it didn’t land on my head. Hero, oblivious, continues barking at the door, but his ruckus earns his room and board. Who needs an alarm with him around? If an unwelcome stranger pays a call, it’s amusing to watch the fool stumbling down the crumbling steps, hightailing it down t
14. Chapter Four Addie Chewing with deliberation, the woman looks up as I approach her table. She wears a billowing, sleeveless dress, patterned in a crimson-and-gold block print. A half dozen or so strands of sparkling beads drape around her neck, cascading into her significant cleavage. I’d put her in her midforties. After swallowing, she smiles. “What type of wood did you use to smoke the chicken?” She points her fork at the thigh. “It’s delicious.” This woman is Karen Bennington, famous in Detroit food circles for her cheeky up-to-the-minute restaurant blog. She’s also known for her outrageous wardrobe and is proud to proclaim she’s growing old disgracefully. Her persona is unapologetic: big, bold, and bright. “We used birchwood chunks for this batch,” I say, refilling her glass with cold tea. “And we harvested the first of the pattypan squash this morning in our kitchen garden.” She scribbles in a small spiral notebook and then removes purple-framed glasses that encompass half her fac
15. Chapter Five Addie “I’ve never seen you wear that,” David says, toying with the tiny cap sleeve of my dress. His fingers slide down to trace the piping at the top of the fitted bodice. “Mom bought it for me last summer. The last time we were shopping together. Pink and green, somehow, does not seem right in this city.” I eschewed my dark shade of lipstick, as well, selecting a pale-pink gloss. It complements the shiny ribbon, tacked around the seam at the waist. “The girl wears only black in The D.” Howling like a wolf, he runs his hands down my torso. I smile, fluffing the bell-shaped skirt. A subtle pattern of roses and vines are printed on the silk and cotton blend. It feels soft and cool as it billows around my calves. It’s odd how a dress can be transformative. Today I feel both modest and sexy. “Mom will be happy to see me wearing it.” David’s staying home today to work on the roof, so I’m borrowing his truck. He thinks shopping and lunch with my mom are all that’s on today’s age
16. Chapter Six Addie “I know, Mom, I know. I can’t believe it, either. The press is back to get a comment, and the line out the door has never been longer. I’ve gotta get out there.” She tells me, again, how proud she is. I’m grateful for the relationship Mom and I’ve been forging over the past two years, but I would never consider her my best friend. As an adult I get to select my closest friends, and I can defriend them, for instance, if they inflict wounds. But my mother, no matter the wounds that she’s inflicted in my past, will always be my mother. Best friend also implies equality in a relationship. Our therapist counseled us that healthy mother-daughter relationships are built on a hierarchy rooted in a mother’s unconditional love. Mom’s mother died when she was a child, and her dad, my deceased grandfather, was overwhelmed by the demands of his farm. I’ve never asked Mom if she had received unconditional love as a child. But from the snippets she’s shared about her solitary childh
17. Chapter Seven Sam “Ya got that right, Addie,” Lella says. “Just because a dude gives me a big tip, it doesn’t give him license to be lewd.” She chews her gum with abandon. “The know-it-all customers are also obnoxious.” A bubble emerges from her mouth, swelling into a shiny pink blossom. It’s Wednesday, 3:30 p.m. The floors freshly mopped, we’re seated around a six-top finishing up our weekly meeting. My eyes wander around the table: Braydon, Quiche, Lella, Paul, Addie. Lella’s bubble pops and she continues. “One woman said our goat cheese wasn’t local because it had the flavor of a grass that doesn’t grow in Michigan. She insisted it was crafted in Point Reyes. Wherever that is.” “Northern California,” Addie replies, adjusting a strap on her sundress. It’s pale blue with lemon-yellow piping around the middle, accentuating her long waist and slender frame. Her mother just bought it for her. Must be nice. “Superior cheeses do come from that region,” she continues, smoothing her skirt, “
18. Chapter Eight Sam It’s said, “All good things in moderation.” The last days of August must have missed that memo, because everything about this week is excessive. The excess of vegetables and fruit cracks a whip beneath my feet every time deliveries are made. The excess of heat in this kitchen—combined with the sloth of midday humidity—blankets my body like a wet quilt. Even my eyelashes drip with moisture. And then, there’s this excess of passion. I have the hots for Uriah so bad I can’t tell if the temperature is having this effect on me or not. If it were a frigid day in February, I suspect my cheeks would still be burning. A bowl of heirloom tomatoes, the sultriest of the nightshades, rests on my table beside me. I select a Cherokee Purple, which has a rusty, orange-red belly with lime green shoulders spanning out from the stem. Yesterday he picked me up from work. When we arrived at my place, he kissed me, pressing me against the bumper of his pickup. His breath smelled of citrus
19. Chapter Nine Sam “Jesus, Lord, I’m sweating like a pig. But I’m not complaining. Early September heat’s good for growing garlic.” Jessie glances out the window as she holds the door for Jévon. “But we could sure use some rain.” Judging from the empty truck bed, we must be their last delivery. In contrast to his mother’s mud-caked overalls, Jévon’s tall frame is dressed in a minimalistic look—clean and fresh. Today he’s wearing a white crew-neck T well fitted to his muscular build, and his pressed, dark-wash jeans are rolled up at the bottom. He walks into the diner and slides the case of sauce and bag of garlic onto the counter. “Good to have my boy helping me again,” Jessie says, linking her arm into her son’s. “Saving my back from the chiropractor.” “Sam. Quiche.” He nods at us. “Good to see you ladies. It’s been a while.” He looks around. “Where’s Braydon? I wanted his opinion on the Banksy mural sale.” Banksy, whose real identity is unknown, is a graffiti artist from England who cr
20. Chapter Ten Addie I’ve just finished cashing out from yesterday and check my phone for last-minute messages—perhaps some random catering opportunity we shouldn’t pass up. Nope. Not a thing. I look out the window. There’s nothing like the beauty of October on an Indian summer day. The air is warm and the leaves are splashed red and yellow gold against a hard, blue sky. I’ve a few minutes before my interview with a potential hire, so I tumble into social digital distraction. My fingers slide down the screen, pressing hearts, leaving comments about my friends’ lives on Facebook. I resist liking political rants and rages. Even if our ideologies are similar, I resent armchair activists who pound me over the head with their pissed-off opinions and hate-filled tirades. Online anger is cowardly, unproductive, and draining. Quit hiding behind your screen, crafting posts with your Dorito-crusted fingers. Cowgirl up and take action. My social media platforms gravitate to two subjects: food and ch
21. Chapter Eleven Sam The alarm on my phone rings its soft chime. Ugh. Six fifteen. Rise and shine. I untangle myself from the heat of Uriah’s arms and place a pillow over my head. I’m an eight-hour girl and had only five hours of sleep last night. Maybe I can grab a nap before tonight. We’re hosting a party here in the backyard after dusk. David’s building a bonfire. I sigh, toss the pillow toward the foot of the bed, and stretch. I could never get back to sleep, anyway. I’m not used to having a man in my bed. Lying on the floor, Hero is stretched out in the same direction as me. His head rests on his paws, a watchful eye, rimmed in pink, turned up to catch my gaze. Poor baby. He’s not used to a man, either. Leaning my torso off the edge of the mattress, I scratch him behind his ears, which perk at my touch. My movements and the tinkling chimes wake Uriah, who groans, pulling me back into his arms. He smells like lemon verbena, my favorite soap scent. I smile. We showered together after
22. Chapter Twelve Sam Sylvia pulls out a chair, taking a seat at the two-top where I’m working. Of late, she’s been wearing her hair in two braids, which she pins up and wraps around her head. It’s a darling style on her, reminding me of Heidi. Each week I notice something different about the woman, as if she’s trying on new looks, searching for the person she wants to become. “Brenda printed out the stuffing recipe you sent her.” Her willowy frame appears to flutter in her seat. “Thank you, Sam. I’m so excited. This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve celebrated since Daddy died.” Her wide-set eyes are luminous, dancing in anticipation. “She wants to know if you could get us some fennel,” she continues. “It’s a part of the recipe, and the grocery store where we shop doesn’t stock it.” “Of course, Sylvia. How many people will the recipe be serving?” “There will be twenty or so people. It’s mostly us women at High Hope. I guess we should triple the recipe.” “It would please me and Addie to be a
23. Chapter Thirteen Addie “Come on, Addie. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s bad enough we’re not spending it together.” David pours a cup of coffee and saunters to the counter. He’s spending Thanksgiving at his parents’ lake house. He strokes my arm as if he were strumming his guitar. “Let’s kiss and make up. We can pretend last night never happened.” “This whole relationship is about pretending, David.” I shake and fold a dish towel that’d been crumpled on the counter. “Why do you refuse to discuss the future? Your silence is becoming too loud in my head.” I face him, a vein throbbing in my temple. “It’s too powerful and can only be diffused by conversation. If I keep shutting down, trying to keep the peace, I’m not being true to myself.” I nod toward the shelf. “Thanks for the vase, but you know what I was hoping for.” My mouth tightens into a stubborn line as my eyes scan the floors, looking for my shoes. Yesterday was my thirty-second birthday. At work, Sylvia made a cake, but Sam and I—as alw
24. Chapter Fourteen Sam There’s several inches of white stuff on the ground, the first of the season. Lunch rush is over, the diner’s closed, and the remaining staff is acting pathetic about the snow: ebullient, as if they’d never seen it before. Quiche told me the choir at the church is practicing for Gospel Fest, but it’s impossible to hear their voices behind doors tightly secured to keep the cold air at bay. A headache surrounds my eyes in a web of pain, and I massage the temples with my fingertips. Some kids made a snowman in front of the church and asked me for a carrot and beans to give Frosty a nose, mouth, and eyes. He’s leering at me from across the street. Wipe that silly grin off your face before I knock it off. It’s the Friday before Christmas, and I’m at my usual perch, finalizing the menu for next week. Man oh man, am I wound tight. Since Thanksgiving, this place makes me feel like a hamster on a wheel: it’s a continuous loop of stress. If we’re not filling special orders f
25. Chapter Fifteen Sam My heart feels as if it’s been shattered, pricking my throat and eyes, threatening to break down the dam. There’s another decision to be made, which may as well be made based on a coin toss. But I keep this conflict to myself, inside the deepest fissure of my heart, blessing the January stillness of white. The decision to make is mine alone. If heads, I could very well lose the love of my life. If tails, I will certainly lose my city, my interest in the diner, and Addie will be devastated. We took the morning off today, sleeping in, trying to recover from the holiday madness. Taking the bus to work, I glance sideways at my cousin. “I’m so freakin’ relieved we can put this behind us. To have this tension between us resolved.” Our shoulders bump together as the vehicle traverses the potholes and terrain of neglected asphalt. Head down, she’s absorbed in a book she keeps in a zippered pocket of her bag, retrieving it whenever she has a bit of downtime. “No kidding,” sh
26. Chapter Sixteen Addie Nestled into the thick of winter, Valentine’s Day arrives, and Welcome Home is drunk on love. Pink and red tinsel is strewn about chair backs, bowls filled with candy hearts have been placed on every table, and lacy cutout cupids are taped to the windows. We’re playing an old mix of love songs from Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Armstrong. Sundays are always the busiest day of the week, and today, because of the occasion, it’s crazier than ever. We work the crowd in sync. Like intimate partners dancing a complicated tango, we know the direction to turn our heads according to the beat, never stepping on one another’s toes. My job, as always, is to greet and seat, fill glasses with water, and ensure each of our guests is wearing a smile. That’s easy today; the restaurant’s filled with my favorite customers. Tory and Wally have just entered and are lingering inside the front door. Wally holds a Free Press in his gloved hands. I take their coats and escort the
27. Chapter Seventeen Sam Quiche has the day off. I’m taking her place at the flattop, flipping trout fillets and grilling buttered bread, my thoughts to myself. Last night, while Uriah and I were shopping at Home Depot for new light-switch plates, he called me honey. Honey, I’m thinking aged bronze will look better than the polished brass. Seriously? Honey? We’ve expressed our love for each other, yada yada, so why would I be thrilled when he called me honey? Because the word is comfortable, domestic, a sweet endearment that takes our relationship to the next plateau. Besides, aside from my dad, no man has ever addressed me using a word that sounds so sweet. As we shopped for fixtures, I felt as if he were taking ownership in my home. But that’s not the case. Last week he gave notice to the Boggs School; he will be leaving after the school year, sometime in mid-June. Here’s what I dare not speak of to anyone, especially Addie: we’re fixing up my area of the home so she’ll have a better ch
28. Chapter Eighteen Addie Sun Beam pushes her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, then swivels to face me. “It looks like there’s dirt on my face, but they’re ashes. It’s supposed to be a cross. Can you tell?” The streaked marks resemble a hieroglyph of a running child, arms outstretched into the wind. “They do look like a cross and remind me it’s Lent. You also wore them on Ash Wednesday, almost three weeks back.” Four days prior to Valentine’s Day. I was still with David. A different woman. “Is it your church’s tradition to wear them through the season?” “No. I’m the only one who wore them today. Our fireplace is filled with soot, so I got the idea.” “When I was a girl, every Ash Wednesday my minister rubbed the sign above my brows, too. Babcia would quote from Genesis as she admired my forehead. ‘For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return.’” I touch the girl’s forehead, smiling at the memory. Sun Beam and her mother are helping me finish up my traditional Lenten project
29. Chapter Nineteen Sam A man stands outside the diner, his shadow long in the afternoon sun. He reaches out to open the door; his hand is large and dark, with pinkish palms. The knob wiggles, and then his torso slumps, as if he’s dejected it’s locked. I recognize him—Angus’s grandson. Braydon pointed him out to me when the man was entering Angus’s house, carrying a bag of groceries. My heart quickens, and I look toward the counter, pretending I don’t see him, relieved the door is bolted. He was released last month from prison. This man’s a felon. For heaven’s sake, what am I thinking? My eyes dart back to the windowpanes. Theo’s also a felon and one of our favorite patrons. And we’ve been hoping this dude’s granddad would stop by since day one. I stride across the floor, unlatching the door. He enters and extends his hand, which I take. “Good afternoon,” he says, his voice deep and friendly. The tailored lines of his coat accentuate his broad shoulders, his slim waist. “I’m Gary, your ne
30. Chapter Twenty Addie It’s late in the day, and the afternoon sky is dove gray and early-March bleary. Sooty streaks paint the horizon. I just stepped off the bus at Woodward and Washington, and out of nowhere black clouds are rolling in. At once it’s raining—cold, heavy—pricking my cheeks, pelting me from all angles. It’s as if winter were being ushered in instead of out. I didn’t bring an umbrella and begin to sprint. My panting breath manifests in billowing clouds as I try outrunning the rain, now freezing into hail. I’m alone now, shivering and wet in the Polar Passage, watching the bears in their silent ballet. One of the slick, white beasts paddles over to greet me. Bubbles churn from a scarred nose on an immense, furry face—Talina. Does she recognize me? I haven’t been here since December. Our eyes lock as I fiddle with the rosary around my neck. Jessie’s healing beads were saving the space for the real deal. “So, Talina,” I say, mouthing the words through the pane. “David called
31. Chapter Twenty-One Sam My gut churns thinking of how my decision to leave Detroit will affect Addie. A pit sits in my stomach, and procrastination is making it grow larger by the day. We’ve just closed the diner, and I’m at the counter placing daffodils in vintage teal bottles filled with water. The bottles’ globular bases are in the shape of teardrops, and Addie is arranging them on each table and across the counter. Trumpets of yellow-gold cheer brighten my mood, announcing the coming of spring. Uriah’s mom is on her second round of chemo. Our plans are to move to Tennessee by the end of June, but he wants to leave sooner. It will be easier on him knowing he’s only a short distance away from his parents. Besides, he’s a Southern man at heart; his roots in the culture run deep. Thank God David’s returned to Addie’s life. I feel as if a ton of bricks has been removed from my chest. My news will now be an easier pill for her to swallow; she won’t feel so alone. She doesn’t, however, wan
32. Chapter Twenty-Two Addie Sam and I slide into David’s truck. My thigh is planted next to his, sittin’ country, as Quiche would say. He wears a navy sweatshirt that has a gold M, the insignia for the University of Michigan, stitched on the front. “Thanks for the lift, babe.” I turn my head to kiss him, and my nose twitches. He smells like me. Reading my mind, he laughs. “I know, I know. I ran out of shampoo. I’m sure yours costs a king’s ransom, so I’ll replenish my generic at the drugstore while you guys are in your meeting.” We fasten our seat belts as he heads north toward Woodward and Grand Boulevard. An early-morning rain washed the patina of decay away from the streets, and the sidewalks are wet, shining like silver. Scattered, low-hanging clouds resemble dandelions trembling in a breeze. They hover in the sky, the palest of blues, pooling into and reflecting away from the Renaissance Center’s mirrored facade. The RenCen, a group of interconnected skyscrapers, is world headquarter
33. Chapter Twenty-Three Sam Heartbreak, misery, and tears are the baggage of hard decisions. At least when you’re following your heart. Knowing my choice doesn’t have to be forever consoled us both. Decisions don’t have to be permanent. They’re made to be broken, I had said to Uriah, before dissolving into tears. Tennessee’s only a nine-hour drive from Detroit. But we both knew the truth. Nine hours may as well be nine months in our worlds of complexities and schedules. I direct my attention to preparing the soil for our first spring crop. I spade the soil again and again, and with each thrust, replay the dialog. And then, with the back of my trowel, I smooth the dirt, working out my feelings. Today’s my birthday, which this year falls on Palm Sunday. It would be an anomaly for the occasion to slip by without a fuss, but with all the tumult in our lives of late, I’d be relieved if my thirty-second came and went unnoticed. The weather, as it’s been all month, is unseasonably warm. The wind
34. The Recipes Quiche’s Buttermilk Pancakes with Apple-Maple Syrup and Walnuts Yield: 12 pancakes, with enough Apple-Maple Syrup* to accommodate Time: 45 minutes *Make the syrup before making the pancakes. Ingredients for Pancakes ¾ cup all-purpose flour ¾ cup whole-grain pastry flour or whole-wheat flour 2 tablespoons light-brown sugar 1½ teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon kosher salt 2 large eggs 1¾ cups buttermilk 1½ tablespoons melted unsalted butter Canola oil, as needed Apple-Maple Syrup with Walnuts (recipe follows) Directions for Pancakes Preheat the oven to 200 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk together both flours, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and kosher salt. In a medium-size bowl, beat together the eggs and buttermilk. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, then stir in the melted butter. Lightly coat a large nonstick griddle or skillet with oil and heat over medium-low heat (325 degrees). Using a ⅓-cup measure, ladle the batter ont
35. Book Club Discussion Questions Who is your favorite character and why? If you were in Angus’s shoes, what would have been your reaction to the women and their diner? Do you believe that Angus was justified in his initial anger? Do you think the women were overreacting to the fact that their community was avoiding them? Were they overstepping boundaries? If not, what other things could the women have done to encourage a welcome reception from their neighbors? How much of a person’s character is shaped by their parents? Are your parents easy to recognize in yourself? Do you have certain inherited traits you wish you could change? If so, do you think therapy is a route that could be productive? How is your community addressing the issues of human trafficking? Are there vestiges of racism in your community? If so, how are they expressed? How are they or how could they be dealt with? Is there an area in your town or city that has gone through gentrification in the last five years? Were busi
36. Author Note Every day in the United States, victims of human trafficking—predominantly sex trafficking—are being exploited. In rural, suburban, and urban areas across the country, hundreds of thousands of people are trapped with the belief that no help is available. Help exists. Polaris, a nonprofit nongovernmental organization, is a leader in the global fight to eradicate modern slavery and restore freedom to survivors of human trafficking. To make a donation go to www.PolarisProject.org. If you suspect human trafficking, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center hotline at 1-888-373-8888.
37. Acknowledgments If not for my deep friendship with Lucy Carnaghi, I wouldn’t have been able to portray my characters, the diner, and the city of Detroit with such intimacy and compassion. Sincere thanks, as well, to Molly Mitchell and my neighbor Krystyna Bobowski. As I wrote this book, your stories were on my mind. Enormous gratitude to my family, especially to my deceased grandmother Mary Ellen. Those hours we spent cooking in your kitchen branded my spirit, shaping my life. To my husband, Richard, who understands I’ve the soul of a chameleon, assuming the identities of my characters. You’re a gem to endure my multiple personalities. To my son-in-law, Tom Rickmeyer, mathematical whiz, who inspired Uriah. To my children, Greta and Zan. Because of you I understand the passions of a mother—of any person—who loves a child. You gave me insight into LaQuisha, who would lay down her life if it meant her daughter could soar. Judge David Swartz, your expertise was invaluable. My prayer is tha
38. About the Author Photo © 2016 John Shultz Peggy Lampman was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama. After earning a bachelor’s degree in communications—summa cum laude—from the University of Michigan, she moved to New York City, where she worked as a copywriter and photographer for a public-relations firm. When she returned to Ann Arbor, her college town, she opened a specialty foods store, the Back Alley Gourmet. Years later, she sold the store and started writing a weekly food column for the Ann Arbor News and MLive. Lampman’s first novel, The Promise Kitchen, published in 2016, garnered several awards and accolades. She is married and has two children. She also writes the popular blog www.dinnerfeed.com.