Dad rose before Emily did. “Stay seated.”
“No.”
She moved with careful determination, one hand braced against the table. He hovered, ready to catch her, but did not stop her.
Together they opened the pantry.
The recipe box waited on the top shelf beneath a bag of flour and beside a tin of old birthday candles. Dad reached for it and set it on the counter.
For several seconds neither touched it.
Then Emily lifted the lid.
The smell of paper and vanilla seemed to drift out, or perhaps memory created it. Cards were arranged by category: soups, breads, cakes, holiday meals. Emily’s eyes blurred when she saw her mother’s handwriting.
Dad turned away for a moment, pressing a fist against his mouth.
Emily removed the cards slowly.
Halfway through desserts, beneath the lemon cake recipe, she found a white envelope folded tightly and taped to the bottom of the box.
