Page 70 of Finding Yesterday

I still hate that he’s going to be gone for a while, getting all his affairs in order in San Francisco, so I need to keep moving. I continue helping Jack look for the wine opener, digging through his closet. He says he’s riffled through every single thing in here a bunch of times, but I don’t buy it, so here I am.

This closet is a wreck, and he needs to be packed by tonight. I’m sifting through piles of clothes, stopping to smell them, when I see a black book with the title, “Recipes.” It’s in that same chalk-like font that Mama had on her shepherd’s pie recipe.

My breathing stops.

With trembling fingers, I open it up to find recipe after recipe, hole punched and neatly placed in the book. Recipe cards just like the one I found at Daddy’s house.

Written in Mama’s handwriting.

I shiver. Her chocolate chip cookies. Her meatless meatballs.

Everything of Mama’s, all her lost recipes, right here!

A wave of emotions hits so hard it knocks the wind out of me, and I slide down the wall to the floor.

Mama’s recipes. The ones I’d wished I’d had my whole life.

I keep flipping pages, finding a recipe of grits cakes with roasted red pepper sauce! Her fried green tomato casserole. The very same recipes I’ve been making at The Fine Bone. The ones that connected with me, comforted me, and inspired me to be a better chef.

They belonged to my mother, not Hannah.

The excitement passes when the realization hits. A wave of nausea ripples through me, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

Jack has been using my mother’s recipes. I’ve been remakingMama’srecipes.

I want to stand, but I can’t. The closet is spinning, and I put a hand on the floor to steady myself.

“I found it!” Jack calls out. “Pops had it in his utensil drawer.”

I don’t answer. I can’t inhale, let alone form words.

Jack had this, not Pops. It was in Jack’s suitcase. And these were the recipes he used when he opened The Fine Bone.

Does Pops know they were Mama’s?

Jack appears in the closet doorway. “Hey, Cole, did you hear—” He stops speaking, his face paling. “Are you okay?”

I hold up the book. “These are my mother’s recipes.” I place my hand on my chest. “My mother’s. Not your grandmother’s.” Fury pulses through me and I stand up. “Did you know this?”

“No, Claire…of course not.” He shakes his head furiously. “Are you sure they aren’t Maw’s?” His face twists.

I point to the book. “This is Mama’s handwriting. These are the recipe cards she used. These sound just like the foods she made. I know some of these recipes.” Tears fill my eyes as I flip through the pages. “Her chocolate chip cookies,” I choke out. “We made these when I was in kindergarten.”

“I’m so sorry. Please, let me explain.” Jack’s voice is panicked. “Claire, will you look at me?”

“I can’t.” I stare at the floor. I know it was an accident—Jack would’ve never done something like this on purpose. But it still hurts so much, and I don’t want to look at him while I’m crying.

“I really thought they were Maw’s,” he replies, his words rushed. “You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you, Jack.” I finally meet his gaze, and his brown eyes have gone dark, splintered. “It’s not that. I’m just so hurt. You don’t understand.”

“Claire.” He takes my hand. “Please—help me understand.”

“I’ve wanted these my whole life. It sounds silly, but these are the meals from my childhood that I wanted to make, again and again. It brings me the mother I didn’t get to have most of my life.”

His face twists. “That’s not silly at all, and I’m so sorry.” His voice is unsteady. “I really am.”

“Why didn’t you ask?” I run my finger across the front of the chocolate chip cookie recipe. “Why didn’t you find out for sure whose these were?”

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