"Clue?"

"Yes, the game of Clue."

"I've played Clue."

"Ernest did, too. That's how he got most of these kitchen utensils." She points to a spatula dangling from the edge of a cabinet. "Some of these things he got, I have no idea where they came from. What do they say about one man's junk being another man's treasure?"

Confusion weaves itself around my mind. "What?"

"He sure enjoyed playing to win," she comments as she scans the decorated walls of the cabin. "We've played for kitchen utensils for dozens of years." Grinning at me, she adds, "I'd tell you how it works, but really, that's a story for another day."

Giovanni is already standing at her side, his tail wagging like the windshield wipers on my Jeep. My aunt opens the passenger door to her truck, and the one hundred pounds of fur hops in, tail still moving.

After Aunt Regena Lorraine backs out of the gravel driveway, managing with magnificent skill not to go over the cliff, I walk around the house and spend time viewing all the cooking utensils. There's a grater with a round rooster's face for a handle. A three-pronged fork has Atlantic Beach Atlantic Beach inscribed on one of its silver tines. A red corkscrew suspended from a hook in the kitchen over the stove has inscribed on one of its silver tines. A red corkscrew suspended from a hook in the kitchen over the stove has Kiss the Cook Kiss the Cook in gold letters. A red, white, and blue plastic spatula near the sink reads in gold letters. A red, white, and blue plastic spatula near the sink reads Panama. Panama. On the wall by the Kenmore refrigerator, a large wooden spoon declares On the wall by the Kenmore refrigerator, a large wooden spoon declares I Left My Heart in Athens I Left My Heart in Athens in green and red lettering. Above the fridge is a round egg-yolk-colored form that looks to be made of plaster. I, too, wonder where Grandpa Ernest got some of these items. The piece looks like a chunk of rock from another planet. On the bottom side of it sits a metal hook. If it is a utensil, what does it do? in green and red lettering. Above the fridge is a round egg-yolk-colored form that looks to be made of plaster. I, too, wonder where Grandpa Ernest got some of these items. The piece looks like a chunk of rock from another planet. On the bottom side of it sits a metal hook. If it is a utensil, what does it do?

As I walk through the dining room and see a variety of bottle openers, pizza cutters, and corkscrews mounted on the walls, I conclude that Grandpa must have been a good Clue player. He must have known every motive Miss Scarlet had in the library with the candlestick.

Halfway through Vivaldi's "Spring" concerto, I begin unpacking my Coleman cooler. To the rhythm of the instruments played by Neville Marriner's orchestra, I place the items that were in my apartment refrigerator and freezer earlier this day in the cabin's white Kenmore. I glide across the linoleum floor the way I used to when I was a tiny girl with the desire to become a ballerina. Vivaldi is one of my favorite composers, although my friends think I'm loony for enjoying classical music.

Grandpa's refrigerator holds one lemon, single, alone, lying on its side on the middle shelf. I can see the faint blue word stamped against the yellow peel-Sunkist. I wonder if this is his lemon, one he purchased. I see him driving down the winding roads to Ingle's to buy ingredients for a meal he planned to make-perhaps one he had invited others to. But, the question is, why it is the lone item in the refrigerator? He's been dead three months now. I'm assuming that, like most of us, his refrigerator contained half-used jars of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise, and a bottle or two of his favorite salad dressing. Maybe even a container of some cheese dip he bought a year ago that he wasn't sure he really liked but kept on the back of the bottom shelf, just the same. A healthy head of lettuce, a few yellow onions, some carrots in the produce bin, and since I know he was fond of vine-ripe tomatoes, a cluster of those. Maybe the freezer held some frozen peas, lima beans, and corn. Someone emptied this refrigerator-most likely Regena Lorraine. I can picture her tossing out all the bottles, perhaps hanging on to the produce and later making a tossed salad with the vegetables, tears in her eyes, thinking that it was the last salad she'd ever eat made with Daddy's lettuce, Daddy's carrots, Daddy's onions, and Daddy's tomatoes. If she cleaned out the fridge, why did she leave the lemon? I finger its cold surface and scratch it with a fingernail. It still smells like a lemon should. I wonder if this is his lemon, one he purchased. I see him driving down the winding roads to Ingle's to buy ingredients for a meal he planned to make-perhaps one he had invited others to. But, the question is, why it is the lone item in the refrigerator? He's been dead three months now. I'm assuming that, like most of us, his refrigerator contained half-used jars of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise, and a bottle or two of his favorite salad dressing. Maybe even a container of some cheese dip he bought a year ago that he wasn't sure he really liked but kept on the back of the bottom shelf, just the same. A healthy head of lettuce, a few yellow onions, some carrots in the produce bin, and since I know he was fond of vine-ripe tomatoes, a cluster of those. Maybe the freezer held some frozen peas, lima beans, and corn. Someone emptied this refrigerator-most likely Regena Lorraine. I can picture her tossing out all the bottles, perhaps hanging on to the produce and later making a tossed salad with the vegetables, tears in her eyes, thinking that it was the last salad she'd ever eat made with Daddy's lettuce, Daddy's carrots, Daddy's onions, and Daddy's tomatoes. If she cleaned out the fridge, why did she leave the lemon? I finger its cold surface and scratch it with a fingernail. It still smells like a lemon should.

I add the contents of my Coleman. A bunch of red seedless grapes, a jar of Hellmann's, five sticks of butter, a bag of Starbuck's Dark Roast, and two bags of frozen corn. From a large brown sack I lift out five baking potatoes, a plastic bag of purple onions, a box of cake flour, a loaf of wheat bread, and three cans of green beans. I find places for them on the pantry shelves. In the next couple days, I'll head to the local grocery store for milk, juice, and half-and-half for my coffee. Every cup of java needs half-and-half, an indulgence culinary school taught me.

I peer into every cupboard and into the pantry, trying to find the sugar. Finally I find the sugar bowl-a tomato-red dish with a green lid. Inside sits a tiny spoon with the word Kos Kos printed on the handle. printed on the handle.

From a lumpy box, I unpack my cake-decorating ingredients, tips, frosting bags, blender, and new pans. All were protected by items of my clothing-my worn T-shirts, my sweat pants. Finding space in a bottom cabinet for the pieces of my life-the tangible parts that help me define who I still am-I feel a small tinge of hope.

Vivaldi plays with vigor as I make the kitchen my own.

Over the instruments I can hear Chef Bordeaux's voice from when I first studied under his tutelage: "A real chef needs a kitchen to make her own." He must have seen this printed in a cooking magazine or heard it on some culinary video because this phrase is the only sentence the chef speaks using proper English grammar.

I sneeze, and I'm sure the cause is dog fur. Of course the only person I know in this town would have to be a dog owner.

six.

I've decided I'll try teaching the kids. Grandpa Ernest requested it, after all, and it was kind of him to give me this cabin. It's peaceful here; I want to stay. And if teaching is what it takes, I'll try it. I can't go back to Atlanta.

Chef Bordeaux would beam with happiness if he found out I'm going to teach. His eyes would dance with excitement as visions of cherry strudels and minestrone sashayed through his culinary mind. His enthusiasm I cannot handle right now, and perhaps that's why I haven't called to tell him about my new surroundings or situations situations-the topic he said he wanted to hear about.

They are middle-schoolers, so I suppose I'll start at the beginning and teach basic cooking. From a cardboard box labeled Books Books, I dig out one of my basic cookbooks. The lettering in the title, Easy Cooking Easy Cooking, is made to look like yellow icing piped onto a creamy white cake. The only trouble with the cover is that forming perfect letters like that with frosting is not easy. easy. I flip the first few pages and see the headline I flip the first few pages and see the headline How to Boil an Egg. How to Boil an Egg. I don't like boiled eggs, so I don't consider them a basic cooking need. Besides, what would you use a boiled egg for? Chef salad. Cobb salad. Deviled eggs-or for those who don't like the word I don't like boiled eggs, so I don't consider them a basic cooking need. Besides, what would you use a boiled egg for? Chef salad. Cobb salad. Deviled eggs-or for those who don't like the word devil devil in their culinary experience, stuffed eggs. in their culinary experience, stuffed eggs.

Thinking about teaching, coupled with last night's restless sleep due to some disturbing noises outside the loft bedroom's window, does not make me ooze with excitement. From the medicine cabinet in the bathroom upstairs, I reach for my bottle of Tylenol. As I take two tablets, I wonder why the doctor wouldn't just let me get addicted to codeine.

In the living room, I note a charcoal drawing of an Asian boy in a straw hat riding on the back of a water buffalo. The boy has one hand on the wide back of the beast and the other raised as if he's waving to someone. Maybe his mom is standing nearby and he's waving and telling her that he's okay this time, unlike last time when he slipped off and fell face-first into the rice paddy.

When my cell phone rings, I rush around the cabin, trying to find where I placed it before going to bed last night. I find it on the kitchen counter and answer just before it goes to voice mail.

The familiar voice of my dad is on the line.

"Hi, Dad. How are you and how are the pigs?" I picture him in his usual attire-denim bib overalls, red shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat he bought last year at the state fair.

"Grumpy today." Even after nearly forty years in Georgia, his accent still sounds like that of western Pennsylvania, that Yankee state, where he grew up.

"And you?" My accent is Southern, and I don't care what people say. I'm a Georgia girl.

"Grumpier."

This is our typical greeting. My parents are pig farmers in Tifton, which is a small town near Jimmy Carter's Plains, Georgia. All my life I've been the daughter of pig farmers, and I must say, I'm surprisingly proud of this heritage. My sister finds the comments she gets when she tells people what her parents do for a living embarrassing. To avoid these comments and cackles, she has shortened the truth to, "My parents have a little farm." Quaint, cute. Most people don't want to know more than that.

My dad asks about my trip, and when I answer, I omit the fact that I was almost too paralyzed to continue the drive once it started to rain.

I try to sound cheery and optimistic about beginning my new life in Bryson City. I tell him that the scenery is gorgeous and that the mountain air is almost as fresh as the air in Tifton.

Dad asks if I've seen the train that runs through the town. "Smoky Mountain Railroad has its headquarters in Bryson City," he informs me like a travel guide would. "The train goes to Dillsboro, and they have gourmet meals aboard some of the trips." I know he is tossing in the gourmet meal part to try to entice me.

"Oh?" I think I recall a set of tracks near the Methodist church along the steep, windy road up to this cabin. Trains do not impress me the way they do my father. He will stop whatever he's doing whenever he hears a train whistle or sees a train coming down the tracks. He says trains remind him of his years as a hobo, but I know he's only teasing about that.

Then my mother is on the phone, asking how long the trip took, if I have food to eat, if I took my vitamins this morning, and would I like her to send me some pickled pig's feet? I have never liked pig's feet, and I don't know why she doesn't remember that. Perhaps she thinks that for some reason they will taste more agreeable to me at this elevation. I expect to hear her tell me to sit up straight, and as we talk, my shoulders do rise and I stick out my chest.

"Sit up straight," my mother once told me when I was growing up. "You don't want to become hunched over. My aunt Lavonna Dewanna was such such a hunchback." a hunchback."

I never heard the rest of her reminiscing because I couldn't believe that anyone would be named Lavonna Dewanna. I asked if that really was her name, and my mother said, "Yes, but we called her La De."

"La De!" I laughed so hard that I rolled off the bed. I was only six, but after seeing my mother's expression, I knew that I would never joke about her aunt La De again. Apparently, Mom didn't think there was anything funny at all about her aunt's name.

When I was in the hospital, sitting for any length of time, especially with my shoulders squared, was difficult, but Mom's words rung out sharper than my pain. Sit up straight, Deena. Sit up straight, Deena.

I view my reflection in the mosaic mirror that hangs in the upstairs loft bedroom. I have no recollection of having climbed the staircase to the second story; my mother's voice often takes away my own reminiscences.

"Is there a washer there? How about a dryer?"

Mom's questions make me feel like I'm a child. I relax my jaw, trying not to grit my teeth, and then slowly answer her questions in the affirmative. I can tell that she is pleased to know her daughter will be able to wash and dry her clothing. When Mom and I hang up, I meander around the loft, and then make the bed, pulling the lavender quilt over the sheets. Someone made this quilt; I finger the fabric as I study the stitches. I wonder if my grandmother, Grandpa Ernest's wife, was a quilter. She died before I was born, and I know almost nothing about her.

Downstairs, in the sunny living room, a scarlet quilt drapes over the back of the overstuffed sofa, and I note the pattern of leaves. Jeannie quilts and has tried to interest me, but I can't say I really care to learn. There are things in life you hope to do some day-like ride in a hot air balloon or go to Paris-and then there are things that you know you will never do because, in a nutshell, the desire isn't there.

On the wall behind the sofa are two pictures. The one that catches my eye is a framed print of a woman in a gold and deep-red kimono. The cloth of the kimono looks shiny and smooth. A bright fan the color of cherry blossoms covers the right side of the woman's delicate face. I wonder why she has the fan in that position. Perhaps the right side of her face has a huge mole or wart. Or maybe she was in an accident and her face is scarred. Maybe she had to have 179 stitches. Perhaps she even had plastic surgery. Suddenly, I feel an attachment to this painting. I stand back and give it another look. Then my cell phone rings again.

"Where is the nearest store?" Dad asks anxiously.

"What?"

"Your mom wants to know what the closest grocery store to you is called. She forgot to ask you."

"Ingle's," I say.

"Ingle's," Dad repeats, and I can hear my mother say, "Oh, okay." I can't tell whether she approves of this grocery store chain or not. I know her favorite place to shop for fresh produce is Publix. She will drive an extra ten miles for the opportunity to buy carrots, lettuce, red peppers, and peaches at Publix.

My dad says that Mom thought this was Piggly Wiggly country. I wonder why she makes such a fuss over supermarket chains.

Dad tells me he loves me, and suddenly I wish I were in Tifton, walking with him in thigh-high black rubber boots, feeding slop to the newest batch of rosy piglets and listening to him talk about the latest gadget he might buy. His "I love you" is tender, just like it was when he first came to see me in the hospital after the accident. There I was a mass of white bandages, and he found my cheek and gave it his signature kiss.

I tell him I love him, too, and when he hangs up I still feel the warmth of his voice through the phone.

I forget the kimono woman and her hidden face and head up the stairs to the bathroom by the loft. Earlier, I had my first breakfast (wheat toast with butter) in the cabin and I'm about to take my first shower.

The bathroom is painted forest green with tan molding along the ceiling. From the window I see the gravel driveway where my Jeep is parked and the thin, winding road that took me up here yesterday afternoon. I shudder and back away from the view. Sometimes it's best not to see just how high up the mountain you are.

After my shower, I dry off using a towel I brought here, even though the cabin's closets are stocked with fluffy, soft towels and rose-scented sheets and pillowcases. As usual, I'm trapped into looking at my ragged scars. I can cover the one on my abdomen with clothing and avoid short skirts or shorts so that the ones on my thighs are hidden. I wonder how I can make it through a summer without exposing my arms, though. I follow the deep indentations with my finger. Train tracks-I have my own set. Two long lines run from just above my wrist up to my bicep on my right arm. Sometimes I think of them as the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.

"Do people ever name their scars?" I asked Dr. Bland one afternoon as the clouds filled the sky and the weatherman predicted snow by midnight.

He smiled and told me my scars would fade.

Chef B joked that it was good that Dr. Bland was a doctor and not a restaurant owner because who would want to eat at Bland's Restaurant? "Not good for the business," the chef said in his Spanish accent. "People think food won't be spicy or very flavor."

I am still in my bathrobe with my wet hair dripping down my neck when Sally calls. At first I can't find my cell phone again. I rush down the stairs to answer before it goes to voice mail. I have no idea when I placed my phone on the kitchen counter.

"Glad you made it to North Carolina," Sally says. "You sound out of breath. Are you okay?"

"So far, so good."

"How's the cabin?"

I think of the first thing that came to my mind when I entered the cabin yesterday. "Sunny," I say. Sunlight had filled every inch of the downstairs area as it poured through the windows, even the windows in the sloping ceiling. Light streamed across the hardwood floors-floors partially covered by a collection of round and square throw rugs. Even the purple Mexican hat with yellow tassels hanging by a nail on the wall by the hallway glistened festively. I was so glad to see the sun after the downpour I'd experienced when leaving Georgia. "There're windows along all the living room and dining room walls," I tell Sally.

"Is there a fireplace?"

I know Sally thinks a fireplace makes or breaks a place. She told me that during her years at the veterinary school in Vermont, her apartment's ceiling leaked whenever the upstairs tenant ran his dishwasher, the pantry had a live-in mouse, the odor of fried fish permeated the walls, and yet there was one saving factor: the apartment had a fireplace. Sally lit a fire every night during the cold months-of which apparently there are many in Vermont-and studied by the glowing flames.

"Yeah," I tell her as I walk over to the white stone fireplace. "And even a hot tub out on the deck." I push a blue drape back from the window to view the hot tub. Actually I don't even know if it works. The thick tan cover spreads over it like a skin, and it looks too heavy for one person to remove. Maybe my aunt can help me with that, I think. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a memory hits me. The last time I sat in a hot tub, Lucas was with me. He asked what kind of engagement ring I wanted. He took my hand, caressed my fingers, and then kissed each fingertip. "When we get married," he said, "let's get a hot tub."

"So"-Sally bursts into my thoughts-"what's next? How are the brochures?"

The brochures are part of my plan to start my own cake-decorating business here in the mountains. Eventually, I want to expand to a full-fledged catering business, but I'm going to start with cakes and see how it goes. I did a mockup of the cover weeks ago, but I still need to work on the inside copy. Sally wants to hear something positive, so I say, "It's so beautiful here. I know I'll be inspired to work on the brochures."

She sounds relieved. And I'm grateful I can protect her from how I really feel. I don't want her to worry. Let me be the one who worries in this friendship. There's no point in both of us filling that role.

When the conversation ends, exhaustion fills me, as though I've just made a five-course dinner in record time. I slide onto the bar stool. Resting my chin in the palms of my hands, my elbows supported by the counter, I stare at nothing. Then I feel warm tears fall along my fingers. Growling like a captured animal, I start to form the words. "I hate him." The sound of my own voice scares me; the tears fall faster. "I hate that he left me," I cry to the walls, the kitchen utensils, and the pictures. I turn to see the woman with the fan hiding half of her face. Annoyed that the picture is there and that I have no idea why she has that fan covering her, I yell, "I hate you, too!"

I don't even know her.

My gaze rests on my right arm, and although my arm is fully covered by the sleeve of my terry-cloth bathrobe, I know what lies beneath. I shouldn't take a shower or bath. There is just too much damage to see. Who knew a Mustang was so sharp? The word shattered shattered comes at me like a large grizzly, teeth bared and ready to pounce. comes at me like a large grizzly, teeth bared and ready to pounce.

As I pull on a pair of khakis and a pink long-sleeved shirt, I remind myself that I won the Georgia Teen Cook Award at the state fair when I was a senior in high school. This reminder is supposed to make me feel better-alive, worthy, and capable. The mayor presented me with a gold-embossed certificate and a check for fifty dollars. He told me that my winning entry-a strawberry cream pastry-was surely a sign that my life would be filled with "everything sweet from here on out." Easy for him to say; he was the mayor of Atlanta.

When I push open the sliding glass door leading to the deck, I think of how I spread the mounds of thick whipped cream onto the buttery crust of that pastry over a decade ago.

Two squirrels scamper over a mossy tree stump, reminding me that I'm not in Atlanta anymore. I take in the serene vista from the wide deck. Here at the end of April, the landscape of distant sloping mountain peaks still holds a wintery feel. There is promise of gentle green, but for the most part, the hues are still stark and brown. Except for the evergreens. Their bushy limbs spread across the pine-needle-covered terrain around me and soak up the sun's rays.

As a sparrow darts toward one of the limbs, I stand as tall as I can, lifting my chin toward a pale sky with broken clouds. I breathe in the moist earthy air and then attempt a smile. My tear-stained cheeks feel raw; I smile as broadly as I can-hopeful.

"I'm here for a new start," I say aloud, and am surprised that my voice does not waver or crack as it glides toward the mountain peak. From behind the cabin, the familiar mew of a catbird replies. Catbirds greeted me every afternoon in Tifton when the bus brought me home from school. Whenever I hear them I can't help but think of my customary after-school snack of milk and peanut butter oatmeal cookies.

Through a cluster of tree trunks to the right of the driveway, I can see one distant house the color of oregano. A gravel road winds around it. No other houses are close by, and I have the feeling that, except for nature, I'm alone.

When a breeze picks up, I head inside to continue the task of unpacking. I find room for Easy Cooking Easy Cooking in the narrow bookcase that rests against the wall by the fireplace. in the narrow bookcase that rests against the wall by the fireplace.

The case sits under an ink drawing of an ornate elephant. The beast is draped in cloths that flash red and blue jewels. On his head is a crown with sparkling diamonds. His trunk is raised and mouth opened. He is either protesting all the adornments or proud to look so majestic.

I think to myself that I probably own more cookbooks than Julia Child. I unpack each of the colorful books containing glossy photos of prize-winning desserts; each tome is almost as heavy as a sack of cake flour. I have a complete set of Southern Living Southern Living cookbooks and one by James Beard that has a burned patch on the cover. cookbooks and one by James Beard that has a burned patch on the cover.

Am I really going to teach children how to cook? Why would my grandfather make this request of me? Why would he think I could do it?

A cookbook that does not belong to me catches my eye. The spine reads 101 Ways to Create Fabulous Cakes. 101 Ways to Create Fabulous Cakes. I take the book from the shelf, and the layered lemon cake on the cover looks good enought to eat. When I open the first page, something falls from it onto the floor. I pick up a white businesssized envelope. When I turn it over I see my name printed in bold letters: I take the book from the shelf, and the layered lemon cake on the cover looks good enought to eat. When I open the first page, something falls from it onto the floor. I pick up a white businesssized envelope. When I turn it over I see my name printed in bold letters: FOR DEENA. FOR DEENA.

seven.

Easing myself onto a throw rug the color of raspberries, I cross my legs. I've sat like this since I was a little girl in Girl Scouts. I feel like a kid now, getting ready to open something that holds an element of surprise. I finger the white envelope for a moment. Then I guess. From the feel of it, the contents must be thin, like a sheet of paper. It could be a photo wrapped in paper. A check? Cash?

Inserting my finger under the back flap of the envelope, I open it. Reaching inside, I take out a folded legal-sized sheet of yellow, lined paper. I unfold the page to view a handwritten letter addressed to me.

Dear Deena, Life is never as we expect it.The love of my life died early. Your grandmother was only sixty-one. But she could have been seventy-one or ninety-one-any time to lose her would not have been a good time.She encouraged me, Deena. She loved her children and grandchildren. She loved life, the rolling hills in the summer, green with life, the frozen pond in the winter. She taught me how to ice skate, how to listen for each bird and learn its call.Sometimes I have wondered why we have to face so much sorrow in this world. Our sorrows often multiply, our disappointments increase, and our hearts are heavy. Perhaps this life is not the one we would have chosen. Ah yes, we would choose ease over growth, riches over courage.How can one live amidst all the barbs of this life? I have struggled to find out how, and have always come up with the same answer: Trust God. Put your whole hand in His, not just one finger or two. Get to know the feel of your hand in His. This is the only way I have found to live, really live."The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances." Martha Washington said that, and I can't help but find a great deal of truth in her statement.So I must conclude that life is never as we expect it. Life is what we make it.I want you to try my recipe for Southern Peanut Soup. See if you can taste all the flavors. Sometimes you have to concentrate on the good in order to experience it. The good stuff in life doesn't always come with a big sign around its neck. We have to look, to seek. You can't help but find when your hand is firmly encased in His.Love,Your Grandpa Ernest