Free The Memory of Lemon by Judith Fertig

started to peep out from the low clouds. The sloping banks on either side were shedding the drabness of winter for new spring greenery.
    Shortly after we passed Ulysses Grant’s birthplace at Point Pleasant, we saw the sign and turned down the gravel road to the ferry landing.
    We got out of the car to wait, watching the six-car ferry chug its way back from the Kentucky side. The air was warming, and we could see fog drift up from the cold water.
    â€œThis reminds me of that old movie
Brigadoon
,” said Gavin.“Gene Kelly is on vacation in Scotland and comes across this enchanted village shrouded in mist. Brigadoon comes alive for only one day every hundred years. The mist parts, and, of course, he falls in love with this beautiful girl who can really dance . . .”
    â€œWho wouldn’t?” asked Roshonda, who, memorably, had tried to teach us the Roger Rabbit and the Tootsie Roll back in the day.
    â€œCyd Charisse! She was the beautiful girl who could dance.” Somehow I knew that.
    â€œAnd they’re separated by forces bigger than they are . . .” Gavin continued.
    â€œLike a hundred years between dates,” chimed Roshonda.
    Gavin and Roshonda laughed.
    Ben and I were silent.
    Again, Roshonda gave me a look.
    Gavin drove the car onto the ferry, and then we all walked onto the deck. Soon, the ferry plied its way back across the river.
    Like Lydia said, I could feel the river beneath my feet.
    As we got closer, the Augusta skyline came into view. I was glad I had done my homework, so I could recognize what I was seeing firsthand. No wonder this late-eighteenth-century river town had been the setting of several movies. A row of houses fronted the river: an old brick Georgian from the late eighteenth century with a fanlight brought from colonial Virginia, a few white Greek Revivals, a carpenter Gothic, a Victorian painted lady, and at the end of Riverside Drive, the stucco facade of the old Methodist church, built in 1819.
    â€œGenteel. Charming. Sort of a visual history timeline. Itwould make a great Christmas card,” said Gavin, framing the view with his hands.
    â€œOr a wedding invitation.” Roshonda snapped the view with her camera. As we got closer to shore, she said, “She was right. It is like stepping back in time.”
    â€œThis could work,” Gavin said suddenly, inspired. “We could make something beautiful here.”
    â€œSure could,” Roshonda agreed. “People always say they want a destination wedding, and then they pick someplace where half their friends can’t afford to go. Here you get the best of both worlds. It feels like you’re somewhere else, but you’re fairly close to Queen City.”
    â€œI’ll bet the ferry company would keep going past its ten o’clock last call if the price were right,” Ben said.
    â€œNote to self,” Roshonda said, typing it into her phone.
    Ben had actually spoken. Maybe the day was going to improve.
    â€œOr guests could just stay in Augusta. We’ll have to check out the accommodation situation here,” I said. “I wouldn’t like to drink at the reception and then face an hour and a half drive back to Queen City.”
    I touched Ben’s arm, but he didn’t respond. He wouldn’t look at me. I turned away, my eyes stinging with tears. How was trying to do things the right way somehow wrong?
    I guess I was still following the rules. But that’s what pastry chefs do. There is a proportion range for everything—ratios for the amount of dry ingredients to wet, how much batter can go into a pan, the time it takes to beat an egg white until foamy and one that is at its full billowy peak.
    I wanted to be with Ben, but I wanted a cushion for Gran, too.She would need it soon enough, and I had earned it twice over during the years I’d set aside my own dreams for my cheating husband’s. I pulled a tissue from my purse and