Free The Memory of Lemon by Judith Fertig Page A

acted like the breeze had blown something in my eye.
    We all got back in the car right before the ferry docked. I had to settle down, focus on the job at hand and not my personal life.
    Gavin drove up the ramp in front of that gorgeous Georgian brick and we were on Riverside Drive, heading east. He took it slow so we could admire the historic homes as we passed.
    In front of the old Methodist church, now a residence, we turned right onto Bracken Street and then left onto a gravel road that wound through the trees and up a hill, away from town.
    According to Lydia’s hand-drawn map, the log cabin we were seeking was off the beaten path, tucked back in the hillside near Bracken Creek.
    With the windows down, I could hear a little waterfall somewhere. New leaves were just budding on the trees, but the ivy and other creepers high in the tree canopy provided a dappled light. A clean, sharp smell came in on the fresh breeze, and just as quickly, I could taste it. Really taste it. Citrus and spice mixed together.
    I had a momentary flash.
    An older woman and a younger man, sitting next to each other in the lantern light, traveling down the river on some kind of flat barge by night. The two of them again in a market stall, in some rough-hewn town, with a tiny, dark-haired woman carrying a market basket.
    Just as quickly, they were all gone.
    This didn’t make any sense to me just yet, but I felt we were in the right place.
    â€œIf Lydia wants her wedding here, we’ll have to shuttle the guests to the cabin,” Roshonda said, typing a note into her phone again. “We can’t have women in stilettos or teetering great-grandpas traipsing up this road.”
    We made a sharp turn up and to the right, following the road, and came out onto a clearing, a plateau on the hilltop, fringed with trees. And there were two cabins, with aged, silvery logs and clay chinking that still looked pretty good. A dogtrot, sort of a covered breezeway, linked the two cabins. A split-rail fence enclosed the garden, laid out in a foursquare pattern. To the side was a big barn, and that got Roshonda excited.
    â€œA barn wedding! I’ve always wanted to do one,” she exclaimed, jumping out of the car.
    â€œIt’s a tobacco barn,” said Gavin.
    â€œHow can you tell?” I asked.
    â€œSee how they’ve left the wood dark and not painted it red or white? That’s to increase the heat from the sun. The roof is high-pitched, and when we look inside we’ll see tiers of beams where farmers hang bundles of tobacco leaves to dry. There will be a big door on each gabled end that opens to help the hot air circulate.”
    â€œYou never cease to amaze me, Nichols,” Ben said. “You could kick ass on a game show.”
    â€œHey, if this barn looks decent inside, we’ve all won the lottery with an event space,” said Gavin.
    We walked through the split-rail gate to the grassy area leading to the barn.
    We needed Ben to push open the weathered barn door. It was difficult to see the interior at first, until Ben opened the barn door at the other end. The light flooded in and we gazed at a simple, spare space of soaring proportions. It was rustic and yet somehow elegant at the same time.
    â€œI can see those strings of Italian lights inside, along the beams,” Gavin said. “Or crystal chandeliers. Such a contrast. Yes!” He pulled a little gadget out of his pocket and aimed the tiny red beam from the front barn door across to the back door. “Sixty feet,” he said. “Probably three times that for the width of this barn. You could have a big party in here, all right.”
    As he and Roshonda conferred about dance floors and bar stations and porta-potties, and Ben checked out how the barn was constructed, I left to wander in the garden.
    Here would be my inspiration for desserts. I took out my notebook and sketched the rough design of the garden. Maybe this design on a flavored