Free The Memory of Lemon by Judith Fertig Page B

sugar cookie? At this point, I didn’t know what I would use and what I wouldn’t, so it was best to write it all down. Heirloom roses were starting to bud, probably rugosas or damask roses, ancient varieties that bloom once a year and are highly scented. Maybe rose in something?
    Herbs were also coming up. I recognized mints, dittany, borage, horehound, and others used a long time ago for tinctures and liniments. I bent over to touch the lemon balm. I couldn’t resist rubbing the aromatic leaf between my fingers and then tasting it.
    Fresh lemon. The young man on the barge came to mind. Who was he? He made me think of my dad. And then Iwondered when I might get another letter from my father. If I ever would again. I still didn’t trust that I could rely on him for anything.
    And then I stopped.
    I wasn’t going down that rabbit hole today. I wanted to enjoy the garden and do the work that I loved.
    In another section of the herb garden, I recognized plantings of scented geraniums. I could use these old-fashioned herbs as well. My favorite, Rober’s Lemon Rose, was an intoxicating blend of citrus and floral with an elegant, sort of filigreed leaf. Maybe a flavored sugar sprinkle, like a sweet gremolata, on soft sugar cookies? Maybe the leaf as an edible garden garnish on a flavored custard tart? I jotted notes to myself.
    I crushed each variety of leaf between my fingers, enjoying the scent. Apple geranium. Velvety chocolate mint. Nutmeg geranium with its tiny leaves that smelled—and then tasted—so evocatively of spice.
    Immediately, I saw the old-fashioned woman in her straw bonnet give a small bundle of sticks to the tiny, dark-haired woman. A remedy of some sort? Something to brew a tea?
    This was a long-ago story I didn’t need to know today. Again, I swept it from my mind and focused my attention on the garden.
    Another quadrant had trellises for climbing plants. English pea tendrils were inching up the wires. Reddish stalks of rhubarb leafed out in abundance. I recognized scallions and the famous Kentucky limestone lettuce that was so crisp and delicious. Someone tended this garden in the family’s absence. I wondered who.
    I cataloged as much as possible before wandering over to the two little cabins joined by the dogtrot. Both doors were locked, but I peered in the windows. There wasn’t much to see. The rooms were sparsely furnished.
    Again I tasted spice, and I thought I heard a fiddle playing. I looked back toward the barn and saw that all three of my friends were still engrossed in it. I sat down on the steps of the dogtrot, held my notebook and pen, and stilled my mind.
    Thoughts of Ben and Luke and Charlie Wheeler tried to invade my peaceful moment, but I brushed them away.
    I crossed the threshold into my happy place, where I transformed colors and flavors and stories into desserts. I imagined Lydia’s wedding in the tobacco barn. Wedding pie. Tarts and cookies with the flavors of her grandmother’s garden.
    As I let my imagination soar, I had a feeling that the stories that came from lemon and spice would lead to more than just creating the perfect wedding desserts. Much more.
    I breathed in and breathed out, centering myself. I had to be patient. The flashbacks would come when they were ready. When I was ready.
    I closed my eyes, imagined the citrus and spice on my tongue.
    Lemon, which usually signified clarity and sharpness, now also whispered, “Wanderer.”
    Spice lingered, as it always did, the flavor that evoked times past. Comforting. Healing. And then it, too, was gone.
    My body thrummed with the energy I knew to be vivid intuition.
    Wanderers. Healers. They had something important to tell me. Not long since, I had used my gift to reunite long-lost sisters.
    Maybe this time I could bring a wanderer home and heal a family.
    Lydia’s family?
    Or mine?
    I began tosketch.

7

    AUTUMN 1825
    AUGUSTA, KENTUCKY
    The Healer
    Abigail Newcomb sat in