“When we moved, I found this,” their mother told thecounter, and both men’s focus returned to her.“I honestly didn’t remember itexisted until we moved.He’d made them so often, he didn’t need it anymore.Itwas in a cookbook I hadn’t opened in ages.”
She turned and was holding a piece of yellow-ruled paper.
“I’ve been holding on to it for the right time.Now is theright time.I made a copy, you get that,” she said that last part to Dutch.Then to Jag, “You get the original.”
“What is it?”Jagger asked.
“Your father’s recipe for peanut butter and chocolate chippancakes.”
Jagger reached out a hand because suddenly, he was reeling.
“Jag?”
On his tongue, he tasted butter and syrup and peanuts andchocolate.
And in his mind’s eye, misty and unclear, sitting at thetable he was sitting at, a dark-haired man was smiling at him.
What was not misty and unclear was what was in that smile.
And what was in it was everything.
“Jag!”
He came back into his mother’s kitchen and saw Keely close,Dutch too, and Dutch had his fingers wrapped tight around the back of Jagger’sneck.
But he gave his attention to his ma.
“Dad made those for us,” he said.
“Every Sunday,” she replied quietly.
Every Sunday.
Dutch took his hand from his brother.
“And now, you can make them for your women, and when theyarrive, for your babies,” she went on.“And I can promise you, your fatherwould love that.”
They heard a crinkle noise and both men looked down to thepaper Keely was still holding.
There were stains and some of the ink had run.
But in bold blue strokes, Graham Black had listedingredients and measurements and minimal instructions to guide his way inmaking the Sunday morning pancakes he made his family.
And at the bottom there were some squiggly marks that lookedlike big blobs with some points.
“You were trying to draw hearts,” Keely said.“To tell yourdad how much you loved his pancakes.That’s probably why he kept it when hedidn’t need it anymore.Those hearts.”
Both men looked up, but her gaze was on Jagger.
“Me?”he asked, feeling his heart pound.
“Yeah,” she said then she turned to Dutch.“That’s why hegets it, honey.It’s him and his dad on that piece of paper.Do youunderstand?”
“Yeah, Ma,” Dutch replied.“Totally.”
Jag was staring down at the paper with his father’s writingand Jag’s “hearts.”
No one said anything for long beats.
