The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go Read online

  PRAISE FOR AMY E. REICHERT

  THE SIMPLICITY OF CIDER

  “Reichert captures the food, relationships, and unique settings of the Midwest at their best. I was absolutely charmed by The Simplicity of Cider.”

  —J. Ryan Stradal, New York Times bestselling author of Kitchens of the Great Midwest

  “Deep family secrets and undeniable attraction collide in this wonderfully atmospheric and heartwarming tale. . . . As deliciously satisfying as a crisp glass of the cider Amy E. Reichert so masterfully describes.”

  —Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Sweetness of Forgetting

  “A lot charming and a little bit magical, Reichert’s latest is warm and poignant and romantic . . . between the humor and the heart lies a subplot of family and setting yourself free—framed beautifully by a story that won’t let go.”

  —RT Book Reviews (four-star review)

  “The Simplicity of Cider is a novel as delicious as cider and as enchanting as magic—both of which are found in measured doses throughout the book. . . . A lovely book, meant to be savored.”

  —Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Guests on South Battery

  “Brimming with hilarity, magic, and heartwarming unexpected relationships, The Simplicity of Cider is the ultimate ode to celebrating the dazzling splendor in small things. This will give you more fuzzy feelings than you can count.”

  —Redbook

  “Another terrific read . . . if you haven’t read Amy Reichert yet, I highly recommend you check her out.”

  —Bobbi Dumas, Kirkus Reviews

  LUCK, LOVE & LEMON PIE

  “Laugh-out-loud, hold-on-to-your-panties women’s fiction. The characters are game for anything when it comes to getting back what they think they have lost. Reichert is a talented author.”

  —RT Book Reviews (four-star review)

  “Luck, Love & Lemon Pie is touching, clever, and a hell of a lot of fun. Amy E. Reichert somehow manages to not only tell a stirring story about modern marriage, but also transport you poolside in Vegas. Simply put, Luck, Love & Lemon Pie is a great bet.”

  —Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of Maybe in Another Life and After I Do

  “With relatable characters and a lot of heart, Reichert delivers a story that is both entertaining and wise, and leaves you believing that, when it comes to true happiness, you can create your own luck.”

  —Karma Brown, bestselling author of Come Away with Me

  “Reichert’s second novel, after the popular The Coincidence of Coconut Cake (2015), will appeal to readers who enjoy a lighter look at self-discovery, family, and friendship.”

  —Booklist

  “An enjoyable and thought-provoking exploration of a modern-day marriage in midlife crisis.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  THE COINCIDENCE OF COCONUT CAKE

  “A delectable novel.”

  —Bookreporter

  “Deliciously entertaining! Amy E. Reichert’s voice is warm and funny in this delightful ode to second chances and the healing power of a meal cooked with love.”

  —Meg Donohue, USA Today bestselling author of All the Summer Girls and How to Eat a Cupcake

  “Amy E. Reichert writes like your best friend and reading her words is like having that friend whisper them into your ear. The Coincidence of Coconut Cake is a delicious story of food, love, and a wink at what people will do to have their cake and eat it, too.”

  —Ann Garvin, author of The Dog Year and Maggie’s Watch

  “Highly recommended that you eat before reading this book . . . a light, fun read that feels a bit like eating dessert for dinner.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Well-developed secondary characters and detailed descriptions of the Milwaukee food scene will leave readers hungry for more. Fans of Stacey Ballis and Erica Bauermeister will find lots to love.”

  —Booklist

  “Amy Reichert brings sweetness and substance to her delicious debut. Sign me up for second helpings!”

  —Lisa Patton, bestselling author of Whistlin’ Dixie in a Nor’Easter

  “Amy E. Reichert takes the cake with this charming tale of food, friendship, and fate.”

  —Beth Harbison, New York Times bestselling author of If I Could Turn Back Time

  “Reichert’s quirky and endearing debut skillfully and slyly examines identity and community while its characters find love in surprising places. Clever, creative, and sweetly delicious.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

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  To Ainsley, you are the best of us. To Unc, we miss you every day.

  The more a daughter knows about the details of her mother’s life—without flinching or whining—the stronger the daughter.

  —Anita Diamant, The Red Tent

  WHAT IS ONE FACT YOU KNOW TO BE TRUE?

  CHAPTER ONE

  1. Throw away Xmas cards.

  2. Shower.

  3. Put May’s clean clothes outside her door.

  4. Shred extra cheese.

  5. Lunch prep.

  6. Call Mom.

  Gina Zoberski crossed out number five, then turned to her first customer, muscle memory curving her lips into a smile. In minutes, her griddle sizzled with grilled cheese sandwiches as she lined up waxed paper and cardboard boats, cold air fluttering the paper as it mingled with the warm air inside Grilled G’s, her gourmet grilled cheese food truck. She checked the sandwiches as they browned, pausing long enough to look at the text message from her food truck neighbor Monica, who ran On a Roll—serving an ever-changing menu of food on rolls, from sausages to grilled veggies.

  C’S MAKING THE ROUNDS.

  Gina smiled as she looked out her own truck’s window, above the heads of her waiting customers. Sure enough, Charlotte was headed her way, shuffling carefully across the icy sidewalk as she pulled her hand from the aged red plastic Sendik’s bag looped on her arm. She wore an oversize black coat with large bulging pockets that fell past her knees. A spotted knit scarf hid half her face, and a dark hat with ear flaps covered her normally wild pale reddish curls. Though she wasn’t old, she looked drawn thin from the lack of sleep, the skin hanging from her bones, as if lacking the substance to fill her out properly.

  Gina finished up the sandwiches, handed them off to people who’d been waiting, and immediately started three of her Classic grilled cheeses, a combination of Colby-Jack, American, and provolone on fresh Italian bread with a lot of butter, crisp and golden. She’d learned long ago to grill both slices of bread for each sandwich at the same time, topping them with shredded cheese, and bringing them together at the end to complete it. It took half the time and was just as delicious.

  “Hi, Charlotte. That’s a pretty scarf. Staying warm?” Charlotte said nothing in response. “The usual?”

  “Yes. I’m in a rush.” The words were muffled by her scarf. She slid three crumpled and torn dollar bills and six quarters across the counter—the cost of one grilled cheese with chips.

  “Be ready in a moment.”

  Gina slid the money into her cash drawer as Charlotte peered over her shoulder and clutched her bag closer. It looked heavy. She must have already visited most of the stands today. Sh
e finished the Classic, making sure to singe one corner. Gina then wrapped it carefully in aluminum foil and handed it to her with a bag of potato chips. As Charlotte stepped to the side of the line and greedily unwrapped the food, Gina took three more orders and finished grilling the other two sandwiches she had started, wrapping them like the first. Charlotte’s “ahem” sounded like clockwork.

  An ear-flapped head poked around the window.

  “Yes, Charlotte?” Gina knew what was coming.

  “You burned the bread. I’m not paying for this.” She held the slightly darkened corner up to the window.

  “Of course not.” Seamlessly, she handed Charlotte the waiting sandwiches. “Here’s a replacement and an extra to make up for the inconvenience. I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

  Charlotte humphed and stuffed the new sandwiches into her bag and scuttled off toward the edge of the park, where she handed one of the aluminum foil packets to the bedraggled man sitting on the bench before heading down the street out of sight. Gina smiled in her direction before returning her focus to the growing line, settling into the lunch rush routine.

  She was grateful for the familiar bustle. Being busy kept her mind focused—off the past, the present, and—most worrisome—the future. Once the lunch crowd swarmed, she couldn’t think about the reason she could afford her shiny, custom-built food truck, or why she needn’t worry about giving extra grilled cheese sandwiches to Charlotte on a regular basis. When her financial adviser had told her how much money she would receive, she had gasped, but the sum hadn’t made her any less angry.

  Take the order, butter the bread, add the cheese, grill, assemble the sandwich, cut, wrap. Repeat. One to-do list she had completed so often, she no longer needed to write it down.

  Her little sister Vicky regularly suggested a therapist might be a healthier route, but Grilled G’s had gotten her through just fine. In Gina’s experience, cheese made everything better—Parmesan on popcorn, crispy fried goat cheese in a salad, a swipe of cream cheese on a toasted bagel, or melted gouda on an egg sandwich. She even liked a dollop of sweetened mascarpone on a slice of warm cherry pie instead of ice cream. But grilled cheese, gooey from the griddle, crisp on the outside, melty on the inside, that was the pinnacle of dairy possibility.

  No matter how it was dressed up, with balsamic reductions or micro greens, a grilled cheese was still luscious goodness between carbs. Simple, wholesome comfort food at its finest. Handheld happiness everyone could enjoy. And Gina loved to make people happy, especially on a cold day like today. Her vibrant orange and yellow food truck gleamed in her regular spot at Red Arrow Park in downtown Milwaukee, a colorful beacon in gray, late December, drawing office workers and city employees like bees to a flower. She’d been running her truck for a little over a year, and she already had a loyal following. The other trucks, a homogenous line of white and silver, offered tacos, soup, and even fresh doughnuts. But no one could walk past Grilled G’s without smiling.

  In the small, stainless steel room, everything had a use, every item an assigned home, and it could all be scrubbed clean with bleach and a hose when a day became extra messy. Black cushioned rubber mats covered the floor so her footing was always sure, and a large window allowed her to stay in the warm portable kitchen and take orders from the customers lined up outside. One end led to the cab containing the driver’s seat, a second seat that folded down for a passenger, and a few steps to get out the door, like a school bus. The other end held an emergency exit that doubled as shelving space. Lining the sides of her galley kitchen were the griddle, burners, a refrigerator, ample workspace, and the requisite number of sinks to pass a health inspection. Every inch had a purpose and had been custom designed just for her with love, including the slightly shorter-than-normal counter and movable shelves she could pull down rather than reaching up.

  Clearheaded, Gina handed another sandwich to a waiting customer and looked up to take another order but was greeted with an empty window. Next door, Monica pulled down her awning, sending a wave before climbing back into On a Roll.

  Gina’s heart clenched and the blood thundered through her body. Another lunch rush over. Everything she’d been ignoring rushed in, like a wave filling a sandcastle’s moat, pulling at the castle walls as it swirled. As she braced for the next wave, her phone rang. The tide receded.

  Seeing it was Vicky, she pulled out the earbuds from her pocket, plugged them into her phone, and took the call.

  Before she could even say “Hey,” Vicky started into her tirade.

  “Did you read the e-mail yet?” her sister began. While starting to clean up the counters, Gina mumbled something noncommittal, her body on autopilot.

  Vicky must have interpreted her grunt as a negative response because she kept talking. “I need to read it to you so you get the full impact: ‘Gifts this year were not good.’ Can you believe her? I gave her perfume that cost more than my last epidural. You’d think that would count for something. Our mother actually put her judgment into writing and e-mailed it to us. It hasn’t even been two days since Christmas. She couldn’t even wait a week. I’m going to print this out and frame it. When she dies, it’s going in her coffin.”

  Gina could hear the clank of silverware against a dish in the background. She pictured her sister, earbuds also connected to the phone that was tucked into her back jeans pocket, scrubbing the breakfast dishes while her two three-year-old twins, Maggie and Nathan, smashed Play-Doh together, noshing on freshly cut fruit while the eldest two, Greta and Jake, rolled snow across the backyard to build a snowman. She’d be wearing subtle makeup with her long shiny (faux) blond hair in a sleek ponytail precisely perched on the back of her head, just in case someone stopped by. She worked hard to insulate her kids from the expectations and pretensions of other families from the private school they attended on her husband’s insistence. It was different from their own childhood of tennis lessons at the club and afternoons at the pool while their mom gossiped with the other country club women, who were content to let their children run free as they sipped their chilled white wine under striped umbrellas.

  With her sister still talking, Gina closed up her truck, slid into the driver’s seat, and eased her large truck into west-bound traffic, waiting for a break in the conversation. Her sister paused to take a breath.

  “I’m sure she wasn’t referring to your Christmas gift, the perfume is gorgeous. But you know Mom, she has very specific tastes,” Gina said. They both knew well enough that their mother’s criticism was directed at Gina, not at Vicky. Gina was the problem daughter and always had been, even though Vicky was the one who never edited her thoughts before speaking them. It was Gina who hadn’t married well. Gina who ate too much bread. Gina who didn’t wear the right clothes, or makeup, or dye her grays regularly enough. She’d been hearing the same criticisms her entire life—the worst being “why can’t you be more like Victoria?” A disappointing Christmas gift didn’t even register on the insult scale anymore.

  “Don’t try to spin her royal bitchiness—she knows what she’s doing. Is that how we’re going to be at her age? Crazy and bitter? I’m rooting for a fast-acting cancer or a falling meteor rather than waiting for menopause to do its worst.”

  Gina stilled, shoving the uncomfortable cloud of fear away, focusing on the silver lining. “Don’t think like that. We’re going to live long lives full of grandbabies to spoil. And we’ll always have each other.” She pulled into her own driveway, the drapes still shut tight, no sign that anyone was home. She set her forehead on the wheel, hoping to keep the panic from spreading. It wasn’t working.

  The dead air stretched.

  “You know what I mean,” Vicky said at last, the sound of running water starting and stopping through the phone. She must be done with the dishes. “Where are you? Are you in the food truck?”

  Gina leaned her head back against the steel wall, drawing from its reliable sturdiness the strength to stand and step outside. It didn’t come.

  Re
aching over to the glove compartment, she pulled a plastic bag containing a T-shirt she usually kept hidden in her closet but she occasionally brought with her like a security blanket. She pulled open the bag, her hands twisting the worn jersey fabric between her fingers. She held it to her nose. After two years, most of the scent came from her memory rather than the ragged material, and even that was fading. The thought seized in her chest, kicking her heart into a frantic pace and trapping the air in her lungs. She couldn’t get a breath. The slushy sounds of neighborhood traffic pulled away, and she could only hear her struggling body trying to cope. The cold stainless steel walls poked at Gina with memories.

  Drew’s smile.

  Drew’s laugh.

  Drew’s kiss.

  Ignoring her sister’s questions, she breathed in the fabric, drawing on all the good things around her to get her through this moment.

  Her bright orange and yellow truck stood out in the cold, white Wauwatosa neighborhood made of brick and tan bungalows, the bare trees waiting for spring. She ran her left hand along the wall, the double-stacked wedding bands on her ring finger clinking against the metal—Drew’s had been resized to fit her much smaller finger. Grilled G’s was her husband’s last gift to her before he left. He created it to stand out in a line of food trucks, drawing customers to the popular menu of gourmet grilled cheeses—ranging from a classic American cheese on crisp, buttery Italian bread to a rustic combo of creamy Brie, arugula, and prosciutto on a seed-studded multigrain. She even served a grilled peanut butter and jelly (made with coconut oil instead of butter) for dairy-intolerant customers.

  Grilled G’s was comfort on four wheels, not just for the patrons, but for her as well. Being in it was the closest sensation she had to still being in his arms.

  “Gina, are you there?” Vicky said.

  “I like the way the truck smells like him.” She finally answered Vicky’s question. She could hear her sister’s sigh.