Her grandmother's recipe box was small and dented, painted red at some point and faded to a color that didn't have a name. Inside: index cards. Her grandmother's handwriting, which she recognized. But some of the cards had notes written to someone named Eleanor.
Add extra lemon if Eleanor is coming — on the pound cake card. Eleanor doesn't like sage, use thyme — on the Thanksgiving stuffing. This is the one Eleanor asked about at Agnes's party — on an unfamiliar chicken dish, no other context.
She went through all the cards. There were eight notes about Eleanor, spanning (she estimated from the changing handwriting and card condition) about twenty years. Eleanor was apparently allergic to tree nuts, strongly disliked celery, and at some point stopped coming to things because the notes became past tense: Eleanor used to like this.
She asked her mother. Her mother didn't know any Eleanor.
She asked her aunt. Her aunt said, "Oh, Eleanor. She was your grandmother's best friend. They had a falling out, I think, before I was born. I never met her."
She went back to the recipe box. Add extra lemon if Eleanor is coming. The note assumed Eleanor would come. The note was written in a time when that was something to prepare for.
She made the pound cake that weekend. Added extra lemon. It was good. She thought about saying something at the table but didn't. What would she say? This is for someone none of us knew. That was true but it seemed like it needed more explanation than she had.
She kept the recipe box. She still uses the cards sometimes. The notes about Eleanor are still there. She thinks of her occasionally — a woman she'll never meet, who had a taste for lemon.