I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t want to hurt my parents, like my brother had hurt them. I never wanted to be that person. Loyalty was important to me. I loved them and honoring my parents influenced every decision I made.
But then an image of Cletus from last week appeared in my mind’s eye, asking, Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
No.
I can’t.
The answer rang through me like a bell, right and true.
Gathering a deep breath and holding on to the kitchen counter, I looked at my mother, met her stare straight on, and forced myself to say, “No.”
She flinched, her long, black lashes fluttering rapidly as she blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“No,” I said with more volume. My hands were sweating and my galloping heart lodged in my throat. “No. I will not pay Mr. Northumberland special attention. He makes me uncomfortable and I don’t like him, so the answer is no.”
My momma gaped. I held her stare. Clouds of sorrow and disappointment pierced her shock and gathered behind her eyes. But before she could give voice to it, our guests arrived for my demonstration.
Her eyes flickered to the arriving party. She faltered for a moment before successfully donning her mask. Stepping away from me, she held her hand out to Ms. Kirkland, an investment banker from Boston.
Meanwhile, I continued gripping the edge of the counter and stared at the shredded coconut, my blood pumping loudly between my ears, realizing with no small amount of wonder that I’d just said no to my mother for the first time since I was a teenager.
I said no. And I survived.
I didn’t know how to feel—relieved or miserable—because one of us was going to be disappointed. And that meant one of us was going be hurt.
***
I didn’t want to go home.
With a butternut squash pie, two loaves of sourdough bread, and a dark chocolate cake with chocolate coconut meringue frosting in my front seat, I’d been driving around the mountain for two hours. It was now almost 8:30 PM and my momma would be finishing up dinner with the investors soon. I didn’t want to be home when she got there.
I didn’t want a confrontation.
My original plan for the cake, when I’d baked it earlier in the day, was to drop it off at the Winston place. Today was the one-year anniversary of their mother’s death. I knew their momma, but every kid who went to the local library knew Bethany Winston. She used to read the books at story time and she’d do all the voices. She was amazing and kind and everything I wanted to be when—or if—I became a mother.
I couldn’t imagine how they must’ve mourned her passing. Cake wouldn’t make things better, but sometimes it helped add some sweet and softness to the sting.
Problem was, once I dropped off the cake, I had nowhere to go. So I drove and listened to talk radio. Finally, around 8:45, I realized I couldn’t wait any longer. Calling in on people after 9:00 PM was just plain rude.
Resolute, I took the turn onto Moth Run Road and navigated to the Winston place. As I approached the main house, my eyebrows arched at the number of cars parked in the drive.
Ten. There were ten cars.
I parked next to Cletus’s Geo but didn’t cut the engine, uncertain how to proceed.
Ten cars meant they had company. I didn’t want to impose or interrupt. And who was I anyway? I was no one. They didn’t know me.
I studied the big, old wraparound porch, the line of rocking chairs, and the large wooden bench swing hanging from the rafters. It was a fine old house and obviously had been recently renovated with great care.
My eye caught on a small pedestal table next to the front door. Inspired by a sudden idea, I jumped out of my car, jogged to the passenger side door and opened it. I tucked a loaf of bread under each arm, grabbed the pie with one hand and balanced the cake in the other.
As quietly as possible, I tiptoed up the porch steps and approached the pedestal, noting with relief that there was enough room for all of my offerings, if I stacked them. I could leave the items on the table, knock, and make a run for it. Basically, a baker’s version of ding-dong-ditch.
At least, that was my plan.
I was just setting the first loaf on top of the pie box when the front door opened quite suddenly and forcefully, surprising the tar out of me. An inelegant gasp escaped my lungs and I jumped a step back, clutching both loaves of sourdough to my chest.
“Jumpy Jennifer,” Cletus’s gaze moved down, then up, “you’re in jeans.”
I closed my eyes, releasing a shaky breath. “Heavens, you frightened me.”
“Moi? The blind, toothless rabbit?”
I opened my eyes but couldn’t catch my smile before it bloomed over my face. “Here, Peter. These are for you.” I held out the loaves.
“Peter? Peter Rabbit wasn’t blind or toothless.” Cletus plucked the bread from my hands. “But he did take unnecessary risks based on the whims of his stomach. Consequently, I accept the comparison.”
I watched him smell one and then the other, his expression thoughtful. He lifted a single eyebrow. “These are sourdough.”