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She just shrugs. “It’s a good day.”
I try not to grumble. I’m always thankful for the good days. But she doesn’t need to do anything to make it worse when she knows I’m nearby, ready to help her out.
Slipping off her orange plaid oven mitts, she turns to fully face me. “Turn off your worried face. I told you I won’t do more than I feel I can, and I’m sticking to that.”
“In hindsight, that’s a pretty vague promise.”
Especially from a woman who hates to admit there’s anything she can’t do.
“I stopped by Evans Orchards and had to get a few pounds of peaches. I can’t help it if they demanded being turned into a delicious pie.”
Can’t blame her. Evans Orchards has the best peaches around. “Always listen to the peaches.”
Her smile turns wistful. “Sometimes I miss it, you know.”
My face probably mirrors hers. “I know.”
Mom owned Butter & Batter for almost twenty years. Right up until her arthritis got so bad she couldn’t bake anymore. Selling Grandma and Grandpa’s land was hard on her, but it was worse for her to sell the bakery she’d built from the ground up and poured so much love into.
It’s still going strong, though—the new owners didn’t turn it into a condo or anything like that. I even stop in sometimes when I want a slice of pie with a debilitating wave of nostalgia.
“They’re selling hand pies at the farmers market now. Did you know that?” She sits at the kitchen table, surreptitiously rubbing one of her wrists. Her hair is in a bun so messy, I can’t tell if it’s intentional or accidental. It might not be as good a day as she claims. “They’ve got a cute little display case and everything. I wish I’d thought of that.”
“Marketing’s tricky.” It hurts to watch her knobby fingers massage the base of her thumb. I go to the sink and fill it with soapy water to take care of the dishes left over from her illicit baking.
“Are you doing anything at the market yet for the bookstore?”
“Not yet, but Georgia has ideas.”
“Ooh, tell me about these ideas. That girl cracks me up.”
“She found an old adult tricycle onFound & Freebiesa few weeks ago. It’s got a big wooden box mounted between the twofront tires. She’s dead set on converting it into a bookmobile and taking it to the farmers market in the spring.”
Mom’s laughter fills the kitchen. “I bet it will look good, too.”
“It will. Georgia’s got a vision for stuff like that.”
“Are you helping her convert the bike?”
“The mechanics of that aren’t really my strong suit. Her brother and grandpa will do that part.” I just rode it from its previous owner’s place to her apartment. With an afternoon of experience, I can safely say that thing is a beast. Can’t imagine how it will handle filled with books, but I love her enthusiasm.
“She’s a real nice girl.” Mom’s pause is a verbal shove in the back. No doubt she’s waiting for a detailed confession.
I go on scrubbing bowls. I haven’t expressed to her in wordshow I feel about Georgia, but it’s clear I’ve said more than enough without them.
“Is she seeing anyone?” Mom’s curiosity has a pushy lilt to it.
“Nope.”
“That’s a shame. Someone should snap her up.”
I make a noncommittal sound, even though I wouldverymuch like to commit to snapping up Georgia.
I rinse the dishes and set them aside. Wiping my hands, I turn to face Mom. “What else can I do?”
There’s always something. Her arthritis flareups can make even the simplest household chores excruciating. Her medications and herbal remedies only do so much.
“Just sit around and wait for the pie to cool.”
