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“About praying? Sure.” I looked out into the bookstore then back at her. “Sometime other than now?”
“Well. I guess…ugh.” She ran a hand through her hair then crossed her arms. “Probably.”
“Okay.” What was that? Normally, I could come up with ideas, some kind of speculation. But this? I had nothing. “Is it okay if I eat?”
“Yeah, of course. You can go in the back if you want a table. But I don’t mind if you hang here.”
I pulled the little stool she kept behind the checkout desk away from the wall and sat, balancing my takeout container carefully on my lap. “I like the view here.”
Her cheeks pinked up and it was all I could do not to stand up and pull her into my arms again. But I really didn’t get the feeling she’d welcome that. And it wasn’t just because of the customers in her store.
Something was up. I just wished I knew what it could be.
* * *
“Mom?”I pushed open the front door of my parents’ house and called out. “Everything okay?”
“In the kitchen, hon.”
I let out a breath at her response. She’d sounded frantic when she called me as I was wrapping up at work, so I’d ditched my plan to head to the bookstore and hang out with Megan—maybe get to the bottom of the prayer thing, or whatever else was wrong—and come here instead.
I made sure the door latched after I closed it, toed off my shoes, and padded through my childhood home to the kitchen. It was different than when I’d lived at home. Once I’d finished college, Mom and Dad had taken out an equity loan and completely redone the kitchen and breakfast area. And when I’d made all that money last year, I’d convinced my dad—and gosh had it taken some convincing—to let me pay it off.
“There’s my baby.” Mom wiped her hands on the towel slung over her shoulder and came around the island to wrap me in a hug.
I returned the embrace, smiling at the gentle scent of vanilla that clung to her hair. “What are you making?”
“Oh.” Mom stepped back and glanced at the counters. “I got it in my head to make a traditional British Christmas pudding. They have to steep—I think that’s the term—for several weeks before you serve them. But now I’m not sure it was such a good idea.”
“Hmm.” I pulled out a stool at the island and sat. “New recipes are your thinking experiments. What’s going on?”
Mom flashed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You know me too well.”
“You also sounded like you were about to cry when you called.”
She looked away.
“Mom?”
“Let me get you some cookies. I made them yesterday. Your favorite.” Mom bustled to the counter and opened one of her many Victorian tins. She folded back the wax paper and I spotted the tell-tale cracked surface of snickerdoodles peeking out.
I watched as she piled cookies on a plate and then got down a glass and filled it with milk. I smiled. It was like coming home from practice in high school, although then I probably would have begged for one of her sandwiches to go with it.
“Here you go. Dig in.”
I took a cookie and bit in. Cinnamon and sugar crunched over the creamy cookie—in my brain, I knew she used actual lard to make them delicious, but I didn’t concentrate on that. “Mm. Perfection. Just like you. Where’s Dad?”
Mom’s eyes filled and she turned away. She went to the cookie tin and closed it up before setting it in its spot and fussing over the alignment.
“Mom. What’s wrong with Dad?”
She turned, her arms crossed, and leaned against the counter. “I don’t think I can do this. I thought I could. But I don’t…”
I waited.
She shook her head.
“Should I call him?” I reached for my phone. “I’m going to call him.”
