Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I watch as she moves around behind the counter, getting a plate, putting a piece of cherry pie on it for me, and putting it down in front of me along with fresh cutlery.
“Any sweetener or creamer for your tea?” she asks me as she grabs a cup and makes my tea, using the machine.
“No, thank you.”
She puts a teapot, cup, and saucer down next to my pie. “You on vacation?” she congenially asks me.
I can tell she’s trying not to look at my bruise, and I appreciate that, but honestly, in this moment, I feel tired of hiding it.
I lift my head, letting my hair fall back. “No, I just moved here,” I tell her.
“We don’t get many new people round here but plenty of tourists,” she tells me.
“I can see why. It’s a beautiful place.”
“Yeah, it is. So, what brought you here? Family? I probably know them. It’s hard not to know everybody in a town like this.”
I shake my head, cutting a piece of pie. I put it in my mouth and chew, delaying my response. “No family. Just wanted a change of scenery.”
“Oh. Sure.” She nods, her eyes flickering to my mouth—the cut there—and back to my cheek before meeting my eyes. “It’s a good place to move to. I came here ten years ago for a fresh start.” She pauses, contemplating something.
I watch her expression. She looks like she’s having some kind of internal argument. I see when she settles on it.
Then, she parts her lips and speaks, “Pardon me for saying this, but that’s one helluva bruise you have there. I’m sure you’ve had it checked out, but—”
“It’s fine.” My hand instantly covers my cheek. The fork that I was holding clattering to the counter.
The good feeling in my chest starts to shrivel up.
“Look, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I was you ten years ago. I rolled up in town, covered in bruises—”
“I’m not covered in bruises. I just got hit in the face by a door. That’s all. Nothing more. And you’re right; you really should mind your own business,” I snap.
It’s not like me to be this assertive, but I’m upset that this woman took my good feeling from me. Just like my good feeling was stolen away by my jerk neighbor earlier.
Some people really can be sunshine-stealers.
And I don’t want to be around those kind of people.
I stand, shoving my hand in my pocket, pulling out my money to pay for my food, so I can get the heck out of this place.
So much for my pie and the possibility of a job.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she placates, putting her hands on the counter. “I’m not trying to interfere. I just know what it’s like to be new in town with”—she gestures to her face—“while running from the person who gave them to you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “It was a door.”
“Okay”—she nods—“it was a door. I hear you. And I’m sorry that I upset you. The pie is on me. Please stay and finish it.”
I pause for a moment, looking at her expression, the warmth in it, and I realize that she was only genuinely trying to be caring. And I also realize that I’m staring at a woman who went through something similar to what I’ve been through.
I slowly sit back down and pick up the fork, cutting off another piece of pie.
“Holler if you need anything,” she tells me before walking away to tend to another customer who’s approached the counter to pay his bill.
I eat my food and drink my tea in silence, just listening to the music, the sound of the pans cooking in the kitchen, and the low hum of chatter.
I’m just finishing up my tea when she reappears in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
“I am sorry about before,” she says to me. “My being pushy.”
“It’s fine. I probably overreacted a little bit,” I admit.
“No, you didn’t. You were well within your right to say what you did.”
Her words make me feel a little better.
“Can I just say …” she continues. “And I’m only saying this with you being new to town and not knowing anyone, but decaf tea … there’s usually only one reason a woman round here drinks anything decaf, and that’s because she’s pregnant. Now, I’m not asking; I’m just saying, if you are, you’re going to need a doctor, and the best around here is Dr. Mathers.”
“Dr. Mathers,” I repeat. “I’ll give him a call. Thank you.”
Her eyes go to my still-flat stomach. “So … how far along are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”
I realize that she’s the only other person, aside from Mrs. Ford, I have told about the baby.
I get the feeling she’s actually not being nosy. She’s caring. Which is why I don’t mind answering. “I’m not sure exactly. But I’m not far along.”