Summer on Lovers' Island (Jewell Cove 3)

“Only a little,” Lizzie replied. “I’m working in Maine for a while.” She repeated the information, unsure if her mom remembered her mentioning it last time. “I’m renting a cute little cottage on the coast. You’d like it.”

Her heart gave a little lurch. Her mom really would like it up there. She’d always liked the ocean and she’d always kept beautiful flower beds at their house. Perhaps that was what bothered Lizzie the most about her mom being here. So many of the things she’d enjoyed all her life were stripped away, one by one. It didn’t seem fair.

“A cottage?” Rosemary frowned. “But you’ve always liked the city. You don’t want to be bothered by a yard and upkeep. Do you remember that plant I got you for an apartment-warming present?”

Lizzie nodded, tears stinging her eyes. Oh, it was a good day. At least so far. “It was an African violet and I killed it within a month.”

Rosemary nodded back and laughed a little, and Lizzie was so lonely for her mom that an ache spread through her chest.

“So,” she said, trying to keep things light. “I thought we could have a picnic for lunch. What do you think? I have a cooler in the car, and the nurses said we can eat in the garden at that little table overlooking the pond.”

“You cooked?”

“Of course not.” Lizzie laughed. “I’m not quite that domesticated. There’s this café in Jewell Cove. The cook’s name is Gus, and his fried chicken will make you weep and thank your maker. Not to mention potato salad. And I brought dessert.”

“It’s so good to see you,” Rosemary said, reaching over and patting Lizzie’s hand. “Let me freshen up first, okay?”

Lizzie waited while her mom went to the bathroom. So far, the disease hadn’t progressed to the point where she needed help all the time and today she was remarkably clearheaded, so Lizzie let her have her independence and simply waited. When Rosemary emerged, Lizzie tried to hide her dismay and put on a bright face. Not bright enough to match Rosemary’s, though. She had put on cherry-red lipstick and brushed on some blush that was far too heavy for her delicate cheeks.

“Okay, Mom, let’s j

ust tell someone we’re heading to the garden and we’ll have a nice lunch.”

Rosemary followed close to Lizzie as they stopped at the reception desk and then went to the car for the soft-side cooler she’d brought. It was only a few minutes and they were settled at a small iron table and chairs set in the middle of the English gardens, an oasis of tranquility remarkably free of the telltale scents of medical facilities.

She unpacked a container of fried chicken, a dish of potato salad, and another of cool sliced cucumbers, plus two soft buns from the Main Street Bakery, sandwiched together with a thick layer of real butter. Then came the plates, real ones, as Lizzie knew how her mother despised paper, and proper knives, forks, and napkins. Lizzie’s one plastic concession was glasses, but the ones she’d picked up were cute, with little flowers painted on them, and she took out a thermos of cool, fresh lemonade.

When she’d served both plates, her mom looked up with worried eyes. “Won’t your dad be joining us? Where is he? Is he working late again?”

Lizzie’s heart plummeted to her feet and she swallowed against the lump of futility in her throat. “It’s just you and me today, Mom,” she said, forcing a smile and handing over a napkin. “Try the chicken.”

“Your father works too hard. He never comes to see me,” Rosemary complained, her voice taking on a plaintive quality that grated on Lizzie’s nerves, making her feel even more guilty.

“Then let’s just make this a girly day,” she suggested lightly. She got up and spread the napkin on her mother’s lap. She would not cry or let her frustrations show. She would be patient, kind …

Sad.

No, she had to lock that away for later. So she poured lemonade into her mother’s glass and handed it to her. “I know I’m not much of a cook, but I made the lemonade myself, just this morning. What do you think?”

She saw Rosemary’s hand tremble a bit as she lifted the drink to her lips and sipped. “It’s tart,” she replied, puckering her lips. “Just the way your father likes it. Will he be joining us today?”

More swallowing of tears. “Not today,” Lizzie replied. She forced herself to take a bite of chicken, trying to lead by example, but it didn’t taste good anymore. She was desperate to change the subject. “What are you crocheting, Mom? The yarn looked so pretty, a really nice shade of pink.”

Finally Rosemary picked up her fork and started to eat. “Hats. For the neonatal unit.” She tasted her potato salad, then daintily cut a cucumber slice in fourths. “A few of the other ladies and I work on them and the nurses take them to the hospital.” She met Lizzie’s gaze. “It makes me feel like I’m doing something important.”

“It is important,” Lizzie agreed. “I’m glad. Can I do something to help? Buy you some yarn? There’s a craft shop in town that I think probably carries it.”

“Some yellow or light green would be nice.”

“I’ll bring it next time I visit, how about that?”

“Thank you, dear.”

Lizzie noted with some pleasure that her mom had eaten a good portion of her meal, rather than picking at stuff as she often did. Encouraged, Lizzie reached down into the cooler for one final dish. “Mom, I brought dessert. Your favorite, coconut cream pie.” She put the container on the table and removed the lid.

Rosemary made a face and looked at the pie with disgust. “But I hate coconut. That’s never been my favorite. Whatever made you think that?”

Oh, maybe just the fact that every special occasion since Lizzie could remember Rosemary had offered to make coconut cream pies. If they went out to eat it was her favorite thing to order for dessert, and years ago, before her memory had started to slip, she’d had a list of the best places to get it and the ones to avoid. Who made the best pastry and where the filling was the creamiest.