Pretty Pink Ribbons (A Touch of Fate 2)

“It’s fine,” Levi says, waving me off. “Laney, I provide the meals for this place to feed those from both the homeless shelter and women’s shelter nearly every day of the week. I assure you, they won’t mind if a bowl goes missing.”

“Thank you.” I don’t give him time to respond. Moving past him, I take the bowl to the woman and her face lights up. That look slams into me something fierce. She looks so excited and it breaks my heart because I hate the thought of this woman ever not having enough food. She reaches for the glass bowl and I shake my head.

“I’ll carry it for you. Let me walk you out.” Her tiny feet shuffle along the floor next to me. When we make it outside, she turns to me, her hands outstretched and waiting.

“Where’s your car?” This woman can barely hold her purse; there is no way I’m going to let her carry this glass bowl. I look around the empty lot but come up short when only Levi’s truck remains.

“Oh, I don’t have a car, honey. But it’s okay, I don’t live far.”

“Well, where do you live?”

She points to a small blue house across the street. “Right there. See, no need for a car,” she says with a laugh, which once again turns into a coughing fit.

“Let me walk you over there.”

“Really?” Her surprised look absolutely floors me. Has no one ever done anything nice for this woman?

“Absolutely.” The door behind us opens, and I peek over my shoulder to find Levi walking out.

“What’s up?” he asks, stepping up behind us.

“Mrs. . . .” I realize then that I haven’t even gotten her name. When I look at her, she catches on quickly.

“Mary. It’s just Mary.”

“Mary lives right across the street. I’m going to walk this over there with her real quick, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. I can drive you—”

“Nope,” Mary says, shaking her head. “I need the exercise. It’s good for the ticker.” She pats her hand over her heart and Levi laughs.

“Then by all means—” He waves for us to proceed and I mouth ‘be right back’ to him.

“He’s a handsome little devil,” Mary remarks as we make our way across the street.

“He is, isn’t he?” She nods her head and pulls a single key from the pocket of her cotton pants as we stroll up her sidewalk. After she unlocks the door, we walk in and she directs me to the kitchen. Her house is small with narrow walkways, torn rugs and stained furniture, but the dozens of pictures hanging on the walls somehow make it feel cozy. I stand in front of one of the walls that is peppered with pictures, and my eyes hone in on the picture in the center. It’s an old black-and-white photo of a couple on their wedding day. The woman looks absolutely stunning wearing a white lace gown. “Is this you?”

“It is.” I look over at Mary and watch as she kicks off her shoes and plops down on the couch, a haze of dust floating up around her. “That’s my Ronald. He died twelve years ago last month, and there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t wish he was still here.” My heart sinks at the thought that I might never have this—a wall full of photos dep

icting all the best times in my life.

I want the wall. I want the wedding photo and pictures of my kids and grandkids. My hands tremble at the thought that I might never have all this. But I want it . . . and I want it with Levi.

“He’s very handsome,” I say, swallowing past the lump that has settled in my throat.

“Much like your fella over there,” she says, motioning toward the Senior Center.

“He’s not mine.” I shake my head, wishing that it were true. “We’re just friends.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffs. “I see the way he looks at you. That’s the look of love.” I open my mouth to insist that she’s wrong, but she keeps talking. “Why don’t you put that bowl in the refrigerator?” She points to the kitchen yet again and I follow her directions, taking note of the empty bottle of cough syrup on her counter. Sliding the spaghetti inside the fridge, I also notice the lack of food on the shelves.

When I walk back into the living room, Mary has her head tilted back on the couch and her eyes are bobbing heavily. I’m sure it’s quite a feat for her to make that little walk every day. She looks too tiny and frail, and I imagine that it wears her out.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mary,” I say, probably a little too loud because I never know if older people can hear or not.

“You, too. What was your name again? I don’t think I caught it.”

“It’s Laney.” I offer her my hand, but instead she pushes up from the couch and wraps me in a hug.