Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart 3)

Daddy chuckled where he was reading the paper at the table, his gray mustache dancing all over the place.

Yes, reading the paper that still got tossed onto his porch each mornin’.

The man was so old-fashioned, he still didn’t own one of those newfangled phones as he liked to call them, and I’d had to call to get wifi installed before we moved out here, one of the reasons my account had dipped into the red.

Not that I expected them to jump through hoops or pay for the things I wanted. I was simply dumbfounded at how people managed to get by without it.

“Call it what you want. I still call it old,” he grumbled with amusement.

“Daddy,” I chastised, grabbing my purse from the island. “My mama is not old. And neither are you.”

He shrugged. “What? You can’t go on deluding yourself into believin’ we’re still young, Isabel. Have you seen this face?” He made a circle around his. “It’s as cracked as the paint peeling on the walls. We were old enough to be your grandparents when you were born.”

“Which was nothing but the Lord’s blessing,” my mama was quick to point out the way she always did.

They considered me a miracle baby. Mama had tried for years to get pregnant. She said when she’d finally given up, I’d decided to come along.

Daddy said it was because I was stubborn.

Mama said I’d come at exactly the perfect time.

“Well, I personally think you’re as old as you feel.”

“And I feel as old as the hills,” Daddy said, taking a sip of his coffee and looking at me over the top of it, playfulness in his eyes.

“How old are the hills?” Dillon asked, coming over to climb onto the chair beside him.

I slung my purse over my shoulder. “Have fun with that one, Daddy. You asked for it.”

I moved toward my Mama.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“Blueberry pie.”

I stumbled a step, but somehow, I managed to keep it together, pasting a bright smile on my face as I continued toward her. “Oh, nice,” I said because I sure wasn’t gonna say anything else.

I popped up and kissed her on the cheek. “See ya.”

Without saying anything else, I rushed for the kitchen archway, glancing at the clock, figuring I had plenty of time to get to the pharmacy.

Since it was Saturday, it closed at 1:00.

This was Broadshire Rim, after all. I wasn’t gonna complain. I figured we were lucky there was a pharmacy.

Still, I didn’t have time to dilly-dally.

Oh, crap.

Maybe I was gettin’ old, too. Like I said, you were only as old as you felt.

I started through the archway when my mama’s voice hit me from behind. “You know who loved blueberry pie.”

It wasn’t even a question.

Planned.

Purposed.

My mama nothin’ but a sneak.

It stopped me in my tracks, and I paused to look at her from over my shoulder.

Okay, glare would be a more appropriate description, considering my eyes narrowed on her in offended disbelief.

She’d all but sang it where she was facing away at the counter as she spread the blueberry filling over the crust.

“Mama,” I scolded, trying not to let any of that hurt I’d felt last night bubble up. To keep it down.

I’d decided for a little while, I just wanted to be. Let the boys adjust. I’d deal with Maxon soon. Hash it out. Wrap up our unfinished business and call it good.

If only it were that easy.

She glanced back at me. “Think you should invite him over for Sunday brunch.”

“Are you crazy?” It was a gush of disbelief.

“I second that.” My daddy waved his index finger in the air.

“Gotta happen sometime. Might as well happen over pie,” she said.

My attention darted to my children, that protectiveness rising high, so big and full that my breaths started coming harder and faster.

“The last thing I want to do is have it out with that man over pie.”

“Whatever you say.” She hefted a single shoulder.

I humphed.

Mature, I knew. But I couldn’t help but feel flustered. Redness crawling up my neck and landin’ on my cheeks. It seemed this whole damned town was conspiring against me.

“I’ve got to go, we sure don’t want you to die, you know, since you’re old and all,” I sang as I started back for the door, badgering her a bit.

Her laughter chased me out, along with her words, “Just think about it, Izzy Mae. You can’t go on livin’ hiding under your bed the way you did when you were a little girl.”

Yeah, well inviting that man into it was the worst thing I’d ever done.

* * *

“Shoot,” I whispered when my car sputtered and lurched.

Was this really happenin’?

My car chugged a little more, and I pushed down harder on the pedal, trying to coax it into action.

I tossed up a few silent prayers with it, too.