Page 39 of True North

“Goodness.” She meets my gaze. “This all looks so amazing. Thank you for sharing your extraordinary talent with me, sweetheart.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could give you something useful. Especially now...”

She rounds the counter. “You listen to me.” Her head dips, her frown intensifying. “Don’t you go feelin’ sorry for me. Or that son of mine. We won’t have it. This life is too short to be poutin’ over the little things. So, we are going to enjoy the wonderful food only possible because you’re here. And we are going to make the most of the company.” Something rogue flashes through her eyes as she pats my arm with one hand and releases me.

“Well, in that case, let’s eat this stunning meal before it gets cold.” I turn and grab three plates and cutlery. She takes them from my hands. I find a tablecloth and follow her, laying it down before she can deposit her load. We pad back, collecting the dishes and potholders.

With the food laid out and places set, I step back beside Rosie. “You did it. It looks like something you’d be served in a restaurant.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders.

She leans into my shoulder with a sigh. “It most certainly does, sweetheart.”

“Something smells good, Ma.” We both look toward the door to the living room, coming off the hall. A freshly washed Harry stands in clean jeans and a T-shirt. His hair damp from his shower. My gut flies into my lungs and sticks. I purse my lips as he studies the table. The food.

“You can thank Louisa for her patience and talent.” Rosie breaks from my hold and unties her apron. “Thanks, Louisa.” His words are raw, and quiet. “For doin’ this for Ma.”

“You said that already. But...” I move toward the table. “You’re most welcome. She deserves so much better than what she was dealt.”

He clears his throat and pads for the table. Pulling out a chair on one side, we both start as Rosie rushes into the dining room. “No, no. You’re the head of the table now, my love.”

Harry chuckles.

The sound is like a slap to the chest. He moves to one end and pulls out a chair but hesitates. I look to Rosie. Her glare is pinned on her son. And it’s a warning.

“Here,” he says quietly and pulls out the chair on the other end, nodding for me to sit.

“Oh, thanks,” I utter, dropping into it. It’s an old captain’s chair. The arms are worn of varnish, the seat solid hardwood but the backrest is slatted and shaped to fit the body. Delight floods Rosie’s face. And when Harry makes it back to his and drops into it, she smiles. Really smiles, hands clasped in front of her face.

“Eat! Please, don’t wait for me, I still need to wash up.” Rosie darts off toward the small bathroom in the eastern side of the house. Harry clears his throat.

“Grace?”

“Who?”

He huffs a laugh. “We’re sayin’ grace, Louisa.”

“Ah, sorry.” Heat flushes my neck and face. Sitting at the other end of the table, at least we won’t be joining hands. But the thought of touching Harry right now sends even more crimson flooding my face, my body reacting at just the thought. With just him and I in the room.

“For these and all his mercies, may his holy name be praised,” he says, softly.

“Amen,” I add.

“Amen.” He looks up. “We waitin’ for Ma?”

“We should. She worked so hard on this.”

We sit in silence that’s not at all comfortable.What is taking Rosie so long to wash up?

“Finish all your work?” I ask, trying to fill the silence slowly deafening us.

“Nope.”

“Oh, was there a problem?”

“Nope. Ranchin’ work never ends, is all.”

“Of course, sorry.”

“Maybe we should eat?” he says, glancing at the doorway. Rosie’s place sits empty, her plate empty. I swing my gaze to the untouched food that’s no doubt going cold.

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