Page 32 of Bridge to Home

The wagon followed behind. Mort, keeping a close eye on the “food cart,” brought up the rear.

Harlow laughed out loud, thinking they must look like quite a sight. Wheelchair. Dad. Wagon. Dog.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was thinking we must look like a little wagon train making their way home.”

“You gotta admit, it’s ingenious,” he chuckled.

“I can’t wait to be back on my feet.”

“You know what the doctor said. It’s going to take time,” her father warned. “You can’t push too hard.”

“I won’t, but I also refuse to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden.”

??…when your petals close

I can’t see my beautiful rose…??

The singing grew louder and more off-key.

Harlow caught fragmented words—pollinating, clipping and snipping.

They rounded the curve and found Lottie on her knees, tending to the flower garden. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat perched atop her head.

A stomach churning stench wafted in the air. Harlow made a gagging sound and clamped her hand over her mouth. “What is that awful smell?”

“Lottie’s fertilizer concoction,” her father whispered, ducking behind a nearby shrub bush. “Let’s head back around the other way.”

Mort had other ideas. He dashed past them and cut through the bushes.

Woof.

“Mort,” Lottie snorted. “Now, where on earth did you come from?”

Her head popped up, wide-brimmed hat and all. “Hello, David, Harlow. I thought I saw the delivery wagon out front.”

“Yes. Uh.” David straightened his back. “I picked up this week’s order. We were on our way home.”

“Did you remember to order those Bill Knapp’s ToasterTops I told you were on sale this week?”

“I did.”

“What’s a ToasterTop?” Harlow asked.

“A cornbread muffin.” Lottie licked her lips. “Spread a little homemade strawberry jam on top and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. They’re also one of your father’s favorites.”

Harlow arched her brow, eyeing her father with interest. “What else does Dad like?”

Lottie rattled off the list. “Fried walleye, his delicious Michigan apple crumb pie.”

“Apple crumb pie.” Harlow patted her stomach. “The recipe from the Wynn Harbor Inn restaurant?”

“You know it.” David’s expression grew mischievous. “Would you care to help me whip one up?”

Harlow playfully rolled her eyes at her father’s teasing. “Are you ready for another apple pie pandemonium?”

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