Page 58 of Outcast
The pit in my stomach grew again. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to! I love baking for my boys.” Her smile faded. “For you, I mean. I love baking for you.” She ruffled my hair as if I were ten and not twenty-seven. “Besides, until you tie the knot with Allison, you’re not likely to get many homemade treats, are you?”
“That’s true,” I murmured, forcing myself to grab a spoon and take a small bite. “Thanks.”
Grandpa cleared his throat. “Susan, aren’t they calling the raffle winners soon?”
“Oh, shoot. Yes. I better go!”
Once she’d left the tent, I set aside the cherry cobbler with relief and took another gulp of water to clear the sickly sweet taste of candied cherries away. I’d disliked that flavor ever since I’d gotten sick on too many maraschino cherries when I was ten.
It was only a year before Adam died, so I didn’t really blame Mom for not remembering my change of heart. After he died, dessert had been the last thing on any of our minds. And by the time she got back to baking, she’d forgotten that while I’d once liked cherry cobbler okay, my true love had been her bread pudding. Adam had been the one to adore the cobbler.
But to tell her that was to bring up Adam’s death. Was to remind her of everything she’d lost.
“What do you want me to paint?” I asked Grandpa.
“You can just tell her, Emory.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you don’t like the cherry cobbler anymore. People’s tastes change.”
I shrugged. “She likes making it. It makes her happy.”
“It makes her happybecauseshe thinks it makes you happy. But it doesn’t.”
I picked up my paintbrush and started mixing colors. “How about a smiley face since you’re so concerned with everyone’s happiness?”
He snorted. “Sure. Go to town.”
I started brushing a cheery yellow onto his cheek, selecting a spot above his beard.
“I know it was Adam’s favorite,” he continued, making me pause as his face moved.
“So?”
“So…you’re not him. You don’t have to be him.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” I let out a rough breath and resumed painting. “Now, sit still so I can finish this.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
Grandpa behaved until I’d finished the happy face and handed him the mirror to check it out.
“You’ve always loved art,” he said.
“It’s a smiley face, not the next Picasso.”
He chuckled, but it sounded sad. “Maybe not. But I’d rather have the next work by E. Gold anyhow.”
E. Gold was how I’d signed my works of art when I’d taken classes in high school.
“It’s just a few bites of cherry cobbler,” I told him. “It’s not a big deal.”
