Page 44 of Every Good Thing
“A little banged up, but good, thanks.” I merge next to my husband. “Ben’s taking good care of me.”
Dot chuckles lightly, chomping on Cheetos and appearing on my free side as if expecting I’ll need backup. She’s not wrong.
Lauren pushes the flowers toward me. “These are for you.”
An obligatory sniff has me wondering if their odor might be poisonous. Lauren could be a Disney villain disguised as a princess. “Thanks. How sweet.”
Her tone shoulders bob in a gentle shrug. “Dad and I were so worried when Ben left yesterday. Car accidents are scary.” Her eyes lock on Ben’s again. “Remember Becca’s in high school?”
“Yes.”
“You never know what might happen,” she says when Ben fails to reminisce about his twin’s accident. “Glad you’re okay.”
I’m being dumb. Her goddess-like perfection doesn’t matter; Ben’s with me. My feelings aren’t my reality. I sigh, replanting my best smile.
“Thanks, Lauren. Come sit down. Let me get you some coffee and a cinnamon roll.” Then, glancing around, I remember—I haven’t made cinnamon rolls this morning. “Or, um, something.”
“That’s kind. But, no, thank you. I’ve placed an order for the office and must get back.”
Trisha sets two large pink boxes on the counter as she says it. She’s practically bought out my display case.
Mr. Wickers appears from nowhere. “Would you like me to carry those to your car, madam?”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”
“The white BMW?” Dot asks with a rough nudge into my sore midsection.
“That’s right,” Lauren says.
A lightbulb flickers. “You’ve been in before,” I say as it comes to me. She wore sunglasses and a baseball cap that day. Dot and I were shocked when she didn’t ask for directions. We don’t see many strangers on the weekdays—certainly not ones driving BMWs and sitting alone. “Coffee and a bran muffin.”
“The bran muffins are my favorite,” Mr. Wickers chimes in, holding the pink boxes beside us. “It’s important to keep the body regular.”
“Oh, right, yes,” she says in a belabored breath. “Good memory.”
“Lena loves getting to know her customers,” Trisha adds, taking the bouquet from my hand. “I’ll just put these in water, shall I?”
I nod, happy to be rid of them.
Alice Harvey strolls into our circle, carrying a clipboard and looking formidable in her fifties-style polka-dotted dress and a black-cat apron. She lowers her perched reading glasses and sizes Lauren up.
Then, she extends her hand. “I’m Alice Harvey of Lavender Fields Forever, the farm next door.”
“Lauren Riley. Nice to meet—”
“Riley, as in the Wilmington Rileys? Riley Trust Bank?”
“Yes, that’s us.”
“Your Aunt Cheryl was in my knitting group once upon a time. The Knit Wits. Sign my petition? We’re trying to get the city to add a bus stop out here. People need work—they can find it on our farms.”
Lauren’s dumbfounded look is replaced with a smile. “Oh, sure.” She scribbles her signature across the rumpled page.
Dot tucks her Cheetos in her pocket, and her arms fold in a huff. “Funny that you’ve popped by before. What was that? A few weeks ago? Were you hoping to see Ben?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. I didn’t realize Ben was connected to Saddletree until recently. Um, I was passing by and needed coffee,” she says quickly.
Dot’s you’re-full-of-shit expression is unmistakable. Her dark eyes narrow with icy skepticism. “No one’s just passing by out here.”
