Page 101 of Always Meant for You
Margaret gets to her feet. “You haven’t had any pie yet. Hold on.” She hurries over to a buffet table and comes back with a box. “Here, take a whole one. I put a couple of plastic forks in there.”
“Thank you!” I accept the heavenly-smelling gift.
“Go on now, you two. We’ll sit and chat with your grandmother, Cal,” Margaret says.
Cal gives her a stiff nod. “I’d appreciate that.”
Does he want to leave because he’s about to get emotional?
I can’t tell.
“Have fun on your date. Nice to meet you, Farm to Mabel,” Ruben calls from across the room.
I fall into step beside Cal.
He opens the door to the truck for me. No words. No eye contact. Just the quiet weight of him next to me. I set the pie on the bench seat between us, the box warm against my thigh. He climbs in, shuts the door, and starts the engine. No small talk. No music. Just the steady rhythm of tires rolling over pavement.
We drive.
The town slips away behind us, and farm country opens up. The road stretches ahead, two narrow lanes flanked by fields and far-off silos. Fences run alongside us, bordering pastures that go on for miles.
I feel my shoulders drop without meaning to.
A few minutes pass, then Cal speaks. “Thank you, Mabel.”
“For what?”
“For what you did for my grandmother. She hasn’t been that lucid in ages.”
I nod, my hand still tingling from his touch.
“I’m glad I could help.” Now, I’m the one trying to keep the emotion from my voice.
“My grandmother and grandfather always adored you.”
“I am devastatingly charming. How could they not adore me?” I lean back, hoping the levity will loosen the heaviness.
He lets out a low chuckle, and it softens something between us.
I sigh. “I was the daughter they never had.”Oh no.“I mean . . .”
My cheeks heat.
I should know better than to bring up anything about his parents. Nobody knows who his father is, and no one talks about his mother—Sabrina—Gladys and Stanley’s only child.
But I picked up a few details from my time waitressing at the diner.
Sabrina Horner had long auburn hair and was known for her beauty. Folks said she was one of the brightest kids in town. But she died young. Some sort of accident.
In a town like this, some stories are whispered. Others aren’t told at all. Sabrina Horner’s death is one of them.
“Cal,” I say, inching closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“We’re almost there,” he says, cutting me off. “First stop is Sperry Dairy.”
The shift in his demeanor is sharp, but not cruel. Just final. The kind of response built from years of keeping everything inside.
We turn off the main road, loose rocks rattling under the tires. Dust curls in the mirrors. The pasture stretches out, warm and gold in the early sun.
