Page 62 of Always Meant for You
MABEL
The door slams shut behind us.
“Looks like I’m staying,” I whisper.
I release a shaky breath and do another scan of the space.
I catch old Mr. Stewart with his arms folded, elbows tucked close, and a sweat-darkened ball cap pulled low. Mr. Thackston sits next to him, one boot jiggling. The cuff of his sleeve is damp with soil. Mr. Pritzker-Martin fidgets with his glasses. The Sperry family sits shoulder to shoulder, taking up an entire row. Mr. Martinez lingers near the back, hands in his pockets, brows knit together, nodding at someone I can’t see.
The gossiping women of Elverna come into view—those same voices that once trailed behind me with snickers and whispers. Now their eyes are dull, their shoulders drawn. Even they seem worn down by the weight of everything.
Another group of farmers in faded overalls stands along the far wall, hands calloused, boots worn, shoulders set.
Tension is threaded through the room.
Could Jamie’s plan have been a mistake? A miscalculation?
Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like faith. It radiates pain and desperation.
Farmers standing near the center take their seats, and when they do, the front of the room comes into view. The old Young sisters huddle near a long rectangular table.
Sally Young spots me and waves.
I nod and adjust the brim of my hat. My purse shifts at my side, and I press my hand to the leather. I’ve done this hundreds of times, maybe more. My passport’s inside. That fact used to calm me.
It doesn’t now, not exactly.
Instead, Cal’s voice breaks through the noise.
I don’t cut and run, Mabel.
I glance around the room.
These people are scared, and they’re hurting.
I used to think they looked at me and saw a girl who didn’t belong. Maybe that was true. But after that day under the willow tree, I started seeing myself as separate from all this—maybe even above it, in some ways, if I’m being honest. And in doing that, could I have stopped seeing them clearly?
Did I stop seeing them as people with their own hopes and dreams?
“Coffee?” Dad asks, pulling me back.
“I’m good, but I’ll walk with you to get some.”
We weave through the room to a table loaded with mismatched paper cups and an impressive spread of baked goods.
Very impressive.
This is no sad display of store-bought cookies.
It’s a culinary work of art.
Flaky hand pies teeming with berries, glossy loaves of braided bread still warm to the touch, and muffins so tall they teeter in their wrappers. The air carries a mix of sugar, cinnamon, and butter.
I don’t recall these heavenly scents from the last time I attended a meeting.
Dad pours himself a cup, steam curling from the lip as he surveys the spread. I stay close, but my attention drifts to the front of the room.
Cal sits at the head table, sleeves rolled, collar slightly open, every line of his frame composed.
