Page 7 of Always Meant for You
“What am I supposed to do without you?”
I stare at him, then tuck the phone into my purse.
I turn back to the table and let out a breath.
As much as I want to keep rinsing dishes that don’t need it, I haven’t stepped into the living room in over an hour. I should bring out another dish. See if anyone needs coffee.
I scan the foil-wrapped crowd and settle on cheesy potatoes. The pan is still warm. I wrap a towel around my hands and pick up the brick of food.
The hallway smells like wilting flowers and stale cheese.
My heels land softly against the wood.
Then I hear them speaking.
“Can you believe all he has left is Mabel? Poor Elias. Losing his wife, now his boy. And that daughter of his is quite a piece of work.”
“I thank my lucky stars my girls didn’t turn out like her.”
“Has anyone seen poor Cal since the service? Oh, my heart goes out to him. He loved Jamie.”
“Cal is a good one. And quite handsome. I sure wouldn’t mind if he asked one of my girls on a date.”
At the mention of the man, I pause and press the heavy casserole to my chest. I should turn around. Go back to the kitchen. Back to the dishes. I should pretend their gossip doesn’t twist something in me. Pretend I don’t love Cal, even though I mean nothing to him. Pretend I’m not standing here, wishing it didn’t hurt the way it does. But not today. Today, I’m not backing down.
I square my shoulders, shift the casserole in my arms, and head for the living room.
Look out, Elverna.
Mabel Muldowney’s got nothing to lose.
Chapter Two
MABEL
I’m ready to give those women a piece of my mind, then I hear it—something different. A twist of gossip I’ve never caught before.
“My Missy is a bit older, but she says she recalls Mabel starting to act peculiar around thirteen. Missy used to volunteer in the library back then and said Mabel was checking out old fashion books and reading magazines with wild clothing. She’d be reshelving books and catch Mabel tearing out pictures from old magazines.”
My cheeks heat. Those magazines were in the recycling bin.
A brittle laugh follows. “That girl got too big for her britches, if you ask me. I heard her at the Five and Dime talking about thoseKristina Doorpink shoes she’s always wearing. That child doesn’t respect her farming roots.”
“Sweet Lord,” another voice murmurs. “What would Carol say? God rest her soul.”
They fall quiet, like they’re waiting for my dead mother to materialize and scold me.
A breath catches in my throat.
Maybe she would have scolded me.
She died when I was eighteen months old.
Hearing them speak my mother’s name presses a hollow ache against my ribs, an ache sharpened by the guilt of failing a woman I never had the chance to know.
I was ready to charge into that room and raise hell.
Now I want to disappear.
