Page 91 of Always Meant for You
“I thought I heard you up there. Did you sleep okay?” my dad asks as I step into the kitchen. He’s holding a glass of water in one hand and a pill bottle in the other.
I avoid his eyes and move toward the coffee pot, reaching for a mug. “Yeah, I slept fine. I decided to bottle-feed the orphaned goat, and then Cal and I were up late planning.”
“That’s what he said.” He sets the bottle on the windowsill beside three others, each label turned outward.
I watch him closely, noting the slow movement of his fingers. “Are those for your hands? Are you in pain now?”
“Have you had breakfast?” he counters, smooth and immediate. A classic Elias Muldowney deflection.
“No, not yet.”
“I’ve got a vegetable quiche in the oven.”
“You do?”
“I can’t get every meal from the diner,” he says, pulling on a pair of oven mitts with casual precision.
I lean against the counter, unsure how to reconcile the man cracking the oven door with the one who used to burn toast and disappear by sunrise. “I didn’t think you cooked.”
“Old dog. New tricks,” he answers, allowing the faintest grin to tug at his mouth.
He pulls the quiche from the oven, lets it rest, then slices a piece and slides the plate toward me. “Do you want fresh chives?”
I inhale the heavenly scent. “We have fresh chives?”
“We do.”
“Okay.” I glance at the floor. “I need to get my?—”
“Shoes?” he finishes, gesturing toward the mat by the door. My pink heels rest beside his mud-caked boots. “Those were on the porch this morning. I brought them in.”
I slip them on and catch his eye. “Same dog. Same shoes,” I say, tapping the heel against the floor.
Bella Mae may be boxed up, but I’m still me. I left pieces of her behind in storage, but not everything.
Today, I’m wearing a vintage sleeveless Chanel denim dress from 2003 with a cascade of soft pleats running down the front and back. The hem hits below the knee, and there’s a kicky little flare at the bottom that adds movement when I walk. Around my neck, I’ve tied a pale pink Hermès scarf in a clean French knot.
But something else in the lineup of shoes catches my eye. A pair of boots. Women’s boots. The brown leather is worn but still rich, the decorative stitching intricate and precise. They’re broken in but well-kept, with a softness that comes from years of wear.
“Are those Lucchese boots?” I ask.
The renowned brand isn’t French, but it’s iconic in its own right. American-made and prized by collectors for its craftsmanship and legacy.
I pick one up, turning it gently in my hands. I angle the shaft to look inside, and there it is—Lucchese. Stamped high in faded letters, the mark softened by time but still unmistakable.
He nods. “That’s right. Loo-KAY-see.”
My fingers hover above the shaft. “Where’d they come from?”
“They belonged to your mom.”
A quiet beat passes between us.
“When did she get them?”
My dad takes a sip of coffee. “I bought them for her. Back in the nineties.”
I run a hand gently along the curve of the leather. “These are still pricey, especially now. They’d be considered vintage.”
