Page 37 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
My mom slaps my arm with her oven mitt. “You’ll burn your beautiful face. Be patient.”
I sigh dramatically before pulling her in for a hug. I’m vertically challenged thanks to my mother. Both my father and brother are giants.
“Honey, what happened to your head?”
Damn. I’d hoped five days was long enough to mask the injury. Even with makeup over it, her eyes are like hawks. I brush my fingertips over it.
“Oh. This is nothing. Clumsy moment while packing boxes. Note to self, don’t trip and hit your head on the wall.” I dismiss it with a wave of my hand and try to move us along. “The house looks so cozy.”
My mother loves decorating for any holiday. It’s probably where I got my love for interior design, which thankfully, she was excited about. My aesthetic design choices? Not so much.
“Mr. Jenkins dropped off some pumpkins yesterday. Can I count on one carving in the midst of your very busy schedule?”
And there it is.
I grab her hand. “Momma? Loving Mother of mine?” Her brow raises. “I’m sorry I didn’t come here the minute I arrived intown.” At her enhanced perturbed look. “Or, that I didn’t move back home.”
“Nora is a lovely young woman, but I’d prefer you here. You can save money while you settle in, find work, and eventually, you can get your own place.”
“Nora is amazing. I’m grateful for her friendship and for inviting me to stay with her. She has the extra space. We drink wine and laugh a lot.” Not a total lie.
“Are you in any kind of trouble?” My dad appears out of nowhere and asks.
“Trouble? Why would she be in any trouble?” My mother’s voice pitch heightens with each statement as she looks back and forth between my father and me.
“No trouble,” I assure. Kind of true? It’s my father’s turn to stare, calling my bullshit.
“What?” I ask, pointing behind me. “That? That’s Styx being Styx. I couldn’t even tell you what it’s about. You’d have to ask him. As a matter of fact, make him come over and carve pumpkins with me.” I spot the melted crust of cheese and crispy bacon on top of the casserole. “But wait till after I’ve had my fill of this. He’d inhale that in one bite.”
“I’m actually going to call him right now,” my mother says, grabbing her phone from the kitchen counter.
My father studies me. I walk up and wrap my arms around his torso.
“I’m okay, Daddy. All is well. It’s actually really good to be home.”
That placates him. He lets the suspicion go and hugs me back. “Good to have you home again, Camikins.”
Styx promises to come by and pick me up, which I just smile when Mom informs me and Dad, wondering how that’s going to interfere with West. I text to give him a heads up. He texts back that he’ll take care of it with a wink emoji.
“What’s that smile for?” Mom asks, serving me my chai latte.
“Funny meme.” I lock my phone and stuff it in my black jeans.
“You dating?” she keeps fishing.
I sip my chai and hum a negative.
“If you say so.” She totally doesn’t believe me.
For the next couple of hours, we eat—my baby buddah tummy is very happy right now—and Dad starts up the backyard firepit. Mom and I spread out a tarp for the pumpkin guts and get to prepping them for carving.
Moments like these remind me of my favorite childhood memories. The October chill is balanced by the heat of the flame in front of us, my hands deep inside a messy pumpkin, preparing to create something from what may appear as a mere vegetable. Mom and Dad participate too, which is the best part. Music softly plays from the outdoor speakers, and honey cinnamon tea abundantly flows from the carafe Mom prepared for this very afternoon.
Thirty minutes into carving my first of three pumpkins that I promised Mom I’d do, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I wipe my hands on the fresh rag Dad left me before fishing it out.
My breath hitches at the Silver Lakes’ unknown number. I know exactly who it is.
My Dad’s thankfully in the garage, or he’d hone in on that reaction. Mom’s head pops up, curious. I smile and get up.
