Page 13 of The Choices I've Made
Being an innkeeper was a tricky business. Too much interaction with those staying in the house, and they felt awkward and out of place. Too little, and…well, pretty much the same outcome. It was a balancing act. One I’d perfected in the year since my parents’ retirement. Not that it stopped them from coming by the house every now and then to check up on things.
And bynow and then, I really meant, every day.
Every single day.
Why couldn’t they just have retired to Florida like normal parents and bothered my younger sister for a change?
It had become an ongoing joke between us but one I knew would sting if they ever really did leave. As much as it annoyed me to see their two little gray heads poking about, I knew I’d be lost without them. And, as I rounded the corner into the large kitchen bright with the afternoon sun, I shook my head at my predictable intruders.
“Back so soon?” I said, noticing my mom was already elbow deep in bread dough.
Flour covered the marble countertops as she made it entirely by hand. It was a sight I’d seen hundreds of times in my life.
“Your dad wanted a scone and I knew you’d have some left over from breakfast.” She shrugged, barely glancing in my direction, as she continued to work on the dough, kneading it with care, as she’d done for decades.
I could see the changes, the need for her and my father’s retirement. Mom was slower now as she placed the dough in a clear bowl to rise. There was determination where it had once been second nature. Her hands looked smaller, frailer.
Yet she still showed up, wanting to carry on the tasks she’d reluctantly passed on to me. Neither of them had wanted to move on, and it had taken years of convincing them that I was ready.
But my time was finally here.
I smiled, knowing she was lying through her teeth about my father needing a scone, as I caught a glimpse of him through the window, dangling on the hammock. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging open, as he enjoyed his afternoon nap.
“A scone, huh?” I replied, setting down several jars of jam and the bag of tomatoes I’d bought.
“Yes,” she sighed dramatically as she placed the dough in the industrial-sized refrigerator.
“You know, they have amazing scones at the coffee shop down the road from your cottage, right? And, last time I checked, I don’t seem to recall bread dough as a necessary ingredient.”
She could hear the obvious laughter in my tone and turned around quickly, dirty hands and all.
“Okay, fine,” she admitted. “I wanted to come over and visit, and maybe bake up a loaf of bread. Is it so wrong of me to want to see my eldest daughter? I mean, soon, you’re going to have Dean around here to help with all these things.”
I scrunched my nose, imagining my Dean in my kitchen, trying his hand at baking. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
Grabbing a tea towel, I stepped forward and handed it to her. She looked down, slowly taking it before brushing away the remnants of flour.
“What is this all about, Mom? You can tell me.”
Her gaze firmly remained on the plaid towel as the tip of her finger traced a pattern. “Are you sure you’re making the right choice?” she asked.
My instant response was one of anger, but the moment her blue eyes met my own, I knew she meant well. She always wanted the best for me.
Even if it meant incessantly nagging me about it.
“We’ve been over this, Mama. I know what I’m doing.”
She nodded, but I knew she still had doubts. I could see them forming into words, even before she opened her mouth.
“Are you sure? Because when you’re with him, it’s—“
“It’s what, Mama?”
“It’s like you’re with your best friend,” she sighed.
I got defensive. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned it. My sister called me weekly as asked how my BFF was.
“Aren’t you supposed to marry your best friend?” I asked.
