Page 4 of Back in the Country
“Thank the heavens. Promise me you won’t let those boys chase you away again.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She laughs as she hooks her arm through mine and leads me into the house. I feel lighter than I have in a long time. The rightness of this move—despite the heaviness surrounding Sorren’s injury and impending return—radiates in my soul.
“I just baked some scones this mornin’.”
The kitchen is exactly the way I remember it, with white cabinets and wide plank floors that Daddy had refinished for her a few years back. I’d always felt home here. Running my fingers along the back of the heavy wooden chair, I let my memory float back to the very first time I’d been in this kitchen.
Sorren and I had only been in Clementine Creek for a few days when Gran and Pop brought us over to say hello. They’d all been so warm and welcoming, but I’d just had my heart ripped out, and my seven-year-old mind couldn’t process the gravity of the situation.
They’d made enough chicken potpie to feed an army, and it was the most incredible thing I’d ever eaten.
I remember leaning over and asking Sorren if we could come back here, but before he could answer me, Mama was right there and held my hands in hers.
She said, “Baby, there are always enough seats at my table, enough food in my fridge, and enough love in my home.” She paused and smiled openly. “And baby, for as long as you let me, you’ll never be hungry again.”
Her face was so genuine that when I looked over my shoulder at Sorren and found his eyes glassy, I lost it. The tears broke then, streaming down my face. Mama wasn’t just talking about feeding me—feeding us—although that was part of it. She also meant we’d be family.
One of hers.
Pulling myself from the memory, I smile and blink back the tears.
“What are you thinkin’ about, honey?” Mama’s gentle voice asks.
“Just thinking of the first time I sat in this kitchen.”
She studies me for half a second before rounding the table and pulling me into a fierce hug.
“You’ve always been one of mine,” she whispers into my hair as she squeezes me tight.
I nod before releasing her and wiping the tears away that she makes me feel safe enough to purge.
“Okay, so tell me what’s happening,” she says, clearing the emotion from her voice.
Mama busies herself around the kitchen grabbing glasses for sweet tea, and I take a minute to let her familiarity wash over me. She is a little over five feet tall and slender with shoulder-length auburn hair. In the hot weather, abundant in Tennessee, Mama’s hair holds the prettiest waves. She’d often complain what a mess she was, but Daddy would always kiss her cheek and tell her she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
I long for that kind of connection. I thought I’d had it, but now it feels like ancient history.
Mama places a blue-and-white patterned plate in front of me, piled high with decadent blueberry scones. They’d been my favorite growing up—second to chicken potpie—and she’s never forgotten.
The chairs make a gentle scraping sound across the floor as we both settle in.
“How was Nashville?”
“It was good. I liked it there, but it was never home for me.” I let the sweetness of the blueberries and the tartness of the lemon glaze settle on my tongue. “I would have been back sooner,” I add quietly.
“Are things over with Caleb?”
I nod.
“Good. I never liked him anyway.” My mouth drops open as I look at her.
She shrugs. “What? He wasn’t good for you. I always just wanted you to be happy, darlin’, and he wasn’t it.”
I can’t stop the snort that immediately turns into a cough when Mama glares at me. Sheknowswho makes me happy, and I reckon she knows more than she’s ever let on.
“Sorren couldn’t get me out of here fast enough, and then Waylon wasted no time makin’ sure I stayed away.”
