Page 12 of Keepsake
“You can get anything within a two-mile radius,” I observed as I flipped another pancake onto the waiting platter.
“Except for grains,” Mrs. Shipley said. “Though some Vermont farmers are giving buckwheat a go up in Hartwick.”
I was surrounded by farming nerds. And it was awesome.
My big contribution to breakfast was dropping the blueberries into the pancakes. When everyone else was served, I took my plate to the table.
There wasn’t much chatter, because five hungry young men were too busy scarfing up pancakes and eggs.
“How’d you sleep?” May asked me after pouring another round of coffee.
“Great,” I lied. Involuntarily, my eyes went to Zach’s across the table. He regarded me for a long moment before turning all his attention to a strip of bacon on his plate.
Thank you, I telegraphed in his direction.
Ruth sat down with her own plate and lifted her fork. “Lark, your mother called the house this morning.”
“Oh, crap,” I said under my breath. I’d forgotten to call home last night when I’d arrived.
“I explained to her that we don’t have the best cell phone reception out here,” Mrs. Shipley said.
“Thank you for covering for me. I’ll call her right after breakfast.”
“She sounded quite worried.” Ruth measured me with clear blue eyes.
“Well.” I swallowed a gulp of coffee. “I’ve always been that kid who practiced making everyone worry. This year I turned pro.”
May laughed and shook her head. “Yes you did, sweetie. I’m still not over it.”
Me neither. But I was trying to keep that a secret.
After breakfast we washed up, and then it was time to face the music. My mother picked up on the first ring. “I worried about you all night.”
“I’mfine, Mom.” I said these words every day, even if they weren’t true.
The phone turned her sigh into a hurricane. “After what you put us through last month, I thought you’d at least remember to call.”
And there it was—the reason that I couldn’t stay with my parents in Boston right now. Guilt. I had plenty of it. And I could barely steer myself through the day and night. I didn’t want to be responsible for my mother’s mental state, too.
So now I would grovel. “I apologize for not calling. I walked into a dinner for more than a dozen people, and the mayhem sucked me in. I’m so sorry.” And I reallywasso sorry. I never wanted to put my parents through hell. But I had, and now my head was a hot mess.
“All right. Thank you. How did you sleep?”
“Well,” I said, repeating the lie. But hey—I was working on it.
Whether she believed me or not, she didn’t press the question. “I know you’ll be fine in Vermont. I really do,” she said, as if trying to convince both of us.
“It’s nice here. I’m going to pick apples today.”
“That does sound relaxing. You might also consider calling Gilman. He texted yesterday.”
“He textedyou?” Seriously? My ex-boyfriend was texting my mother?
“Maybe he wouldn’t do that if you returned his calls.”
Right. “I just don’t have the headspace for Gilman right now,” I admitted. “He can wait until I’m ready.”
There was a silence during which I could swear I heard my mother wrestling with herself. “Be well, Lark,” she said finally. “Call us if you need anything.”
