Page 118 of Keepsake
“So you’re a mechanic?” Lark’s dad asked.
“Not officially,” I muttered, taking care not to scratch the paint job on the world’s smallest functioning convertible.
Lark’s mom stuck her head into the room. “Ten minutes until waffles. Can you take a break?”
“You didn’t have to cook, Mom,” Lark said.
“I know.” Her mother disappeared.
Lark squeezed my knee. “Sorry. Can we stay in for breakfast?”
“Of course,” I said even though I wanted her all to myself. But it was Christmas Eve, and she had a family who loved her.
I finished building the car even before her mother called us to the table. When it was done, I tested the steering wheel, feeling the wheels rotate smoothly underneath. This toy was so exceptional I could hardly believe it. As a child, I would have died of joy for just five minutes with something so shiny and sleek.
We ate breakfast around the kitchen table, which was a little crowded. But I guessed that was preferable to sitting in a dining room where her parents would have spent the meal wondering if we’d done it on the table.
Gah.
Lark parked her leg up against mine and squeezed my knee under the table.
Her mother put a plate in front of me with a big waffle in the shape of a Christmas tree. Beside it lay three strips of bacon and a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs. “Wow,” I said, looking down at it. “Thanks.”
“Eat up,” Lark’s dad said. “You just saved me three hours of cursing.”
When everyone was seated, I waited for someone to say grace, but nobody did. Lark’s father reached for a slice of bacon and bit off the end.
Thank you Lord for these gifts, I mentally rattled off.Especially the beautiful one sitting beside me. Then I dug my fork into the eggs and had a bite. The waffle was calling my name, but it was almost too artistic to eat. “You know, I never saw a waffle until I came to Vermont,” I said because I knew it would amuse Lark.
“Really?”
“Sure. We went to a diner in Montpelier right after I got there, and I thought, that’s a funny thing to do to a pancake. But I love them now.”
Mrs. Wainright studied me. “Where did you grow up where there were no waffles?”
“On a…ranch,” I said, choosing that word instead ofcult. “Not the nicest place in the world.”
“No—a perfectly dreadful place,” Lark argued. “They also didn’t have coffee. Or Harry Potter.”
“Really?” Lark’s father asked.
“Really.” I sighed.
“Why?” he asked, and it was a perfectly good question.
“They had a lot of strange ideas. It’s a long story.” I drained my coffee cup, hoping for a change of topic.
“Let me pour you some more,” Lark’s mother said. “And you take milk?”
“I sure do. Thank you.”
“How was the party?” Lark asked as we all ate.
“Lovely, as usual. The Whites are always fun.” Her mother took a sip of coffee. “But Gilman was there with his little…” She made a noise of disgust. “I swear the girl was practically directing traffic in order to wave that ring on her finger around.”
Lark laughed out loud.
“And he looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. But I’m sure she’s a gold digger. I hope he got a prenup.”
