“Oh, good.”

Loren crossed to the sink to wash her hands.

“So how was your day?”

“Fine, now what great news do you have?”

“I sold that house. The sellers didn’t even blink at the offer. They were so pleased because they have found a house near their kids so they are hoping both places close quickly. And the buyers love the house and now they’re going home to start packing too. Glad it’s them and not me.”

“That’s great, Mom. Sort of like double dipping, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Was trying to decide what we will do this time.” They had a tradition that she used some of the money from each sale to do an extra project around the house or yard. The rug was the last splurge.

They dished up their plates and took them out to the table. Sir Charles lay down between their chairs, always in the hope they might drop something.

“Guess who called today?” Loren said.

“Nate.”

“Uh-huh. Asked if we could meet for lunch tomorrow.”

“So where are you going?”

Loren shrugged. “It has to be someplace fast.”

“Annie’s?”

“I thought of that. More chicken? I’ll get it. Anything else?”

“Bring the coleslaw out here, please. I brought some of Addy’s cookies home last night. When I paid her for them, she was surprised. I told her she needs to think about that, filling orders and charging a decent price. She learned that from Ginny. You know Ginny, she’d give away everything. She never lets me pay for the eggs.”

Should she tell Loren about her movie date for Friday? Why wouldn’t she? Why did her date, an actual movie date, feel so private, a secret to savor, not share? She thought about that little tingle of pleasure she felt when Rich walked in last night. And here she was acting like an eighth grader with her first crush. Roxie, Roxie, whatever is the matter with you?

Chapter Seventeen

I can sleep in here, really I can.

Ginny forced her hands to release from the doorframe, one finger at a time. Addy had gone downstairs to sleep like she always did. Ginny made the excuse that she just wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. So she sat in the living room and forced herself to pick up her knitting. It always helped her relax. She said she could knit in her sleep, just like she could transplant seedlings in her sleep.

She turned the gentle classical music station on so she could just hear it, something that usually helped her drift off. After dropping two stitches, she laid the knitting down and rubbed her eyes. Head back against the headrest on her recliner, her scratchy eyes drifted closed. The music played on.

Who turned on the AC? Another shiver brought her awake enough to realize where she was. In the living room, the sliding door open partway, good thing the screen door was locked. No wonder she was chilled. The big question, pick up the afghan from the back of the sofa and go back to sleep here or…or go to the bathroom. That always took precedence.