Our mother hesitated.

“You go,” I said. “Everything’s under control.”

After executing a full evening service at the restaurant, I figured I could handle one Thanksgiving dinner. Mom took Amy’s arm to go up the stairs.

And now that I had the kitchen to myself . . . I glanced at the wall clock. This morning I’d posted a recipe for sweet potato soufflé on my blog. Not the standard Southern casserole with marshmallows and pecans, either, but a real French soufflé with Gruyère cheese and whipped egg whites. I’d barely checked in with my followers all day. But it would be nice to share some photos with them. Maybe I wasn’t going to Paris. Or even Branson. But I had my own dreams to chase, my own work to do.

Opening the pantry door, I pulled out three large jewel yams.

Beth stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, watching me. “What can I do?”

“Want to peel potatoes?”

Beth smiled. “Sure.”

“So . . .” I hauled out a saucepan, nudging Beth aside with my hip to fill the pot at the tap. “Tell me about this Branson thing. It’s a big deal, right? Good exposure.”

“Not that anybody’s going to see me. The show opened three weeks ago.” She smiled shyly. “I did get to meet Colt in rehearsal.”

Colt Henderson was one of the new bad boys of country music, a former studio guitarist who’d been on tour with Taylor Swift. “And now you’re on a first-name basis,” I teased.

“He told me to. He’s very friendly.”

“Define friendly,” I said. Looking out for her, the way I used to.

She turned pink. “Not like that. He was nice. He asked me to play a song for him.”

“One of your songs? Beth, that’s so cool. Which one?”

“‘Leave a Candle in Your Window.’”

“I haven’t heard that one. Will you play it for me?”

“Maybe later. He said I showed promise.”

“So much promise.”

She ducked her head over the sink. “Not enough to land the job,” she said. Turning to me for confidence, the way she always did.

“Maybe not this time.” I rummaged in the junk drawer for a second peeler. “But you wait. There will be other auditions. Other songs. You just focus on school and the rest will come.”

Beth concentrated on the potato in her hand. Peelings flew.

Uh-oh. “Bethie?”

“I was thinking . . .”

“Always a mistake.”

“Ha-ha. The thing is, Mom could really use some help right now. Around the farm, you know? And I’m good with the goats. I was thinking maybe I’d stay home after Thanksgiving. Go back next semester.”

“Beth.” Impossible to keep the dismay from my voice. “You’ve missed so much school already. What about your classes? What about finals?”

“I already talked with my teachers. I could take incompletes.” A flush climbed her cheeks. “It would just be for a little while. Just until Momma’s feeling better.”

Her thoughtfulness put me to shame. “What does Mom say?”