means to get something from home.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Heather gave Emma a wayward look.
“I’ll tell you what.” Cynthia left the room, talking as she went. “Take the pamphlet and mark the ones who are overseas now. I’ll double check to see if anyone else went since last year.” She returned with a giant brown box. “These are things I collected last fall to send to them and then didn’t follow through. I’m so glad you ladies are doing this. I’ve felt awful ever since. I hoped to get back to it. Now I won’t have to worry.” She looked so relieved. Emma couldn’t say no.
The box thumped hard on the ground beside her. “I think there’s enough in there to send to all of them, plus a few extras.”
“Thanks.” Heather frowned.
“We’re glad to help.” Emma lifted the box. “Well, we’d better get started. I’ll bring the book back in a few days, if that’s all right.”
“Certainly.”
Heather dragged her body from the chair and tossed the book into the box. Together they carried the box and their new assignment out the front door.
Chapter Eleven
Nicholas sauntered up the steps to his childhood home. Hands in pockets. Smile tugging at his lips. The big white farmhouse never changed. The porch swing still creaked in the breeze. His mom still lined the boots up by the front door. Fresh roasted coffee wafted out to meet him. As far as he was concerned, there was no place like home.
“Hello, Mama.” He slipped into the kitchen, careful not to let the old screen door bang shut behind him.
“My angel, baby boy.” She wiped her hands into her apron and reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “How are you?”
“Hungry.”
“And right on time.” She scooped a plate full of pasta and ladled it with red sauce. “Eat up. You’re too thin.”
He patted his stomach. “On time is where I want to be. Plus, I find late is never good.” Too late to say good-bye to his dad. Too late for the funeral. Too late to spot the ambush he led his convoy into. Never ever good.
“Are you all right? Have you found your journal?”
Snapping back to the present, Nicholas poured two cups of coffee and headed to the table for dinner with his mom. She stared back at him in scrutiny.
“It’ll turn up.” He hoped. He dug in with enthusiasm. “Delicious as always. Do you know you make the best rigatoni around? That makes me a lucky guy.”
She shook her head in disagreement. “Anything would taste as good after all the strawberries we’ve seen this month.” Rolling her eyes, she sighed with exhaustion. In June the Strawberry Festival was all she could talk about. By the week of the event, she hated fruit in general. In a week more, she’d forget the stress of this event and be busy planning for the town’s Happy Apple Festival in a few months. Nicholas chuckled.
“I finished the booths and the framework for the judges’ tents. The festival’s ready to go from a carpentry standpoint. How about the judges?”
“High and mighty like every year. Every woman with a dish or a relative in the contest is sucking up to them like you wouldn’t believe.”
Nicholas shoveled another scoop of pasta into his mouth and smiled. She looked exasperated. She loved it. This cycle had gone on as long as he could remember. Her pasta hit the spot. He’d been working in the sun for hours.
The time had passed in a blink. His mind wandered to Emma and the meal they’d shared. She made heirloom tomatoes on the grill like his mom’s, right down to the tangy touch of Italian dressing and zip of dill. At first, he wondered if she’d found the recipe somewhere. Then, he passed it off as a common idea. Lots of cooks tried a pinch of this, a dash of that, to change up an old favorite. Sitting with his mom, enjoying her sweet red sauce, he wondered.
“I had grilled tomatoes the other night.”
“Did you use the dill?” She looked up, seeming delighted.
“I didn’t make them.”
That gave her pause.
“Sounds like a plan.” Heather gave Emma a wayward look.
“I’ll tell you what.” Cynthia left the room, talking as she went. “Take the pamphlet and mark the ones who are overseas now. I’ll double check to see if anyone else went since last year.” She returned with a giant brown box. “These are things I collected last fall to send to them and then didn’t follow through. I’m so glad you ladies are doing this. I’ve felt awful ever since. I hoped to get back to it. Now I won’t have to worry.” She looked so relieved. Emma couldn’t say no.
The box thumped hard on the ground beside her. “I think there’s enough in there to send to all of them, plus a few extras.”
“Thanks.” Heather frowned.
“We’re glad to help.” Emma lifted the box. “Well, we’d better get started. I’ll bring the book back in a few days, if that’s all right.”
“Certainly.”
Heather dragged her body from the chair and tossed the book into the box. Together they carried the box and their new assignment out the front door.
Chapter Eleven
Nicholas sauntered up the steps to his childhood home. Hands in pockets. Smile tugging at his lips. The big white farmhouse never changed. The porch swing still creaked in the breeze. His mom still lined the boots up by the front door. Fresh roasted coffee wafted out to meet him. As far as he was concerned, there was no place like home.
“Hello, Mama.” He slipped into the kitchen, careful not to let the old screen door bang shut behind him.
“My angel, baby boy.” She wiped her hands into her apron and reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “How are you?”
“Hungry.”
“And right on time.” She scooped a plate full of pasta and ladled it with red sauce. “Eat up. You’re too thin.”
He patted his stomach. “On time is where I want to be. Plus, I find late is never good.” Too late to say good-bye to his dad. Too late for the funeral. Too late to spot the ambush he led his convoy into. Never ever good.
“Are you all right? Have you found your journal?”
Snapping back to the present, Nicholas poured two cups of coffee and headed to the table for dinner with his mom. She stared back at him in scrutiny.
“It’ll turn up.” He hoped. He dug in with enthusiasm. “Delicious as always. Do you know you make the best rigatoni around? That makes me a lucky guy.”
She shook her head in disagreement. “Anything would taste as good after all the strawberries we’ve seen this month.” Rolling her eyes, she sighed with exhaustion. In June the Strawberry Festival was all she could talk about. By the week of the event, she hated fruit in general. In a week more, she’d forget the stress of this event and be busy planning for the town’s Happy Apple Festival in a few months. Nicholas chuckled.
“I finished the booths and the framework for the judges’ tents. The festival’s ready to go from a carpentry standpoint. How about the judges?”
“High and mighty like every year. Every woman with a dish or a relative in the contest is sucking up to them like you wouldn’t believe.”
Nicholas shoveled another scoop of pasta into his mouth and smiled. She looked exasperated. She loved it. This cycle had gone on as long as he could remember. Her pasta hit the spot. He’d been working in the sun for hours.
The time had passed in a blink. His mind wandered to Emma and the meal they’d shared. She made heirloom tomatoes on the grill like his mom’s, right down to the tangy touch of Italian dressing and zip of dill. At first, he wondered if she’d found the recipe somewhere. Then, he passed it off as a common idea. Lots of cooks tried a pinch of this, a dash of that, to change up an old favorite. Sitting with his mom, enjoying her sweet red sauce, he wondered.
“I had grilled tomatoes the other night.”
“Did you use the dill?” She looked up, seeming delighted.
“I didn’t make them.”
That gave her pause.
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