"Not just any maple cake," my mother continues, warming to her theme. "This was my grandmother's recipe, the one that won the county fair seventeen years running. The layers were perfect, Val.Perfect.The Swiss meringue buttercream alone took me four hours."
The nurse tries again. "Mrs. Carter, about your surgery?—"
"And there's Jenny Thomas, lurking by the display table like some kind of pastry vulture. She sees me coming with my cake—my beautiful,perfectcake—and what does she do?"
"She bumped you," Caleb supplies wearily. We've clearly been through this story multiple times already.
"Sheassaultedme!" our mother's voice rises to a pitch that makes the monitors beep in alarm. "Deliberately! With maliceaforethought! Her hip-check sent me stumbling, the cake went flying, and I went down trying to save it."
"And broke your wrist," Rae adds from the window. "Because you tried to catch a three-tier cake instead of catching yourself."
"It would have won," our mother insists, then turns those brown eyes on me. The same warm brown all my siblings inherited from her, same as her dark chestnut hair, while I remain the obvious outlier with my silver-on-silver. "Her maple walnut squares lost to mine at last month's church fundraiser, and she simply couldn't stand the thought of losing again. She even had the nerve to spread gossip that I only added those cute little sugar rainbows to win extra brownie points with Pastor Beth because she'd just married her girlfriend! Can you believe that?"
I can believe that, but I keep my mouth shut. To be fair, Olivia Carter is a staunch ally of the vulnerable and has never missed a Pride parade, so her intentions very well may have been pure. I don't miss the gleam in her eyes, though, and when I arch an eyebrow at Rae to see what she thinks, her lips twitch in subtle amusement.
"Mom," Finn pipes up from his corner, "I'm pretty sure Jenny Thomas doesn't care that much about?—"
Our mother scoffs loudly. "Oh, she cares!"
I catch Rae's eye again. She mouths "help me" with the desperation of someone who's been dealing with this for hours.
"When is the surgery?" I ask, cutting through our mother's building tirade about Jenny Thomas's various crimes.
The nurse jumps on the opening. "Tomorrow morning at eight. It's a simple procedure to properly set the bone?—"
"Absolutely not." Our mother tries to cross her arms, realizes one is immobilized, and settles for hanging it off the side of the bed.
"You can't bake with a broken wrist," Rae interjects.
My mother's eyes narrow. "No?"
"Mother," I say quietly. I've never been able to bring myself to call herMom,even if I've never doubted her love. "You need the surgery."
She turns that normally warm glare on me, puffing herself up. "Don't you start with me, Val. You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am. That's why you're staying for the surgery."
"I most certainly am not?—"
"You are." I keep my voice level, matter-of-fact. "Because if you leave now, against medical advice, you will heal wrong."
That makes her hesitate.
"And then you'll be useless in the kitchen," I continue, watching her face shift from defiant to contemplative. "How will you defend your title at next month's harvest festival if your wrist sets wrong?"
Our mother's eyes narrow. "That's not fair. You're using logic against me."
I shrug, offering her my best attempt at a real smile. Feels like a beast baring its teeth at a doe.
"You learned that from your father," she mutters, but I can see her resolve weakening. "Speaking of which, where is that man?He said he'd bring me coffee from that place I like, not this hospital swill."
As if summoned, the door swings open and David Carter appears, balancing a cardboard carrier with four coffee cups and looking every inch the former athlete who's settled into comfortable dad mode with my mother's favorite lavender purse over one shoulder without a hint of embarrassment.
"Coffee delivery," he announces, then stops when he sees me. "Val! When did you get here?"
"About twenty minutes ago."
He sets the coffees down and pulls me into one of those back-slapping hugs that still catches me off guard even after all these years. Like I'm actually his son. Like the fact that I showed up at fourteen with more knife scars than words doesn't matter.
