He came back with a cucumber in hand and I had to concentrate on keeping my gaze at eye level. “It’s a smart way to reduce waste. Bruised fruit never sells but it makes great jam.”
I settled onto one of the stools tucked into the island, waiting. I didn’t know this version of Noah well enough to predict his next move but I had to believe he’d keep talking if I left the door open for him. And I really wanted him to keep talking.
Once the cuke was thoroughly washed and dried, he set to slicing it. I’d never noticed how long his fingers were or the number of freckles dotting his knuckles. It was kinda cute. “My mom liked canning. Loved preserves. She had a ton of recipes, most of which she stored in her head and never wrote down. It made sense to keep that going. It’s good business.”
“How are your parents?”
Obviously, they weren’t here. I didn’t want to make any assumptions but that, plus the decidedly past-tense way he spoke about his mother and the fact the family home had been converted into a market, gave me a bad feeling.
“My mother lives in North Carolina with her sister,” he replied. “They have an apartment in one of those assisted living communities. She’s able to get support for her MS there, which is good because she needs a lot of help these days. A lot. It’s a single story, which is important with her limited mobility. Less demanding than living in an old farmhouse.”
“Does that mean she’s left the pulpit?”
He gave a jerky shoulder-shrug-nod. “The Reverend left before I finished college. Might’ve been my second year, around the end. I’m not sure. But yeah, she stepped away from the congregation when her speech issues became more prominent.” Another jerky shrug. “She’s probably assembled a makeshift congregation at the assisted living community. Can’t keep a true theologian down.”
I watched as he scooped the cukes into a blue bowl with white polka dots. His hands were huge.Huge.When did that happen? “And your dad?”
Noah made a noise, some sort of humming grumble. “He died. Four-wheeler accident. There’s a spot on the back side of the orchard where the land gets soft when it rains every spring, and if you’re not paying attention, you’ll either get stuck in the mud or roll over a few times. It was dark and the conditions were stormy, and he rolled over. He went quickly but Mom had a serious relapse not long after, and she needed to move somewhere that she could get the support she required.” He waved his knife at the room. “Things evolved rapidly.”
“I’m so sorry, Noah.”
He nodded.
“So, that’s what brought you back to Friendship.”
He busied himself with grabbing plates from the cupboard and utensils from the drawer before turning a fraction of his attention toward me. “Pretty much.” He opened the window over the sink and called out, “Gennie, what’s up with those eggs, kid? It doesn’t take that long.”
I couldn’t make out her response but I did get the joy of watching Noah sigh with his whole body. He looked good. Better than I could’ve imagined.
Too bad he was such an epic grump.
Gennie clamored in, her sword tucked under her arm and making it near impossible to close the door without bobbling the basket of eggs. “Let me help you there,” I said, relieving her of the basket.
“Wash your hands,” Noah said to her.
“The chickens hate me,” Gennie said, stomping toward the bathroom. “They want to eat my fingers.”
“Your fingers would not be especially appetizing. Not enough meat on those bones,” Noah called after her.
Gennie emerged from the bathroom, eye patch over her brow and hands dripping wet. “They’re evil chickens. Super evil.”
Noah held out the polka dot bowl. “Take your cucumbers to the table.”
She accepted the bowl but stopped at my stool. “Will you sit next to me?”
“Of course. Let me help Noah with—”
“I’ve got it,” he interrupted. “Just—go. Sit.”
I spared him a quick glance but he’d already turned toward the oven, forcing me to watch the way his t-shirt stretched across his back. Yeah, these years looked good on him.
I grabbed the plates and silverware he’d set out and took a seat beside Gennie at the table. She had cucumber slices in both hands.
“I like your earrings,” she said. “What are they?”
“Lobsters,” I said, fingering the intricate beading. “I got these in Maine a few summers ago. A little town called Talbott’s Cove. I went there with some of my friends.”
“Did it hurt to get your ears pierced?”
