My stomach growled as I crossed the threshold. The scent of sizzling bacon, pancakes, and fresh coffee filled a house that resembled the front page ofSouthern Livingmagazine. Brown leather couches, hardwood floors, candles, hand-crafted knick knacks, a fire crackling in the fireplace. Dozens of photographs filled the walls, most of horses.
I stopped to look at a few.
“June is an exceptional photographer,” Rose said over my shoulder, the pride evident in her voice.
The home owner laughed at this as she walked into the kitchen. “Come on, now. Show and tell later.”
I followed Rose into the kitchen where June was setting another placemat on the table. I watched Rose work alongside June in a seamless, comfortable rhythm. Yes, Rose had a family. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but the love was the same. It was written all over both women’s faces.
June pulled down a plate and a glass from the cabinet.
I stepped forward. “Here. Let me?—”
“No, sir.” June shooed me away. “My kitchen. Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rose grinned and met me at the table. “No one messes in her kitchen.”
“Not if they want to get asked back again,” June muttered over her shoulder.
“Seriously, sit.” Rose grinned as she sat.
I settled in across from Rose. “You do this every day?”
“Only on Friday mornings.”
“I like to send her into the weekend with a full stomach and cleared head,” June added. “My girl needs to work less and relax more.”
Rose rolled her eyes.
Moments later, a feast was laid in front of me, platesfilled with sausage, bacon, blueberry pancakes, and fresh fruit. A cup of warm maple syrup was set next to a carafe of piping hot coffee.
I reached for the carafe. June slapped my hand away, picked it up and filled my cup. “I come from a time when women still serve men,” she slid me a look, “as long as they’re worthy enough. And I always serve in my own kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And serve me she did. I couldn’t see the edge of my plate by the time June took her seat at the head of the table, with a cup of coffee and plate of fruit.
She eyed me as I took my first bite, reminding me of Rose when she’d served me lasagna the evening before. Yes, family. And much like Rose, June was one hell of a cook. Warm, fluffy pancakes with a hint of vanilla against cinnamon blueberry. Best flapjacks I’d ever had.
Mouth full, I looked up and realized Rose was watching me, too.
“It’s good,” I forced out between the mouthful.
Both women smiled, then, satisfied with my reaction, turned their focus onto their own plates.
“So, Phoenix, how did you and Rose meet?”
The sausage went down my throat like a bowling ball. I wiped my mouth, sipped coffee, and squared my shoulders.
“Actually… I’m one of her patients.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I steeled myself for the question of why I was seeking therapy. Instead, I got?—
“Gettin’ anything out of it?”
