"Why?" My mom crosses her arms, staring me down. "Are you taking someone on a picnic?"
"No, I'm planning to climb inside and wait for people to pass by, then jump out and scare them half to death."
"You do that to me," Aunt Carmen says, "and I'll hit you with whatever I have in my hands at the moment."
Mom spends a handful of seconds staring me down, then decides to let me off the hook. She hunts down the picnic basket, and a few minutes later I'm on my way, basket in hand, rattled by her questions and commentary.
Saturdays arethe busiest day at Summerhill. The store brims with shoppers, the restaurant packed with hungry patrons.
We're closed on Sundays, because as my mother says, even the Lord rested on Sunday. If my vote were the only one that counted, I'd be open seven days a week. Sunday is when people are off work, and would distribute the weekend crowds a little more evenly. My mother and I have equal share in Summerhill, so we compromised by expanding the hours we are open on Saturdays. Vivi has a small share of the business, but she has little to do with the operations beyond overseeing the on-site restaurant we opened in the last couple years.
This leaves me no choice but to show Mallory around Summerhill on a Saturday, with the masses.
She meets me in the kitchen at my house at eleven. She slept in today, and honestly, good for her. That woman is always working, her mind never stopping. She's either reading a book, listening to a podcast (not a fellow true crime podcast, I learned when I asked, but one on wellness), writing something, poring over her notes, or internet sleuthing. At this point, I think she knows more about the people of this town, and its history, than I do.
"You look nice," I tell her, glancing over from where I'm standing in front of the high-end coffee machine I purchased this week. It's a big upgrade from the drip coffee maker I had, and I didn't know what I was missing out on. I tell myself I would have bought it eventually, but let's be real. I bought it for Mallory after she mentioned those decaf vanilla lattes at Sweet Nothings. Ilove Sal, but there's no way I'll let him have a leg up on me. Not where it concerns Mallory.
"Thanks," she answers, looking down at herself. She's wearing that tan suede skirt she got at the mall last weekend. "It's a little big on me, but probably not for much longer."
I have to turn away from her to keep my face from showing my true emotions. I can't understand a man who walks away from the woman carrying his child. I'd be honored if a woman like Mallory used her body to bring my child into the world. I'd cherish her, and care for her, and do everything in my power to show her my gratitude.
Getting my bearings, I turn around with her coffee in hand.
"I was hoping that was for me," she grins impishly, taking the cup I'm offering. "I smelled the vanilla."
"And this, too." I move to the fridge, coming away with the chocolate cherry chia seed pudding I made yesterday. "I added a scoop of protein powder. Should keep you full and your blood sugar regulated."
She takes the jar from me and spins away, but it's too late. I've seen the moisture in her eyes.
"Are you ok? Did I do something wrong?" Is she allergic to chia seeds? Did she tell me, but I forgot?
"No," she says, pained. Frustrated. She grabs a spoon from a drawer and closes it with her hip. "I cry at the drop of a hat. It'sannoying."
At that, I smile. I remember that about Vivi. And if there's one person who doesn't like to cry in front of people, it's my sister.
She blinks away the tears and lifts her cup to her lips. Her gaze meets the ceiling, and she moans in a way that sends a straight shot to a part of me I'm trying to ignore. "So," she says, sliding onto the counter stool. "What did you do while I was a lazy bones this morning?"
"Accomplished a few tasks around the house. Paid bills. Answered emails. Worked out."
She perks up. "Worked out?"
"I made the fourth bedroom into a gym."
"I didn't know what that room was. The door is always closed."
"You have professional level curiosity and you haven't opened that door?"
She shrugs, cup poised at her mouth. "I'm not poking my nose into your things, Hugo. A closed door means you shouldn't open it."
"Funny you should say that, considering you came to Olive Township to figuratively open a closed door."
Realization dawns.
That's what my mom meant this morning when she kept pushing about how I brought Mallory into my home. I literally opened my door to Mallory. Is that what I'm doing with my heart, too?
Mallory wiggles her eyebrows. "I guess I'm selective about the doors I open."
I lean back against the lip of the counter, regarding her. She's beautiful. "You seemed interested when I said I worked out this morning. Is that something you do when you're at home in Phoenix?"
