She raised her eyebrows at my tone. “Excuse me?”
“You never went anywhere,” I said.
“Because this is my home,” she said a little stiffly.
I felt guilty. I wasn’t trying to upset her. We’d had to leave the parsonage when Daddy enlisted. Aunt Phee had never offered to take us in at Oak Hill, the big white house that had belonged to my father’s grandparents.
And anyway, our mother wouldn’t take charity. She moved us to the farm because we had no place else to go.
“Sorry, Mom. I know you didn’t really have a choice.”
“This farm is my choice,” she said. “My heritage. I always figured that was worth preserving.”
“Okay.”
“You girls may not care about it now, but this land is your heritage, too. Sisters’ Farm.”
I gaped at her. I’d always figured the “sisters” were my mother andmy unknown aunt Elizabeth, the one who died when they both were young. The one Bethie was named after.
“I care,” I protested. Our grandparents were homesteaders, small-scale farmers living off the land. Rednecks, to my friends in New York. After they died and we moved to the farm, our mother slowly built up the goat herd and started making and selling cheese. There was something cool about growing up on a farm that had been in our family for generations, that our mother owned and operated herself. I just didn’t want to actually live there.
My mother smiled wryly. “Of course you do.” She pushed to her feet, clutching the sofa arm for balance.
Anxiety spurted inside me. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired. Don’t fuss, Jo,” she said, channeling Granny.
“I’m tired, too,” Amy said. “I was up all night, packing.”
“Why? You don’t need a lot of clothes. You’re only here for a couple of days.”
“Not for here.” Amy smiled, a little smugly. “I leave for Paris on Monday.”
Right.
“You should take a nap,” our mother said.
“I will if you will,” Amy said.
That was Amy, bargaining for what she wanted. Which in this case... I looked at her with sudden appreciation. She was trying, in her own way, to get Momma to lie down.
Our mother hesitated.
“You go,” I said. “Everything’s under control.”
After executing a full evening service at the restaurant, I figured I could handle one Thanksgiving dinner. Mom took Amy’s arm to go up the stairs.
And now that I had the kitchen to myself... I glanced at the wall clock. This morning I’d posted a recipe for sweet potato soufflé on my blog. Not the standard Southern casserole with marshmallows andpecans, either, but a real French soufflé with Gruyère cheese and whipped egg whites. I’d barely checked in with my followers all day. But it would be nice to share some photos with them. Maybe I wasn’t going to Paris. Or even Branson. But I had my own dreams to chase, my own work to do.
Opening the pantry door, I pulled out three large jewel yams.
Beth stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, watching me. “What can I do?”
“Want to peel potatoes?”
Beth smiled. “Sure.”
“So...” I hauled out a saucepan, nudging Beth aside with my hip to fill the pot at the tap. “Tell me about this Branson thing. It’s a big deal, right? Good exposure.”
