As Sunny wound down theroad toward Abigail Lowery’s cabin, she doubted her son would approve. But she had a habit of doing as she pleased, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone—unless they deserved it. In any case, her son’s visit there the day before gave her the perfect excuse to drop by.
She parked, mentally clucked her tongue at the gas-guzzling SUV.
Still, she approved of the house, the way it nestled right into the landscape. She could see beds were being prepped for spring planting. And the glimpse of a corner of a greenhouse caught her eye and her envy.
It was a fine morning for a visit, she determined, with spring whispering on the air, the leaves a pretty haze of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.
As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.
She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.
When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.
“Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”
“Yes.”
“I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”
“Thank you, Ms.O’Hara, but—”
“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”
“Oh.”
In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”
“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”
“No, no, they don’t.”
“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”
She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”
“I don’t want to be rude, but—”
“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”
Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.
She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.
Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.
“There, now, that wasn’t so— Oh, what agorgeousdog.”Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”
Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie.“Ami,”she said to the dog. “Ami,Bert. You can pet him now.”
Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami?That’s French. Are you French?”
“No. I speak French.”
