“I’ll make the coffee.”
She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …
“Did your son ask you to come here?”
“No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”
“I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”
Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”
She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”
“I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”
“So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old hippies.”
“You were part of the counterculture.”
“I like to think I still am.”
As Abigail brewed the coffee, got out cups and plates, Sunny glanced over to the office area. And raised her eyebrows at the views of the drive, the back area, sides, on the computer screen.
“Isn’t that something? Nobody’s going to sneak up on you, are they? You work on security systems, isn’t that right?”
“I do.”
“There was a time nobody even locked a door at night around here, and if you had a shop and needed to run out, why you’d just leave a note. People could come on in, and just leave the money on the counter if they wanted to buy something before you got back. Sometimes progress and change is a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.”
“It’s better to be secure.”
Socially awkward, Brooks had said. Yet the girl set out nice plates, put milk in a little pitcher, set out sugar, cloth napkins. She knew how to entertain company, even if the company was unexpected and not particularly welcome.
Sunny took a seat at the counter. She imagined Abigail had two stools only because they’d come as a set. Sunny added milk and considerable sugar to her coffee, then patted the second stool.
“Come on and sit. Tell me about Abigail.”
“There isn’t anything to tell.”
“There’s always something. What do you like to do?”
“I like my work.” Obviously reluctant, Abigail sat.
“I feel for people who don’t. Besides your work?”
“I work quite a lot.” When Sunny just cocked her eyebrows, Abigail struggled to find more. “Bert requires exercise, so we walk or hike. It was part of the appeal of this property, that there was enough land. I work in the greenhouse or the garden. It’s satisfying. I like to read. I like television.”
“So do I, more than they say you should. But what do they know? And you like solitude.”
“I do.”
“When I was raising three kids, I used to think I’d pay any price for a few hours of alone.”
“I didn’t realize your son had siblings.”
“Two older sisters.”
“You’re very young to have children that age, in their thirties, I assume.”
“I was nineteen when I came to Bickford. I’d been rambling around for about two years.”
“You … you left home at seventeen?”
“The day after I graduated high school. I’d put too much time into that to walk away from it. But once that was done, I was gone.” Sunny snapped her fingers. “I didn’t get along with my parents, which is no surprise, as we saw everything, I mean everything, from opposite sides. We still do, mostly, but we’ve made amends. When I came here, I met a young schoolteacher. He was shy and sweet and smart, and had beautiful hazel eyes. I seduced him.”
“I see.”
“That part was easy, I was quite beguiling,” she said with a laugh. “What wasn’t easy was coming to realize I was making love with someone I’d fallen in love with. I was so sure I didn’t want that kind of life. The man, the home, the roots, the family. But he was irresistible. He wanted to marry me. I said no, none of that for me.”
“Marriage as an institution is part of our culture’s fabric, but it remains only a kind of contract, and unnecessary, as it’s easily broken.”
“You might be speaking my own words from that time. When I learned I was carrying Mya, I agreed to a kind of handfasting. I was dabbling in Wicca back then. We had a lovely ceremony by the river, and moved into a tiny cabin, oh, not half the size of this. No indoor plumbing, either, and I was fine with that.”
She sighed into her coffee at the memory. “I had two babies there. And it wasn’t quite so fine. My man wanted a real marriage, a real home. He’d let me have my way for nearly three years. I realized it was time to let him have his. So we loaded up the babies, went to the justice of the peace, made that legal contract. And with the money I’d made from my art—I got a greeting-card contract, and that was reasonably lucrative. And the money he’d saved from teaching, we bought that ramshackle of a house off Shop Street. We started fixing it up, and Brooks came along. I never regretted a moment. Not one.”
Abigail wasn’t sure it was conversation when a virtual stranger imparted a synopsis of her life story. But it was fascinating.
“You’re very fortunate.”
“Oh, I am. How’s that pie?”
Abigail blinked, glanced down. She’d eaten nearly half, as she’d been caught up in Sunny’s story. “It’s wonderful.”
“I’ll give you the recipe.”
“I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”
“There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”
“I don’t know what you’d like.”
“Surprise me.”
After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”
“This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.
“You have it memorized?”
“I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”
“You smile when you say his name.”
“Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”
That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.
She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.
Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.
“I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”
She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.
“Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”
“You did what?” Brooks gaped at his mother.
“You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”
“Ma—”
“I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”
“You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”
“Of course I did.”