Page 93 of Spicy Ever After
“Sunshine footprints.”
“W-what?”
Hattie shakes her head, looking embarrassed. “I mean—I know people call them crow’s feet but that’s creepy. Carrion claws right by your eyes?” A frisson runs through her as she wrinkles her nose. “Sunshine footprints sound friendlier.”
She’s right. It does.
Pop makes a noise like a cough. When I look at him, he’s still not smiling exactly, but a spark I rarely see these days lights his eyes.
Just like that, I can’t bear the thought of him eating lunch alone in his room. “Hattie brought a ton of food, Pop.” I jerk my head toward the kitchen. “Come grab a seat at the table.”
He only hesitates for a second before following us.
“Oh wow…” Wide-eyed, Hattie does a slow 360, taking in the farmhouse kitchen, which looks much like it did when the house was built in 1934. Sure, we’ve replaced appliances, updated wiring and plumbing, but the woodwork, cabinets, and the wide cast iron farm sink have been here since the beginning. Even the trestle table is older than Pop.
“This is so… real,” Hattie practically purrs.
My chuckle overrides me. “Yep. All real,” I tease. Still, I think I know what she means. “It hasn’t changed a lot over the years.”
But she shakes her head, still taking it in. “No… I mean, yeah, you can tell, but—” Her gaze traces over the jig-sawed scallop cutout over the kitchen sink. “It’s… ancestral… Like that scene in Mulan in the temple when the ghosts of all her ancestors come out and start bickering. Like… you can feel generations in the woodwork.”
The hairs on the back of my neck tickle. Because she’s saying something that I’ve never brought to the forefront of my mind. Yet… it’s something that’s always been tucked there in a corner.
I have a lifetime of memories of Mom, Grandad Pete, and Grandma Vale in this kitchen. They play like a silent movie in the background all the time. They are so present, I notice them like one notices wallpaper—which means never.
And also always.
I glance at Pop. He’s standing with one hand on the wall and the other on the back of his chair, staring openly at Hattie. His reel of memories is probably richer than mine.
Hattie looks from him to me. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean that your house is haunted. I?—”
“No. No. You didn’t say anything wrong.” I set the bakery boxes on the table and reach for her bag. “Here, let me?—”
But she tugs it toward her. “I want to help,” she declares. Not rudely but firmly.
I nod. “Okay. Anything you want.”
She blushes a little and plops the grocery bag on the table. “The grapes need washing.” She fishes them out of her bag and carries them to the sink.
I look down at my hands and my T-shirt and decide now’s my chance. “I need to clean up too,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Hattie chirps, already cranking the faucet.
I give Pop a warning look, and he just scowls at me. I shake my head and jog upstairs. I peel off my shirt, wash and dry my face, neck and hands, and am buttoning up an old but clean shirt when I return to the kitchen.
Pop’s sitting in his chair as Hattie unloads the shopping bag. I grab plates, utensils, and hunt down the pie cutter for her quiche.
“Orange marmalade?” Pop’s grumbling voice twists like he’s never heard of it before.
I glance over my shoulder, about to give him a silent scowl, when I see the look on his face. It’s almost boyish.
He’s gripping the small jar of preserves in his trembling hand with a nearly confused smile. “I haven’t had this in years. Your grandmother used to love the stuff.”
A flash of memory. Mom carrying a pan of biscuits to the table. Grandma Vale spooning orange marmalade over the sliced and buttered halves of her biscuit. Grif wrinkling his nose at the bits of orange peel in the spread. Then Grandma Vale telling him his face might freeze like that if he wasn’t careful.
I chuckle. “She did.”
“Orange marmalade is the best,” Hattie declares, holding out her hand for the little container. Pop hands it over to her. “I’d eat it every day if I could.”
