When the warmth of Hugo’s hands is replaced with a cooler one, I hesitantly flutter my eyes back open. Mrs. Marshall’s translucent-skinned hand cups mine as she thoughtfully inspects the blister. The heat on my cheeks increases when I turn my eyes to the side of the kitchen and see Chase, Helen, Jorgie, and Mr. Marshall staring at me with a hint of intrigue in their eyes.
Lifting her eyes to Hugo, Mrs. Marshall says, “Grab the alcohol wipes and the needles from my sewing kit while you’re getting the iodine.”
My eyes bug at the mention of a needle. I hate needles. It isn’t a small dislike. I hateHATEthem. After shooing Hugo and the rest of the Marshall gang out of the kitchen, Mrs. Marshall pulls over a stool from underneath the counter in the corner of the room and gestures for me to sit. When I sit down, the feeling of being sent to the principal’s office for reprimand overwhelms me.
“Umm… that wasn’t what it looked like,” I stammer, mortified that she busted me panting like a dog in heat in the middle of her kitchen.
Mrs. Marshall runs her hand down the front of her frilled apron before her green eyes lock with mine. “Do I look like I was born last century?”
Through a gaped mouth, I shake my head. Although Mrs. Marshall is in her mid-fifties, she has gorgeous long, cascading blonde hair, vibrant green eyes that show she hasn’t hit her prime yet, and one of the most rocking bodies I’ve ever seen on a lady of her age. I’d be more than happy to look like her in my mid-thirties left alone fifties.
“Even being married for thirty years, I can recognize the sparks of attraction just as well as the next person.” She clasps my uninjured hand in hers. “I know this is something you’ve wanted for a long time, Ava.”
My pupils widen.Am I the only idiot who thought I did a good job of hiding my crush on Hugo?
Mrs. Marshall’s brow curves. “You wear your heart on your sleeve as clear as day for all to see, just like Hugo. But in saying that, Hugo is not the boy you remember from high school. He has changed. The war changed him.”
A stabbing pain inflicts my chest when I spot the tears pricking her eyes.
“What happened over there?” I query.
Rumors ran rife through our hometown when Hugo was discharged from his position earlier than the remainder of his squadron. Speculations ranged from him being insubordinate to his superiors to a botched mission that caused casualties during friendly fire.
Never being one to believe rumors, I politely excused myself from the conversation whenever the topic of his dismissal came up. Over time, the rumors fizzled and the town gossips found something new to bitch about.
Mrs. Marshall’s face scrunches. “Nobody knows exactly what happened because Hugo won’t talk to anyone about it. But I know my boy. I can see in his eyes that he is suffering.”
I blink several times in a row, hammering my eyes with flutters of air, praying it will stop my tears from falling. There is no greater love in the world than a mother’s love for her child. That is exactly what is projected out of Mrs. Marshall’s eyes when she talks about Hugo.
After running her index finger under her eyes to ensure her tears haven’t spilled, Mrs. Marshall says, “Because you are like a daughter to me, Ava, I feel it is my responsibility to ensure you are not walking into this blindfolded.”
My breath hitches from her calling me her daughter.
“Thank you, but I can assure you I'm not. My eyes are the most open they have ever been,” I say, smiling softly.
Peering into my eyes, the concern in hers vanishes and a smile curls on her lips.
“I’m glad to hear that, Ava,” she murmurs as Hugo saunters into the kitchen with a bottle of iodine in one hand and a sewing kit in the other.
Mrs. Marshall squeezes my hand before her eyes drift to Hugo. “You look like you have this under control. Once you have Ava cleaned up, come and join everyone for brunch.”
After a quick smile, she taps her hand on Hugo’s forearm and bolts out of the kitchen like it was her backside set on fire instead of the pancakes.
Thirteen
Hugo
Ava’s big doe eyes track me as I move across the room to grab a stool from under the breakfast bar and drag it to sit in front of her. Even with her eyes plagued with dark circles and her skin a little more gaunt than it was last week, she looks beautiful.
She always looks beautiful.
When I entered the kitchen, I nearly spun on my heels and exited straight back out, knowing there was no way I could trust myself around Ava when I saw her clothing selection. She is wearing one of the shortest white pleated miniskirts I’ve ever seen in my life. If that isn’t bad enough, she teamed it up with a pair of heels that make her legs go for days and days.
My attention was only diverted from her spellbinding legs when my mom threw her arms around my shoulders and wept into my neck. For as long as I can remember, the Marshall family has held a family brunch the first Sunday of the month.
Our get-togethers aren’t exclusively for members of the Marshall clan, though. They are an open invitation, available to anyone who doesn’t mind rolling up their sleeves and getting their hands dirty to prepare the food. Or in Helen’s case – wash the dishes.
During high school, Sunday was my favorite day of the week. Not just because every breakfast food you could possibly imagine was displayed across the dining room table ready to be devoured once a month. But because every Sunday morning, Ava would greet me with a big braces-covered smile and the largest plate of blueberry pancakes I’d ever seen in my life.
