“Just until I get supper ready,” I call after them. But given the work I’m trying to get done tonight—plus the unscheduled recipe rescue—it'll probably be Sandwich Night. Again.
I turn back to Pen, who’s moved onto the second box. The counter is covered with meticulously placed and sodden recipe cards. The ones written in pencil don’t look too bad. The ones in ink are going to take some deciphering. Does that say two or three teaspoons of cream of tartar for Nanna’s Snickerdoodle recipe?
I get to work beside Pen, and in short order, every surface in the kitchen is covered with wet cards.
“Nanna’s cooking will live on,” Pen says with decision.
I let go a sigh. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to copy these down somewhere safe. Like a Google Doc.”
“Or the Library of Congress,” Pen says.
I chuckle. “Family treasures they are. National treasures?” I let the question hang in the air.
“Don’t you blaspheme in this house.”
Now I full-on belly laugh. Pen snickers at my amusement.
We almost miss the knock at the front door.
Both of us freeze and give each other questioning looks.
“You expecting someone?”
“No. You?”
It’s after six, so it’s probably not one of the contractors I’ve contacted to give me an estimate on replacing cracked window panes, but who knows.
When I open the front door, my hand flies to my mouth. A woman—young, skinny, and sporting a heinous black eye—stares back at me.
“Um… Hi.” She looks down at her feet. I do too. She’s wearing flip-flops. She has bruises and brush burns on her knees. I snap my gaze back to her face and then force myself to focus on her un-blacked eye. “Is this the house with the rooms for rent?”
My mouth drops open.
Slowly, I look over my shoulder and find Pen gaping just like I am.
“You posted the address in the ads?”
Her amber eyes go wide. “Shit,” she mutters.
I plaster on my bestI’m-not-annoyed-at-allsmile and blink obnoxiously at my best friend. “Could you edit that—”
“I’m doing it right now,” she says, reaching into her back pocket for her phone.
I turn back to the woman on the front porch. She’s watched this little exchange, and the look in her eyes is now so hollow, I almost lose my balance.
“I’m sorry,” she says almost soundlessly. “I should’ve called.”
My heart starts racing because I take in the fact that, aside from the flip-flops, she’s wearing—or barely wearing—a pair of short jeans shorts and a white T-shirt. Clearly without a bra. I don’t see a phone on her person. Or a purse. And the curb is free of cars.
“A-are you…okay?”I hear myself ask.
The young woman swallows but says nothing.
She has limp, straight blonde hair that’s in need of a wash, but if she didn’t have the black eye, anyone would say she’s pretty—in that waifish kind of way.
I step back from the entrance. “Do you want to come in?”
She swallows again but nods.
