“Not really,” I blurt. “Yesterday was steel cut oats with peaches.”
“It was gross,” Maisy mutters.
I turn a scowl on my daughter. “What was that, missy?”
Her eyes bug behind her glasses, and she looks back at the biscuits she’s decimating.
“Yeah.” Lark nods as if agreeing with himself, his gaze lingering on me. His voice drops low enough to make warmth erupt in my belly. “I’ve been missing out.”
And then he snags one of the biscuits off the full plate I’m holding and flashes a wicked grin. “Wish I could take it all.”
With feline grace he turns and moves toward the tenant fridge.
The front view of his dress pants should have prepared me, but holy God!
When he opens the fridge door and bends to grab a bottled iced coffee, I almost drop the plate.
Instead I swivel on my heel and take a seat at the table, eyes on the too-big pile of eggs in front of me.
“Later.”
I glance up to see Lark giving everyone a casual wave, but those eyes land on mine.
I swallow some air, cough, and wave back.
When he’s gone, I’m still struggling to breathe.
“Y’okay?” Pen asks, smirking at me over her coffee cup.
I clear my throat, wishing my face would cool off. “Yeah, just served myself too much.” I look to my brother for rescue. “Tyler, you want some of my eggs?”
He grunts ayes,and I push half of my pile onto his near-empty plate.
“Too much for you to handle?” Pen says, her tone as dry as paper. Her brow nearly brushes the ceiling.
I glare at her. “More than I need,” I fire back.
“I don’t know,” Pen says, shrugging. “You looked pretty hungry just now.”
I feel my nostrils flare. “Don’t you have some gardening to do?”
Pen shoots to her feet amid choked snickers and lowered gazes. “Anybody want any blueberries?”
ChapterTen
LARK
By the timeI get back to Lafayette after church, Sunday dinner with the fam, and the thirty-minute drive from New Iberia, I’m practically in a coma. Whether it’s induced by a long-winded sermon on seeking the Lord—the one at the cathedral and then the one at home—too much rice and gravy, or twenty depressing miles of Highway 90, I don’t really know, but it feels like the day has been a waste.
I like visiting my family. I do. I don’t see my younger brothers and sisters enough. And I feel bad when I haven’t checked on my dad in a while. But it’s also exhausting. And not just this time when practically everyone asked separately where Zoe was.
It’s exhausting most times. Like paddling upstream. Fox News bellows from the TV morning, noon, and night. Mom always has to start the meal with grace, and every prayer enumerates the number of abortions that took place in the United States in the last week.
I rolled my eyes once when I was a sophomore in high school during the abortion prayer, and Mom has glared at me every time since, as though daring me to do it again.
Thank God—or whoever—that we have a lot of property and a walk along the Teche after Sunday dinner has been my saving grace for as long as I can remember. The Sweet Olives along the bank are just starting to bloom. Their scent isn’t strong yet, but it still was enough to make me think of Stella.
When I pull into her drive, I notice the garage is open and her beat up Accord is gone. I shouldn’t notice this. Like not at all.
