Page 7 of Already Callin’ You Mine

Reaching underneath her display, she pulls out a small box, the name Cocoa Corner embossed on the top, with a beautiful light blue satin ribbon tied around it. She hands it to me, winking conspiratorially.

Oh, I like this woman.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling like I could hug her.

I didn’t have a lot of friends when I lived here the first time, and have been afraid that coming back—this time with a kid in tow—would mean that I would have even fewer. But maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

Mama places her order, receiving a similar box from Tizzy as she pays. The three of us chat for another minute or so, Tizzy making sure to get my number, before another couple walks up to the tent.

“Where did the boys go?” I ask, looking around, worrying for a second. I know this is a small town, and that everyone here watches everyone else very closely. But that doesn’t mean that something can’t happen in the blink of an eye. And Otis isn’t the best at making sure to always hold a grown-up’s hand.

It’s moments like this that I wish putting your kid on a leash was socially acceptable.

“I think they wandered this way,” Mama says. “And don’t worry so much. You’re in Hickory Hills now, not Raleigh.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t have to be careful. Safety first.”

My mother tuts. “You always were risk-averse. But a little more time back home, getting settled at work, getting Otis settled in school, and you’ll learn to trust people.”

Not likely…

After all, the last time I trusted someone who wasn’t my parents, I ended up brokenhearted and homeless while seven months pregnant, followed by a multi-year legal battle.

“Mama try! Mama try!”

Otis spins around, shouting out, my mom senses pulling me toward him like a beacon, as my mother and I catch up with him and Dad, finding them a couple of booths down from us. I have no doubt that my little escape artist is leading the way, with Paps just along for the ride. Fingers crossed Paps can keep up and hold on. Literally.

“What am I trying?”

“Hun-eee.”

Smiling, I crouch down so that we’re eye level, opening my mouth and letting Otis feed me with the mini plastic tasting spoon he’s holding. The sweet, sticky concoction sticks to my tongue, the unmistakable taste taking over. I want to savor it, enjoy the flavor of something locally produced, but that’s not possible when you’re being fed by a preschooler.

Otis rips the spoon out of my mouth, managing to hit all of my front teeth in the process, treating the tiny plastic object like a medieval torture device. I should have known better and taken hold of the spoon the second he put it in my mouth, but here we are.

“Yummy,” I say, trying to recover from my near-miss of a dental emergency. “Do you like that? Would that be good with your peanut butter sandwiches?”

“Yes.”

“Stay with Paps, and I’ll be right back.”

Otis nods emphatically, and I push up, looking at the display of jars on the table, trying to figure out what’s what and if they have a price list. It takes a minute, but I finally find what I’m looking for, nearly having a heart attack when I see the price.

Fifteen dollars.

They want fifteen dollars for a jar of honey. Yeah, that’s not in the budget. I don’t care how good it is.

“Need some help?” a feminine voice asks.

I look up, expecting to see an older woman, one with a kind face showing off her pride for her bees and love for her community. Instead, I find the exact opposite.

Dressed in a sundress that appears to be a size too small, a blonde who seems to be a little younger than I am beams back at me. The V-neck dips so low and is so tight that her large chest looks like it’s going to bust through at any moment, the threads holding on for dear life.

“Err, uh, no. Just browsing.”

It was not the most graceful recovery, but she doesn’t seem put off by the fact that I was clearly standing here judging her and her outfit. Or lack of one.

“Do I know you? You look familiar.”