Page 7 of Worth the Trip

“So is your trip.”

I looked up. “My what?”

“Your trip.”

“I haven’t agreed to one.”

“Your bag is already packed.”

I stared at her. “You went to my house?”

“I have a key.”

“You packed my clothes?”

“I selected options. You can make the final decision when you get home.”

“That is deeply invasive.”

“That is sisterhood.”

“That is breaking and entering with accessories.”

“You gave me the key.”

“For emergencies.”

“This qualifies.”

“According to whom?”

“Me and Nana. Unanimous vote.”

I lowered the brochure. “What about the shop?”

“I’ll run it.”

“You already handle the bakery, payroll, and staffing.”

“And you handle vendors, community partnerships, and Scoops & Stories. We’re co-owners, Noli. I know how to answer a phone.”

“The waterfront festival is going to make traffic awful.”

“You’re going to Willow Run, not crossing an international border.”

“It’s outside Self Springs.”

“Yes. Civilization has reached it.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“You’ll appreciate it from Nana’s porch.”

My attention returned to the brochure.

Willow Run sat far enough from Self Ridge to feel removed from my routine but close enough that the drive didn’t require strategy. Nana’s house rested near the edge of town, where her porch overlooked a narrow stretch of water, and evenings seemed to move at a pace Self Ridge had forgotten.

I remembered summer mornings shelling peas beside her. Afternoons reading beneath the ceiling fan. The sound of gospel songs drifting from her kitchen while she cooked enough food for neighbors who hadn’t yet decided they were visiting.