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“Great,” she says. “Operation Hart/Holbrook wedding is officially underway!”

As they begin to disperse, Rowena holds up the tray of scones. “Don’t forget to take a scone!”

I reach over and grab two, then drop onto a stool on the opposite side of the island from Hattie. “What can I do?”

“I made the chart before I knew you’d be here, so I guess you’re off the hook,” she says.

“Well, I don’t want to be off the hook,” I say. “I’m here, and I want to help. You said you were going to put me to work, right?”

My eyes drop to her notebook, and I see the color-coded chart she’s created. I reach out my hand. “May I?”

She eyes me for a moment, then hands it over.

I flip through it. “Whoa, you’ve got every minute of the next two weeks planned out.”

“Well, yeah. There’s so much to think about. If I don’t write it down, it doesn’t happen.” She holds out her hand and I hand back the notebook.

“It’s a lot.” It’s obvious she’s putting a lot of pressure on herself. “Do you take breaks?” I take a bite of the scone. The flavors of cinnamon and pumpkin fill my mouth. It’s soft and flaky and buttery and—“Holy dang. This is amazing.”

“Right?” Hattie picks up her own scone. “I told you she’s good.”

We eat for a moment, just appreciating all the flavors of fall in a single pastry. Between bites, Hattie says, “I’ll take a break in January. Sometimes you just have to dig your heels in and get crap done, you know?”

“Fair. How about I dig in with you?” I stand, brushing crumbs from my hands.

She stops moving and looks at me. “No.”

I pick up my second scone. “Why not?”

“You’ll just get in the way.” She takes a drink of coffee, and I stare at her, trying to figure out the best way to convince her that I’m here to help. I come up empty.

After all this time, Hattie is a bit of a mystery to me.

“Besides, don’t you have anyone else you want to see while you’re here?” She refills her coffee cup and I make a mental note of how much cream—caramel flavored—and how much sugar she adds. “You could call up some of your old friends. Go to the Two-Step for lunch and beers or something.”

I wince. “Ah. Not really why I came back. I’d rather be helpful than spend my time drinking.” I take another bite.

“Oh?” She watches me. “That’s new.”

“It’s not actually,” I say, aware that she’s made up her mind about me. “Been sober for a while now.”

“Sober like . . .?”

“Like I don’t drink alcohol anymore.” I say it like, “Isn’t it obvious?” but keep my tone light.

I catch the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth, and I find myself anticipating a smile that doesn’t come.

“Wow,” she says. “That’s . . . I didn’t know. That’s great, actually.”

I shrug it off but her compliment hits me square in the chest. I didn’t mean to admit it out loud, but maybe a part of me wanted her to know.

I’m trying to do better. And alcohol always played a part in my poor choices. Some people just shouldn’t drink.

Her face shifts like she’s just placed another piece of a puzzle. “So . . . did you have like, a ‘come to Jesus’ moment or . . .?”

I take a drink. The coffee’s good. Everything’s good. Being here is good. These are thoughts I keep to myself, but my senses are on high alert.

“Not exactly, but kind of. I’d just been thinking about it for a while, and—” Why does it feel hard to say it out loud? I used to tell Hattie everything. More than I ever told her brothers. I shrug. “I just wanted to quit. Didn’t like who I was when I drank.”