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st Rebecca's diary in a poker game a few years back.” He dug into the sundae.
“Oh that man. He's lucky he still gets invited to Thanksgiving dinner.” She pursed her lips. “The treasure hunters only valued her diary, but the historical society is putting together a display of her other belongings as part of the Founder’s Day celebration.”
“They're going Layton crazy, are they?”
“Our family did help settle Dry Creek. Didn't I raise you to be proud of your legacy?”
The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. Damn, half the ice cream still sat melting in the bowl, but he’d started Glenda down the wrong path and there was no going back.
“And when are you going to find a nice girl to settle down with and have kids to build upon that legacy?”
Soon. Not that he could tell his mother that.
“What happened to make my children so marriage-averse?” She sighed melodramatically. “You're not getting any younger you know.”
“Maybe after Amanda, I'm not so keen on getting married again.”
Glenda harrumphed. “That girl? She was never the right one for you. I must have told you after every one of the dozen break ups you had starting in high school. But did you listen? Nope. I'm just your mother. What would I know?”
“Or it could be that I have someone in mind, but she doesn't want anything to do with me.”
She looked up, aghast. “Who wouldn't love you?”
“Careful, Mom, you're starting to sound like you've gone soft and mushy.”
“Enough of that smart mouth, mister.” She nailed him to his seat with her best mama bear look. “That ex-wife of yours is a real piece of work. I'd like to use other words for her, but your father put up a swear jar in the kitchen last week. I’ve already deposited three dollars.” Speculation twinkled in her dark-brown eyes. “How about Beth Martinez? She’s such a nice girl. You’ve known each other forever. Why don’t you ask her out?”
Like a man trying to disarm a ticking time bomb, he weighed his options, both of which were ugly. Cutting the green wire meant keeping his mom in the dark. When she did find out—and she would, being Dry Creek’s biggest gossip—she’d hang him out to dry. Snipping the blue wire equaled spilling the beans and begging her not to get involved. Like that would ever happen.
“Mom—”
“I know, I know, butt out. The way you kids act you’d think I was always in your business.”
Opting for silence being the better option, Hank waited her out. It took all of three breaths.
“Fine, fine. I won’t interfere.” She stood and scooped up the bowl of half-eaten ice cream from the table. “Now, enough lounging about. There are six more boxes I need down from the attic.”
He dropped a kiss on the top of his mother's head. “Will do.”
Chapter Four
The rich aroma of fresh-ground coffee at Get Buzzed always transported Beth to her happy place. Fruity, tropical drinks with paper umbrellas had nothing on a good cup of joe…or latte…or mocha…or, well, anything hot and caffeinated. And today, she needed it.
Inhaling the heady scent, she willed contentment to seep into her bones. Like she had since her hysterectomy, which came right on the heels of the six-month anniversary of her abuelita’s passing, she’d stayed up half the night trying to process what a life without the possibility of a future family would be like.
This morning she woke up determined to move forward. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about the hysterectomy. It was done. She would push past the pain and plunge back into her normal routine. Was it the best way to deal with grief? Probably not, but it was the only way she knew how.
Determined to make this Saturday morning perfect, no matter what, she bounced out of bed as soon as her alarm clock beeped. First, a few hours with the newspaper and her coffee, the sweet nectar of the gods. Second, off to the gym, where she’d change into workout gear and go one-on-one with the boxing bag. Third, devouring an iced cinnamon roll while reviewing the pro bono wills she had drawn up for a handful of nursing home residents.
But first thing first. Unscrewing the top of her mug, she stepped up to the counter.
“Next,” the barista called out.
Beth handed over her mug and blew on her hands, chilled from the crisp late October air, then pulled out the emergency twenty dollar bill she kept in her gym bag. “Caramel mocha with a double shot of espresso please.”
“One regular it is.” The woman scribbled her order on the mug with a dry-erase marker and handed it to a teenager manning the espresso machine.
Beth moseyed down to the pickup end of the counter, her attention fixated on the newest bunch of bee-themed coffee mugs for sale. Fat bumblebees circled flowers with coffee bean centers on a bright yellow ceramic cup. Two worker bees clinked coffee mugs on a blue to-go cup. She picked up one with tiny bees spelling out, “Get Buzzed in Dry Creek, Nebraska”, for closer inspection.
