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We both clear our throats, and when I pull back, I feel that cloud of tension I’ve felt for weeks lift off my shoulders.
“Good, so now that that’s out of the way, can we talk about you slowing down in the kitchen here? Calling Evan home from San Fran? Thinking about retirement?”
He glowers at me. “Don’t press your luck, kid. Maybe I’ll object when you’re on the altar.”
That tone is all joking, but I couldn’t help it. Sooner or later, we’ll have to discuss those things.
“It was worth a shot.” I shrug.
“Nooo. Did no one order extra flour?” Nonna bemoans from her pastry counter near the back of the kitchen.
“I thought I had some in the order that came in Monday. Do you not have any more under the cabinets?” Dad asks, walking over to her.
“It’s not here. Come on, I told you to order double.” She scowls at my father.
“Sorry, Mama. Ah, someone has to go get some then. The market is only open another fifteen minutes.” Dad looks guilty as hell, like a little boy who’s about to get grounded.
“You need someone to go to the market?” Cassandra breezes in, dirty plates stacked up her arms.
I take them. “Yeah, I can go.”
“No, let me. I get a break anyway, right? I need laundry detergent, so I’ll grab that and some flour,” she offers, her cheeks flushed from all the chaos tonight.
“You’re not going out on your own,” I object.
“It’s been a month plus of nothing. It’s two minutes down the road, and your family can’t spare another person. Let me get a breath of fresh air and I’ll be good to go for the rest of the night.” Those green eyes tell me how much she needs this tiny moment.
Ithasbeen weeks of nothing: no threats, no whiff of danger, not even a sideways look on the street. The residents of Hope Crest are becoming less and less aware that a celebrity lives among them and have started looking at Cassandra like a regular one of them instead. When we walk down the street or into establishments, no one whispers all that much anymore, and we don’t even have the obnoxious questions from those brave enough to ask them to our faces.
Cassandra is itching to break out of this protective bubble we’ve all placed around her, and I don’t blame her. But I also know how anxious I’ll be letting her walk the dozen or so yards to the market.
“I have my cell and my pepper spray.” She reaches into her apron and pulls them out as evidence.
“I don’t know …” Part of me wants to lock her up and throw away the key.
“She’s a grown woman, Patty. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to have a little faith. The PI hasn’t found anything, and it really could just have been bonehead teens trying to play some pranks.” Dad tries to reason.
He didn’t see that red paint on the wall, though. If I had to guess, I’d say that wasn’t just a prank. Pranks don’t make you wake in a cold sweat half the nights of the week and reach for the woman you’d now put your life on the line for.
“He might be right.” Nonna raises an eyebrow at me.
My grandmother is tougher than nails, and I know she thinks the same of Cassandra.
“Right back here, okay? And if anything happens, call us. Run. Sprint into the dining room screaming for all I care.” I reach for her, holding her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I’ll be okay.” She tightens her arms around my middle, and the sigh she lets out is just a tad nervous. “I need to do this.”
The last sentence is whispered, so only I hear, and I guess this is part of the healing we’ll both have to do. Her venturing out on her own, and me swallowing the fear of letting her do so.
“I love you,” I tell her as she unties the apron and sticks her phone and pepper spray in her pockets.
Cassandra reaches for her coat hanging on one of the hooks by the swinging door.
“Son, she’ll be gone for three minutes.” My father rolls his eyes.
“Still love her.” I wink at my girl.
“My lord, this child is drunker on love than that French skunk.” Nonna laughs.
