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She shook her head.
“Do you like baking?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really done any cooking or baking. The kitchen has always been off-limits.”
Had her family kept her out of the kitchen on purpose out of fear she’d burn the house down? If so, it was probably a wise decision.
“I do like eating vanilla scones, though,” she said thoughtfully, looking at the blackboard. “Earlier this week, Mrs. Pollard offered to teach me how to make them.”
I thought that exceedingly brave of her.
“I think that’s a great idea.” I sent silent apologies to Mrs. Pollard and hoped her house was well insured. “You should take her up on it.”
“Maybe I will. We’ll see.” She threw a look at the counter. “I should get my coffee now that the coast is clear. And I think I’ll get a cinnamon roll, too. I might even bring one to Javier. Just because.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Estrelle had gone. Rose stood watching us, an amused look on her face.
As Sienna ordered, I once again picked up the boxes and headed for the back door.
It was unusual that Sienna hadn’t felt a connection to the measuring spoons, but not unheard-of. Every once in a while, instead of evoking a trip down memory lane, the curiosities paved a path forward instead. I hoped beyond hope that the measuring spoons would soon guide Sienna in a direction that would lead to her finally finding her passion in life.
CHAPTER 13AVA
By Friday I’d determined thatthe Snail Slipperswas an ironic name.
These people took their exercise seriously. Hips swaying, elbows pumping, feet flying. Bettina led our pack, dressed in black spandex, her white-blond hair blowing in the wind as she soared along like a bat out of hell.
And much to my absolute delight, I’d discovered that Jolly Smith was a gossip.
She was fast becoming one of my favorite people here in Driftwood, and the first person I’d sought out early this morning, on my second foray with the Snail Slippers this week.
The big-haired, big-hearted woman was as friendly as she was chatty and hadn’t thought twice about letting me have a go at walking her pet chicken when I asked upon meeting her this past Wednesday. When Cluck-Cluck, a beautiful black chicken with white markings, had taken full advantage of my naiveté, Jolly had laughed her head off, a full, radiant round sound that hadn’t stopped until I happily (and breathlessly) handed the leash back to her after a wild lap around the square.
“Oh, there’s Candi Chitwood, goin’ into the bakery. The woman in the itty-bitty tank top?” Jolly motioned with her chin.
I glanced over and nearly tripped on my own two feet. It had been a long week, and I was tired, struggling to keep up with the rest of the group. Jolly had been nice enough to slow her pace to match mine, and I immediately loved her for the kindness. We were currently well into our third lap, and Hannah, Jolly’sgranddaughter, skipped ahead of us, singing “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” off-key, loud and proud.
No doubt, my new work routines, loss of appetite lately, and lack of regular exercise were the root cause of this exhaustion.
Nothing else. Nothing else at all.
Earlier some of the Snails had been talking about the Butterfly Fest 5K walk/run. It would be an ideal goal—the walk, not the run (I hadn’t lost my mind). With the race being just about a month and a half away, it would give me plenty of time to whip myself into some semblance of shape.
“Sweetest girl you ever did meet, that Candi,” Jolly said, “but has no idea her bodacious cleavage has been the cause of more than one accident around here; most recently, one that resulted in a decimated tomato patch and a young man’s trip to urgent care.”
In our time together, I’d heard that Bettina lied about her age, havingaddedyears so she could join the Happy Clams. Misty Keith hosted a book club, but only as an excuse to have a themed party once a month—she’d never read a single one of the picks. Ernestine Aiken kept stealing her own garden gnome because she had a crush on Dodge Cunningham, a recently divorced police officer.
I smiled the whole time Jolly talked. I couldn’t believe my dumb luck in landing here, in Driftwood, a picture-perfect, perfectly quirky town.
A place where someone like me, who hadextraordinarysenses of hearing and smell, could fit in. I was a square peg and Driftwood was proving to be a square hole.
But then again, it hadn’t quite been dumb luck, had it?
I never would’ve known about this town if not for the letter I’d received.
I heard aquabarkin the distance and instantly knew it was Norman. Which then made me think about Sam. I fervently hoped Jolly would spill what she knew about Dez’s neighbor. Why had he lied to me about playing fiddle? I didn’t want to openly ask her about him, though, because saying somethinglike that to someone like Jolly would have the whole town theorizing that I had a crush. I didn’t. I was just curious.Beyondcurious.
“When do you move in with Dez?” Jolly asked.
