to the stool, cupping my face in my hands, and watching her work.
“Nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that meant share my woes.
People were so perceptive in Ashford. Maybe it was because they all knew each other, and could read moods like some people read the ocean tides. When they asked you a question they stared you full in the face, giving you their undivided attention. Like you mattered. That the words that fell from your lips were important.
“Every now and then sadness catches up with me, that’s all.” I ran a hand over the bench, wiping down bread crumbs. “I wonder if I’m making the right choice by leaving my old life.”
Lil clucked her tongue. “Leaving is always hard. But I suppose, you won’t know until you try, right?”
I toyed with the coffee mug, avoiding Lil’s sincere-eyed expression. Sensing my mood, she went to the stove and lit the element, then groveled under the bench for a frypan. She dropped a dollop of butter into it, which slipped and slid around the black pan, melting into a sunny yellow liquid.
“Waking up at five a.m. brings out the maudlin in me. I just need to get used it.” I tried to make a joke of it, lightening my tone, and forcing a wide smile. I hadn’t devoured the first coffee of the day; I was still half asleep at such a crazy hour of the morning—that’s all it was. In the still of the dawn, reality always seemed that much more frightening, and sometimes harsh and cold. Who was I pretending to be? I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t anything, except my mother’s daughter, and running off to change that didn’t feel right. Shouldn’t I put her first always?
“You’ll get used to it, Lucy. Things will get easier over time.” Lil flipped the buttery brown French toast, and glanced back over her shoulder at me. “Viola.” She pushed the dish in front of me, and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“You’re some kind of miracle worker,” I said, gazing at the plate, glad for the interruption of breakfast so my somber thoughts didn’t fall out in a sad jumble.
“Wait!” she held up a hand and then dashed to the fridge, pulling a bottle out. “Maple syrup!”
“Of course!”
She drizzled a helping of syrup over the French toast and took the stool beside me. “As soon as you’ve made the first batch of syrup, you tell Clay we want some. Nothing better than locally made produce.”
I nodded. “Can you imagine making it? I can’t wait to see how it’s done.”
“It’ll be wonderful.” Lil picked up a fork. “Eat,” she said. “And remember to stop by tomorrow on your way. I love a bit of company in the lonely dawns. I’m not as good as Cee with dispensing advice, but if you need a shoulder to lean on, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Lil,” I said, truly grateful. CeeCee and Lil had a way about them, a genuine kindness that took the edge off my homesickness.
***
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