Page 14 of Secret Southern Promises

Dolly

“Mom.”

Nash’s voice snapped me out of my daze. I blinked, turning my attention from the counter where I’d been mindlessly wiping down the already clean surface.

“Yeah?” I called back.

“Can you do it?”

I frowned, trying to catch up. “Do what, honey?”

He rolled his eyes, like he couldn’t believe I didn’t know what he was talking about, and shoved a crumpled piece of paper into my hands. “Make some pies for the pie auction. All the money goes to getting new books for the library.”

I glanced down at the flyer. Apparently, the freshman class had come up with this whole fundraising idea to raise money for the community. And Nash, my too-cool-for-this-son, was actually involved in it. I skimmed the details about the auction—pies for the highest bidder, all proceeds going to the library’s new books fund.

“This is really cool,” I said, glancing up at him.

He shrugged. “As long as they don’t spend it all on Shakespeare books, I’ll be good.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hamlet is traumatizing you, isn’t it?”

Nash gave me a long-suffering look. “It’s just so confusing. Once the teacher explains it, I get it. I just don’t know why the dude had to talk the way he did.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “The dude is Shakespeare,” I corrected him, “and that’s just how people talked back then.”

Nash groaned. “Yeah, well, no wonder no one could understand each other. Why couldn’t he just say, ‘My uncle’s ajerk and my mom’s lost her mind’? Would’ve saved us all a lot of time.”

I laughed harder, picturing Shakespeare in jeans and a T-shirt, jotting down modern translations of his plays. “Maybe you should rewrite it. ‘Hamlet: The CliffNotes Edition, by Nash.’”

He shot me a grin but quickly schooled his expression back into teenage indifference. “So, do you think you can make some pies for the auction? I’m sure if you make your mile-high apple pie, people will pay big bucks for it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “My mile-high apple pie, huh?” I wasn’t sure it was as big of a deal as he made it sound. “I’ll make that one, sure, but maybe I’ll throw in a few others. How about a quiche? Not everyone wants something sweet.”

Nash gave me a deadpan look. “Yeah, sure. Old people love quiche.”

I rolled my eyes right back at him. “You like quiche,” I pointed out, trying not to laugh.

“Only because you’re old and make it for me.”

I gasped, putting a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Old? Me? Nash, honey, I’m in my prime. I could still run circles around you.”

He smirked, crossing his arms. “Maybe, if those circles are around the kitchen.”

I gave him a playful shove. “Hey, watch it, kid. You wouldn’t last two minutes doing what I do around here.”

“Please, I could run the store in my sleep.”

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms across my chest. “Is that so? You know where everything is? How to deal with old Mr. Hankins when he starts ranting about how things were better ‘back in the day’?”

Nash grinned. “I just nod and agree with him. That’s what you do.”

I had to laugh because, honestly, he wasn’t wrong. “Okay, maybe you’ve picked up a few tricks. But could you make a mile-high apple pie? Without setting the kitchen on fire?”

He shrugged. “I mean, I’ve seen you make it a hundred times. How hard could it be?”

“Famous last words,” I muttered, shaking my head. “But fine, I’ll make a couple pies for the auction. One of them will even be a quiche, for all theold peoplein town.” I shot him a look, but he just grinned.

“Thanks, Mom. I knew you’d come through.”

---