Page 9 of When Sparks Fly

Dad moves past me into the kitchen and kisses Mama on the head. She doesn’t linger long.

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure,” she admits, pulling an insulated bag from a basket in the pantry. I take the bag from her and load an array of food she’s put together already. “I’m sure I’ll find out more when I get over there, but she wasn’t a young woman.” She pauses briefly. “Us old ladies aren’t what we used to be.”

I drop my chin in disapproval at the same time my dad counters with, “Now, Andi.” We exchange an exasperated look and turn our eyes on her. She grins sheepishly.

Mama and Dad had me young, so they’re hardly getting up in age in their mid-fifties. Ranch life is hard on bodies, though. Long hours, hard labor in the elements, and more often than not, a lot of stress. I’m glad Mama’s been able to take a step back in recent years, but that doesn’t mean she’s over the hill. There’s at least a twenty year difference between her and Ruthie.

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” I tell her, kissing her cheek. “Except to Ruthie’s to deliver this food. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll take you over there.”

“I can drive myself. I know you’re busy,” she says with a pointed look. I hold her gaze until her features soften and she beams at me. “Fine.”

Chapter 6

Maci

My eyes are heavy and swollen from crying in the morning. Stephanie will happily reprimand me if tears fall at the service. Though, that's the least of my concerns over the coming days.

Only coffee can make this morning better. I drag myself to the kitchen to start a pot, but find Alan already seated at the table, further souring my mood. Nana loathed him and she loved everyone. She never said why, but he has that effect on people. He nurses his black coffee while he reads. How anyone can drink it plain is beyond me. If I were on death row, I would give up my last meal for a perfect cup of coffee with caramel creamer. If they brought it to me black—or Heaven forbid, with sugar only—I would gladly go without in my final minutes.

I open the fridge for the creamer I made sure to pick up at the store. A whole cheesecake stares back at me.

Well, shit.

How did I miss that yesterday?

New York style cheesecake is my absolute favorite. Finding a whole one in Nana’s refrigerator right now is no coincidence. The ache in my chest flares, causing each inhale to become painful. I close my eyes and focus on controlling my breathing.

Eventually, I’m able to fill Nana’s favorite snowman mug and the mixture turns a familiar mocha color. I lean against the butcher block countertop, drinking deeply. The brew is strong, the way Alan’s always made it. It’s about the only thing he’s good for.

Eyes closed, I conjure memories of past mornings in this kitchen. The comforting aroma of Nana cooking biscuits and gravy is just beyond my reach. Unshed tears burn the backs of my eyelids.

Alan clears his throat, drawing my attention. Anger replaces my grief, igniting a tingling current in my veins. A response to years of dealing with moments when Alan gaslit, belittled, or criticized me. Determined not to allow him to overshadow my focus this weekend, I force down my rising anger and turn to leave.

Alan speaks. “I think a ‘thank you’ is in order.”

I whip around. “Excuse me?” His eyes remain buried in his book.

“For the coffee.”

He can’t be serious.

Something inside me snaps. I burst into laughter. A pair of shit-brown eyes finally rise, widening in an uncharacteristically shocked expression. It adds to my amusement and my laughing intensifies. My stomach aches and I rest a hand on the counter for balance. Hysterical tears rain from my eyes.

My mind must be protecting itself, creating a flawed emotional response to avoid dealing with the grief and other long-held emotions that threaten to wreak havoc on my psyche.

Sharp footsteps announce my mother’s arrival. She stops at the threshold. With effort, I peel my eyes open, trying to curb my mania. Stephanie’s mouth falls open as she assesses me with her crystal blue eyes. “Are you alright?”

Her uncanny ability to douse emotion in cold water prevails. She looks at Alan perplexed. His eyes are fixed on me as he seethes, so still I wonder if he’s breathing.

“Your husband is really funny.”

Alan slams the book closed on the table as he stands. My mother sucks in a small breath, either at his reaction or my apparent mental breakdown.

Something awakens in my mind. The area of my brain responsible for anticipating a threat. Self-preservation. It’s not naturally occurring in everyone. My own was built over a series of moments. My posture morphs into something challenging as I hold my head high and look between them.

My senses hone-in on Alan. From across the room, I hold his stare. “Thanks for the laugh, Alan. I needed that.”

I brush past my mother, still stationed in the doorway, knowing Alan is one step away from blowing his top. I wonder briefly if she’s ever seen it.

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