Page 5 of The Snuggle is Real
“Get me the sugar too, will you, Ford?”
Dottie poured milk into a saucepan on the stove. I’d once asked her why she didn’t just use the instant microwave packets. Dottie had been so appalled she’d refused to make me any cocoa for weeks.
Now, I knew to keep my trap shut and do as I was told.
I gave her the sugar, then leaned back against the counter while she brought the chocolate to a boil.
“You sure you want to cook for Thanksgiving?” I asked for the third time. “It’s a lot of work. I could just get some premade?—”
“Hush your mouth.” She gave the cocoa a stir. “We’ll have a turkey and mashed potatoes, stuffing, and gravy. Just like my mama used to make.”
“No pumpkin pie?” I teased.
She waved a hand. “Pecan pie is better.”
I hesitated, knowing I was risking a whooping if I pushed too hard. “I heard Joel over at Ginger’s Breads makes pies.”
Dottie turned off the burner. “Oh?”
“Yep.” I got down the mugs, keeping my tone casual. “Eleanor Calloway ordered one. Mayor Grayson too.”
Dottie hummed as she took a seat at the small round table in the corner of the large eat-in kitchen. “Well, that Joel does know his baked goods.”
“Mm-hmm.” I set a mug of hot chocolate in front of Dottie. “So, shall we make him do the heavy lifting this year?”
She snorted. “Just don’t tell anyone it’s for me. Mrs. Lil will never let me live it down.”
I drew an X over my chest. “Cross my heart.”
Dottie had adopted me as her quasi-son not long after LuAnne left me. For the past few years, we’d tried to take care of each other—as much as either of us would allow. Dottie was cantankerous and generally insisted on doing more than she really should.
I guess I was the same.
I patched up Dottie’s roof and mowed her lawn, shoveled snow from her drive, and salted her porch. Ran errands for her too, so she wouldn’t have to go out in foul weather.
In return, Dottie made me dinner once a week, along with Thanksgiving and Christmas meals.
Neither of us had more than two nickels to rub together most of the time, so we didn’t bother with presents.
“Are you sure you can get all the groceries?” she asked.
“Yeah. You’re doing all the cooking. It’s the least I can do.”
She pursed her lips. “Those turkeys get more expensive every year.”
“I can handle it, Dottie. I got no one else to spend my money on. Hell, you feed me once a week. Surely, I owe you a turkey by now.”
She giggled, sounding about fifty years younger. “Well, all right, if you insist.”
“I do.”
A few hours later, while I pushed a cart through the grocery store, I was regretting that insistence. Dottie hadn’t been kidding about the prices.
I’d have to pick up an odd job next week just to cover the grocery tab. But at least Icouldfind work. Dottie was on a fixed income.
My phone rang, and I pulled it out.
Unknown Number.
