Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Tell her that’s not what you want, said a voice in my head. Tell her you changed your mind, and you don’t want her to go.
But all I did was nod. “Okay. Guess I’ll go clean up.”
She faced the sink again.
Dinner at my mother’s was actually more tolerable than I’d anticipated, mostly because Blair did such a good job of keeping the conversation centered on old family stories, especially about my dad. And she was an expert at veering back on track whenever my mother did her best to stray toward topics like how well we were getting along, how many children Blair might want in the future, and how the Lord worked in mysterious ways to unite two lonely souls in need.
Even my sister rolled her eyes at that. “Mom, jeez. Give them a break. The Lord has better things to do than find Griff a girlfriend.”
“Don’t sass me, Cheyenne. Your sad and lonely soul is next. The Lord and I are going to have a good long conversation about it.”
“On second thought, have at them,” Cheyenne said, getting up from her chair at the table. “Sorry, guys. Better you than me.”
After dinner, we moved to the den and looked at all the photos my mother had pulled from old family albums. Blair sat in the middle of the couch with my mom on one side of her and me on the other, the stack of pictures in her lap.
“Oh, I love this one,” Blair said, picking up a black and white snapshot with a thick white border around it. “Is that your dad and your grandpa in front of the shop?”
“Let me see.” I leaned closer, the scent of her hair filling my head, and looked at the photo of a young version of my grandfather holding his toddler son’s hand in front of the bay doors. “Yes. That looks like maybe right when it opened? Dad was only a couple years old, right Mom?”
My mother nodded. “He looks exactly like you at that age, Griffin. Look at those ears.”
Blair laughed. “So sweet.”
We went through the entire pile, and Blair asked questions about every photo, sometimes making notes in her phone. She asked if she could take some with her, and my mother said of course, as long as she got them back eventually.
“I’ll take perfect care of them, I promise. I’m just going to have some large prints made.” Blair put her hand on my mother’s arm. “Thank you for trusting me with your family history. It means a lot.”
“You’re very welcome, darling. That history is still being written, you know. It would be nice to add another generation of Dempseys to the photo albums.” She sighed wistfully.
I stood up. “Time to go. Thanks for dinner, Mom.”
“Everything was delicious,” said Blair, rising to her feet. “I’d love to get your recipe for those soft white sugar cookies.”
“Of course, dear. That was my grandmother’s recipe, and I’d be happy to share. Thank you for bringing the rolls. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you thought any more about opening a bakery here in town? At least five people have asked me if you’re considering it—and hoping you will, of course.”
Blair smiled. “That’s sweet.”
“The couple who owns the bakery on Main Street is getting on in years. I bet they’d sell cheap!”
“That’s enough, Mom,” I said firmly. “She’s already got a job lined up somewhere else.”
My mother’s face turned white. “What?”
“Cheyenne put her in touch with someone up in Traverse City who offered to hire her starting right after Labor Day.”
“Cheyenne Dempsey!” my mother bellowed, whirling on my sister. “How could you?”
While Cheyenne defended herself, I took Blair’s arm and started for the front door. “Let’s go.”
When we got home, Blair wanted to go in the lobby to see if the paint was dry. She turned around slowly, looking at each wall. “I’m picturing where those big photo prints could go,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I think the one of your dad and grandfather from 1955 should go there. And the one of the three of you over there. Then maybe three smaller ones on this wall—the one of your dad teaching you and your sister how to change a tire here, the one of you and him working on the old truck here, and the one of your entire family at the 50th anniversary ribbon-cutting there. What do you think?”
“I think this place is going to look better than it has in years, thanks to you.”
She smiled, her cheeks turning pink. “I just think the reminders that this is a family-owned-and-run business is really important.”
“I agree.”
She turned to face the wall again. “Someday, the walls of my bakery will have my family photos.”
“You teaching your daughters how to bake bread?”
She arched a brow at me over her shoulder. “And my sons.”
I smiled. “Of course.”