Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
She stands and we shake hands. “I’m her occupational therapist. Dawn.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of her.”
Dawn gives Muriel a side-eye and then turns back to me with gratitude as if I’m the first person to say that today. “Your aunt’s doing well—stubborn, but that’s apparently baseline.”
“Stubborn?” Muriel sniffs. “Sturdy is the word you’re reachin’ for.”
Dawn ignores her, grabs a backpack, and slings it over her shoulder. She places a gentle hand on Muriel’s leg. “You did good today, honey. I know you’re frustrated, but this will take time. I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
Muriel waves her off as if embarrassed by the praise. “I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I say and follow her right out onto the front porch.
She must sense that I need to talk as she turns around to face me, and I pull the door closed. “Really… how’s she doing?” I ask.
Dawn gives me a soft smile. “She’s doing just fine, but it’s a hard injury to overcome at her age. She wants to be up and running around today and that’s not going to happen.”
I nod in understanding. “I took some time off from work and I’ll be staying with her. What can I do to help her recovery?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “The woman needs no motivation. If anything, you’re going to have to encourage her to take her time. Her exercises are important, but she can’t overdo it. She’s mobile with the walker but no stairs, no bending and no arguing with trained professionals.”
“Got it,” I say with a chuckle. Muriel has always been a force of nature and I really didn’t expect this to slow her down at all.
Dawn pats my arm. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
I watch until she pulls away and then head back into the house. The other women are standing, purses in hand.
Mrs. Puckett bends to peck Muriel on the cheek and turns to me. “I left a chicken divan in the fridge. Just heat it at 350° for about thirty minutes. Cake is on the counter.”
“I saw,” I reply, standing by the door to hold it open. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Mrs. Puckett leans in to give me a hug, followed by Mrs. DeVine, who says, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. Of course we’d come, and we’ve got a meal train in place. You won’t need to cook for quite a while.”
“Toodles, Muriel,” the ladies call out with air kisses and then they’re gone, me leaning against the door, grinning at my aunt.
Muriel grimaces. “That was painful. And I’m not talking about the therapist working my hip.”
“Oh, stop,” I chastise and move to flop down in the old Queen Anne chair adjacent to the couch. I kick off my heels and curl my legs under me. “Those sweet church ladies are just doing what they do best, and it’s one of the most amazing things about Southern small-town living.”
Muriel harrumphs. “They just want me to get better so I can get back to making biscuits for everyone. Besides, I have to listen to them talk about the Bible before they’ll turn over the cake, and you know I don’t have patience with that.”
I snicker, ducking my head and covering my mouth. Muriel’s a heathen at her core. When I meet her eyes, I chide again. “Just leave them be and let them fuss.”
“What I need is for everybody to stop fussing and for this hip to remember who it works for.” Muriel leans back and the fight fades a fraction. “It was one tray of pies. One. I turned, the rug turned different, and now we’re all eatin’ gas-station biscuits like sinners.”
My heart squeezes because, although she’s trying to make light of her broken hip, I can hear both pain and fear in her voice.
“I passed Central on my way in.” My voice wobbles and I steady it with humor. “I didn’t realize you were closing it.”
Muriel’s mouth tightens. “Got nobody to run it, Penny Bean.”
My mouth curves at the use of my nickname that only a handful of people still call me. “What do you mean? You have a dedicated staff—”
“—that know how to cook and serve people, but they don’t know how to run the operations. They know how to do their very singular jobs and that’s it.”
I consider that. The only people who could even remotely step in to help run the café would be my parents, but they packed up and moved to southern Florida two years ago. My daddy, Harlan, Muriel’s big brother, swore he’d never scrape ice off a windshield again, and my mama, Ruthie, needed the warmth for her lupus. They’re happy down there, sunning themselves year-round, while Muriel kept the family roots right here in Whynot.
Muriel smiles at me. “I’m so pleased you came to visit but hate that I’m laid up. The good side is we got plenty of time to hang out and c. Tell me everything about life in DC and don’t leave out a single thing. Is work going good?”