The Summer Kitchen by Lisa Wingate Read Free Book Online Page A

with a little boy in hand, a pair of teenaged girls, and others—more than a dozen people altogether, and not one of them heard but me.
    The woman watched one passerby and then another as they skirted her bench and walked on, as if they could neither see nor hear her. The row of shopping carts moved away, and the crowd began to clear. I stood watching, oddly fascinated. The woman’s thin hands, little more than skin over bone as they lay upon her flowered dress, made me think of Aunt Ruth.
    “Could you give me a ride to my apartment?” Her eyes, a bright polished silver out of keeping with the weary, aged look of her face, met mine.
    “I . . . ,” I stammered, caught off guard. At least a dozen warnings regarding crime schemes ran through my mind. “I don’t . . .”
    “It isn’t far.” Lifting her cane in the general direction of Poppy’s place, she smiled, her brows rising expectantly, as if I’d already said yes. It occurred to me that if I didn’t pick her up, someone else might, and the next person might not have good intentions.
    I thought of Poppy. If only someone had stopped to help him as he struggled with his attackers, the day might have turned out so differently. “Sure,” I said. “Of course I will.”
    Bracing her canes in front of herself, she nodded and pulled to her feet, smiling. I noted that she didn’t have any packages, and an uneasy feeling crept over me again.
    She seemed to read my mind. “They have free senior coffee and doughnuts here on Thursdays.”
    “Oh, that’s nice.” I tried to imagine hitching rides with strangers just for a cup of coffee and a doughnut.
    “Yes, it is,” she agreed, as we walked slowly to my car. “A little treat makes a person feel special sometimes.”
    It was a sad idea, depending on a store freebie to make you feel special. “I imagine so.” As I helped her into my car, she patted my hand, and I was glad I hadn’t left her on the bench.
    “You’re not from around here,” she observed as I backed out of the parking space, then sat waiting for a line of traffic. “People who know the neighborhood zip around back and go through the Jiffy Lube parking lot. It’s a right turn.”
    “Ohhh,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
    She asked where I lived, and when I told her Plano, she laughed. “I remember when Plano was just a spot in the road. Back then we thought it was a long way out of Dallas. I taught there my first two years out of college, but then I got a job closer in.”
    I glanced at her, surprise obvious on my face before I hid it. No doubt she saw the question there, too. How does a teacher with a college education end up begging for rides at Wal-Mart? My mind repainted the picture of her, and I imagined myself in her place, then I pushed away the idea like an itchy sweater.
    A million years ago, I was going to be a teacher. I planned to be the one who recognized the children growing up with family secrets. I’d find the bruises, even the ones on the inside, and I wouldn’t look the other way. I would be a confidante whom children could talk to, because I knew how the bruises felt. As an adult, I wouldn’t be powerless to confront things that were wrong, and as a teacher, I’d be in a position to make a difference.
    Instead, I met Rob, and getting married at twenty seemed so much easier than sticking out another three years, working at the hospital reception desk and going to school, trapped at home with my mother and my stepfather. Rob was my white knight, and somewhere between putting him through medical school, struggling through the crushing disappointment of three miscarriages, and finally navigating the challenges of an international adoption, our life together eclipsed everything else. I had a son to raise, and then, after a miracle pregnancy with Christopher, two sons. Rob’s work was demanding. Someone had to be there to make a home and create a family that was healthy and happy. Jake and Christopher became