“Always.”
She put the bag’s handle in my hand. “These were pretty labor intensive, so I’d love for them to get to your parents’ place in one piece.”
I didn’t correct her that Alicia wasn’t my mom. She already knew. And Alicia and my dad had been married long enough that I should’ve been better about calling it my parents’ house instead of just my dad’s.
We climbed into my truck, baked goods nestled securely on the floorboard in the back. Maeve kept looking back there, making sure they weren’t sliding as I pulled out onto the road.
“They safe?” I asked.
“I think so. Just don’t do any crazy tricks or turns.”
My lips twitched. “Oh yeah, I’m known for my reckless driving. I like to do donuts in my spare time.”
“Hey, I grew up in Georgia. That sounds like my idea of fun.”
I scoffed under my breath. “Didn’t take you for a pickup truck riding kind of girl.”
“You didn’t take me for a drummer either. You should know by now what you see is not nearly all you’ll get. Not with me at least.”
“I do know that,” I said quietly.
After a minute or two of silence, she shifted, partially facing me. “My mama grew up in the country. Her daddy was a tobacco farmer. I spent all my summers on his farm as a kid. Learned to drive his truck as soon as I could see over the steering wheel. My cousins and I would take it out in the fields after a storm and spray mud everywhere. ’Course, Granddad didn’t know what we were doin’. We’d scramble to get back and clean the mud off before he noticed.”
“You really think he didn’t know?”
Her laugh was breathy and soft. My ears had become attuned to her, so I didn’t miss it, even with my eyes on the road. “He probably did, but only because he grew up on that farm. I imagine he’d already gotten into any shenanigans we could have dreamed up.”
I glanced over at her. “Must’ve been a nice way to grow up.”
“I can’t complain about that part.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t all like that, was it?”
“No.” She shifted again, crossing her arms over her middle and leaning her head back on the rest. “It damn sure wasn’t.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, pulling up in front of the house right on time. My old man took a lot of pride in his place. It was a brick rancher, built in the fifties, with a manicured lawn and freshly painted trim. I’d lived in this house from the time I was little. The neighborhood was working class, blue collar, modest, but safe.
“Oh, I love this house,” Maeve said as she climbed down from the truck.
“Do you?”
She paused on the cracked sidewalk, taking it in. “Those window boxes. So pretty. You grew up here?”
“I did.”
“Must’ve been a nice way to grow up,” she echoed.
She followed me to the front door, letting me carry her bag under strict supervision. Alicia waited at the door with her arms open, a welcoming smile on her face. She and Maeve introduced themselves, and we went inside. Mo and Murray had already made themselves at home, both with a beer in hand, kicked back on the couch.
“’Bout time you got here,” Murray called.
I flipped him off and kept on walking, taking Maeve and her baked goods to the kitchen at the back of the house. My old man stood at the stove, stirring a big pot of what smelled likecaldillio, a beef stew.
“Hey, boy.” He set his wooden spoon on the rest and walked toward us with his hand out. Maeve slipped her hand in his, and I watched her reaction, seeing if she looked intimidated, but she barely blinked.
“I’m Eli Garza. Welcome, honey.”
She graced him with a wide smile. “Maeve O’Day. Thanks for havin’ me. Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”