Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,49
and yellow blouse with sunflowers plastered on every inch of fabric. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, showing off her slender neck that is adorned with her classic cross necklace that’s been passed down through generations of women from her side of the family.
I take my duffel bag and swing it over my shoulder before I wiggle down the vacant row. Beltline is the first stop on a very long line of stops through farm country.
My mom rushes over to me the minute I step off the train, placing her hands on my cheeks. Her eyes inspect my body as she lets out soft uh-huh. When her gaze lands on my face once again, she smiles.
“You look beautiful, as always, but maybe a bit anxious,” she comments, using a tarot card–reader voice.
This is my kooky mom, who truly does believe she can see every emotion living inside of me. Maybe she can because she’s my mom and not because she has some magic power of a psychic.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I say, guiding us toward her minivan.
She clicks a button, and the doors open, giving me the surprise of my dog, Holland.
“You brought her!” I climb in the back instead of the front, petting Holland’s golden fur while I sit.
Holland brings her mouth up to me, licking my face.
“I told you, you’re anxious,” my mom says, raising her eyebrows at me through the rearview mirror, before starting the ignition.
I roll my eyes once she’s focused on the road.
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You know. Now, I have to stop by the store and grab some chocolate chips. Your dad refuses to take care of himself. His diabetes is growing out of control, so I’ve banned all sweets from the house.”
“Then, why are you buying chocolate chips?”
Holland, all one hundred five pounds of her climbs on my lap, whining for attention.
“Because my baby Cinderella needs them. Someone’s been hiding things.”
Her eyes search my face through the rearview mirror, and I swallow down the guilt that my parents have no idea that the Lynch brothers have invaded Ridgemont.
“It’s fine, Ma. I don’t need cookies.”
“Yeah, you do. It will only take a second.”
We move only a few miles down the road before she parks at an angle in front of the grocery store, Bishop’s.
Kedsey’s family, the Bishops, have owned and operated the small country store for the last seventy years. They’re known for the fresh bread Mrs. Bishop makes. Crosby worked here as a stock boy until the accident. Then he wasn’t welcome.
“I’ll wait in the car.”
I continue petting Holland, but my mom’s head whips around, her ponytail almost slapping her in the face.
“You most certainly will not. I need to show you off.” She clicks my door open, leaving me no choice but to follow.
She stands in front of the van, her purse hanging from her forearm, her eyes pinned on me.
“Jeez. Holland, she’s still bossy, huh?”
I step out, winding my neck in a circle, showing her how annoyed I am. But that doesn’t stop her from walking ahead of me and grabbing a cart.
“You said chocolate chips.” I walk alongside her as she waves to every other patron.
“Might as well get other things.” She stops. “Hello, Linda. How’s Dan? I heard the line got jammed yesterday and backed everyone up for hours.”
My mom’s gossiping skill is still the sharpest knife in a drawer.
The line is the tire factory in town. The factory alone employs seventy percent of our town, and then there are the few farms, like my parents’, that have been passed down from family to family and the few stores in the downtown area. Other than the preacher who took Crosby’s dad’s spot, there aren’t many ways to earn money in a one-road small town. If that factory closed, we’d be a best-selling country song.
The two women continue talking.
Once they’re finished, Linda looks over at me. “This isn’t Ella, is it?” she asks.
My mom beams a smile, nodding her head. She places her hand on the small of my back, giving me a little push to the forefront. “It is. Ella, you remember Mrs. Crandle?”
I remember her catching me with Crosby’s tongue down my throat here in the back room. That’s what I remember.
“Hello, Mrs. Crandle.”
She eyes me, still with that I-know-what-you’ve-done look on her wrinkled face.
“You have really grown into a nice-looking woman,” she compliments me. “Maybe it’s because you went to Ridgemont”—she pauses, and my body stiffens, as I know what’s coming next—“and started over.”
Started over?