Been There Done That (Leffersbee #1) - Hope Ellis Page 0,61

smile. “I’m out. Zora, tell Jackson your daddy’s going to come after him soon enough if he doesn’t hurry up and pop the question. I’m ready for grandkids, you hear me?”

My laugh was thin and tinny. “I’ll tell him.”

I watched him make his way out the kitchen, then turned to find my mother leaned against the counter, watching me with folded arms and a smirk.

“Girl, get a cinnamon roll and sit down so you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said automatically. “Daddy said you had an event last night?”

She moved around the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then switched on the radio in the window above the sink. Al Green’s silky voice entered the kitchen, slyly entreating his lover to remember the good times.

“We went to a gala in Knoxville. They started a hot lunch program to benefit children who have difficulty paying for it. It’s in honor of that young man who was killed; he was in charge of his school’s cafeteria. It’s a wonderful foundation. If you know students looking for a worthy cause when they’re fundraising this year, tell them about the Castille Foundation.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ve been reading more and more about kids being penalized for not having lunch money. It’s terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” my mother said, frowning. “Both for the parents who don’t have options and the children who have hungry bellies and no choice in the matter.”

My traitorous thoughts jumped the tracks and went to Nick. I couldn’t remember exactly how or when during high school I mentioned that Nick didn’t have the best lunches. Afterwards, my mother sent me to school with duplicates of everything, snacks and lunches.

I shook my head to clear it, closed and opened my eyes to interrupt the mental stream.

“You headed to the hospital or campus after this?” Mama reached for my father’s plate and snagged a piece of plain toast before running a quick eye over me. “You’re a little more dressed up than usual.”

I glanced down at my dark dress and black blazer.

“Both. I’m giving a talk about implicit racial bias and the impact on patient health outcomes to some of our docs. Then I’m heading over to campus.”

She smiled. “That sounds interesting. You know that’s one of my favorite talks. I wish I could go today.” She took another bite of toast, studied me with a distinctly speculative eye, then added, “Tavia mentioned she’s having lunch with you today.”

I winced. “Yeah, she sent me a text this morning. Said it was important.”

She studied the now empty plate at my father’s place setting, but I recognized her carefully neutral tone. “Just remember. She’ll always be your sister. Be patient with her.”

“Yeah.”

I busied myself with plating a cinnamon roll and filling my glass with water before I sat across from her at the table.

“Listen,” my mother began, her gaze direct and unflinching on mine. “I want you to know that just because you start a thing a certain way doesn’t mean you have to end it that way.”

My heartbeat kicked up. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking about Bethany Winston the other day,” she said, biting her lip, and I knew how much it cost her to talk about Bethany without tearing up. Still, after all this time. Probably to be expected when one of your best friends died, I reflected, thinking I couldn’t imagine a world where Leigh wasn’t around to give me shit.

“I miss her something awful. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Other day I was washing dishes and I thought of something she used to say all the time. ‘Life is short. Don’t dilly dally.’ And she was right.”

I nodded, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

“I’ve been thinking about how you came home when I got the breast cancer diagnosis. You got to know the other ladies in my support group and completely immersed yourself in understanding more about communication between doctors and patients. I remembered how you ended up changing your major from pre-medicine so you could learn more about helping doctors have better conversations with ladies like us. And I wondered, would you make that same choice again, follow that same path? Knowing what you know now?”

I stared at her mutely, swallowing against the thickness in my throat. “That was a hard time,” I finally said. Actually, it had been a terrible time. I didn’t take all that much for me to remember sitting next to her in her support group meetings, hands