kitchen. “There’s barbecue sauce in that one. A couple of other sauces. Those go out on the tables too, please.”
Dad left the kitchen, and Molly glanced at his back as she sliced through another roll. Mama and Ingrid mixed punch in a huge drink dispenser and then filled individual pitchers with it before taking them out to the tables.
“Butter,” Mama said on one of her trips back into the kitchen.
Molly had just finished the bread and nodded to where it sat on the counter. “I’ll take these out and come help.”
Her mother’s skin carried a hint of grayness, and Molly wondered when she’d eaten last. She took the rolls out to the buffet, glancing around at the few people who’d started to arrive. She didn’t want to see Hunter, but she couldn’t help scanning for him anyway.
None of the Hammond sons were there, and Molly ducked back into the kitchen, relief pouring through her. Mama stood at the counter, one palm pressed against it, her eyes closed.
Alarm rang through Molly. “Mama?” She hurried across the kitchen to her, noticing she’d gotten down a stack of small plates but she hadn’t started unwrapping butter cubes yet. “What’s wrong?”
“I have a terrible headache,” Mama said, opening her eyes. She smiled softly. “I’m okay. I just need to take some pills. They’re in my purse. Would you?”
“Let me get you a roll too,” Molly said, already turning away. She hurried back into the gym, snatched a roll, and returned to the kitchen. She collected the pills and poured her mother a glass of punch from the leftover liquid in the drink dispenser. “Here. Eat. Take these.”
Her mother swallowed the pills and took a bite of the roll, still smiling. “Thank you, Mols.”
“Let me help you to Daddy’s office,” Molly said, linking her hand under her mother’s arm.
“I’m okay.”
“No,” Molly said firmly. “You’re gray and exhausted. You need to eat that whole roll, and you need to rest for a few minutes. Ingrid, Kara, and I can handle this.”
Kara came into the kitchen and looked at them. “What’s going on?”
“Mama needs help getting to Dad’s office.” Molly turned toward her. “Is everything set out there?”
“Dad’s helping Cy with the mic right now.” Kara came toward their mother, the same alarm on her face. “Come on, Mama.”
“Get the hot food out,” Mama said over her shoulder, and Molly nodded at her. She opened a drawer and found hot pads. She started tossing them on the counter, and when Ingrid returned from setting out the pitchers, Molly indicated them.
“Put those on the buffet for me, would you? I’m going to bring out the trays.” She opened the oven and pulled the first of several long trays out of the oven. With two filled with meat and two with potatoes on the table, Molly surveyed the buffet.
“Butter,” she murmured, the chatter and number of people in the gym swelling by the moment. She and her sisters put cubes of butter on plates, and they spread out to put them on each table. Along with the pitcher of punch, and the salt and pepper shakers, the plate of butter completed the necessary items on each table.
Molly had just finished putting her last plate on the front table when Cy Hammond stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice so like Hunter’s it made Molly’s whole chest vibrate.
She kept her head down as she headed for the back of the gym. With any luck, she could escape to the kitchen and send out Ingrid or Kara when something needed to be replaced. With her heart pounding, she made it through the doorway and into the kitchen, where her breath whooshed out of her mouth.
“Anything else?” Ingrid asked, looking up from her phone.
“I think we’re set.”
“What happened with Mama?” Kara asked.
Molly filled them in, and they agreed to talk to Dad after the luncheon ended. As far as Molly knew, Mama’s cancer was in remission, but she had to take care of herself if she expected to have the energy and health she wanted. “She just didn’t eat this morning.”
“She’d started to perk up a little when I left her,” Kara said.
Ingrid turned her phone toward Molly, who peered at the texts. Her eyes scanned, her brain trying to make sense of the conversation she’d come into mid-sentence. She glanced to the name at the top of the screen. “Who is Mister Plaid Shirt?”
“It’s this man in my floriculture class,” Ingrid said with a flirty smile. “He’s