I shifted on the porch. “Pretending costs extra.”
She smiled. “Then you’re honest. Come in. I’m Marianne.”
Her kitchen smelled like rosemary and old wool. She poured tea so bitter it made my eyes water, and I drank every drop.
“You’re holding that cup like someone’s going to snatch it from you,” she said.
“Habit.”
“From where?”
“Nowhere worth telling.”
She nodded slowly and slid a tin of shortbread across the table.
Every Sunday after, I came back.
Marianne had worked as a seamstress and designer. She said she’d even had her own store.
She told me about the gowns she’d sewn for senators’ wives, and the silk that came in from Lyon. I listened, and I left with soup containers tucked into my bag.
Then she started noticing things no one else ever had.