Apple Brown Betty by Phillip Thomas Duck Page B

serving—built for two people to share.”
    Cydney’s eyes glazed over, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a crease at the mention of the dessert.
    â€œYou’re smiling,” Desmond said to her.
    â€œSomeone I knew once loved sharing his dessert with the woman he loved,” Cydney answered. She steadied her gaze, held it on Desmond despite the trembling of her knees below the table. “He was an older gentleman, though. You young guys don’t have that kind of appreciation and romance in your souls.”
    Desmond nodded at her appraisal, his smile an umbrella against the rain of judgment. His greatest desire was to kiss the soft lips of Miss Wonderful, show her through physical connection the depths of his appreciation and romance, but he held back. “Enjoy your meal, Miss Wonderful.”
    He turned to leave, and then turned back abruptly. “Hold off on the apple brown betty this time. Okay?”
    â€œWhy?” Cydney asked.
    â€œCome alone next time and I’ll show you,” Desmond said. He added, “Remember, I’m here every day except Sundays.”

NANCY
    â€œW e have two kinds of cheesecake. Italian ricotta, which, obviously, is made with ricotta cheese. And, Easter cheesecake, which has rich butter-cookie crumbs as the crust, and ground macadamia nuts through the creamy batter,” the waiter tells us.
    I wouldn’t want any even if it was sprinkled in gold dust. I want the better life George has been preaching to me since before Darius passed. I want my son to get himself together, at home with me where he belongs instead of in some juvenile detention center. George bringing us—Cydney, myself and him—on this little family trip up to God knows where in Massachusetts doesn’t change anything. We should be at the JDC looking into these new accusations that Shammond started some riot.
    â€œWe’ll take the cheesecake,” George says. “Just one. Two spoons.” He looks at Cydney. “You want anything, Cydney Doll?”
    She shakes her head. Looks away. She’s like me, not in the mood for any dessert, any trip, any more time away from Shammond.
    â€œMake it three spoons,” George tells the waiter. The waiter nods and moves away.
    George eyes me. I can feel him looking even though my head is down. George is a good man, no doubt about it, and I do love him, but Shammond is my own flesh. I carried him around for all those months. I’m the one he tossed and turned inside.
    â€œYou two stop looking so down and out,” George says to me and Cydney. “Try and enjoy yourselves.”
    I want to hug George, not just for the attempt at bringing us joy with this trip, but for everything. For carrying Darius home all those nights. For providing hope I thought was lost way back when Darius started drinking so heavily. “I’m sorry,” I tell George. “I guess I’m not being appreciative enough.”
    George pats my hand on the table. “Nonsense, you’re very appreciative.”
    â€œThe nature-trail tour will be good,” I tell him. I know my voice sounds less than sincere, which is upsetting because I really tried to stir up emotion. George, knowing how much I read and how I love learning about new things, planned all this to make me happy. Under normal circumstances, I would be.
    George shakes his head. “Change of plans.”
    â€œWe’re not going to do it?”
    â€œNope,” George answers. “After we all eat this cheesecake together, we’re gonna head on back home and I’m gonna have a word with my boss, see if that partner of his who works in the court system can do anything to help your boy out.” I wish he’d said “our boy” but that’s nitpicking.
    I look at George and something happens between us, an unspoken truth. I’m glad he doesn’t stumble home on one of his partner’s shoulders and he’s glad I