Beyond Molasses Creek by Nicole Seitz Page B

evening, not only am I having company over to discuss matters of peddling newspapers on the side of the road with Vesey, we’re also planning a little boat trip to the harbor . . . just to keep our eyes busy and take the pressure off. Of me.
    My friend Margaret called. How she knew I was in town, I don’t know, but she’s coming over tonight. I decided I might as well have her here when I talk to Vesey. She can be a sort of buffer between us. Plus, she’s outspoken and Vesey and she go way back. I’ll look like an angel next to Margaret and maybe he won’t take my questioning so hard.
    My macaroni is crispy with oozing cheese on the top, bubbling around the sides. I pull it from the oven, carefully so as not to inflame my hip, and set it on top of the stove next to a pan of butter-sautéed green beans with slivers of almonds nestled in. The roast in the Crock-Pot should be simmering in its own juices, ready to fall apart with the slightest provocation. I stir my gravy, smile, and wipe my hands on a little embroidered apron I bought in India decked out in gold thread and turquoise—ah. The doorbell rings. So she’s here. After all this time. My stomach does a little flip.
    There is no peek of her through the sidelight window, so I imagine her there as she used to be, tall and long-haired, wearing bell-bottomed jeans and a paisley-print top. Oh, that was too long ago. I imagine her face when she sees me now. How do I look at sixty? Am I still the young girl I was? Are my blue eyes just as sparkly and devious? Well, no. They’re not. In fact, the only sparkly thing on me is this apron, tied around my waist strategically to cover any bulges below that line. As for devious, well, I might have mellowed just a bit over the years, but don’t count me out.
    â€œMy stars, if it isn’t—” The door opens and my eyebrows rise a bit. This isn’t Margaret Finke at all. This is a young girl, a teenager, even, pretty blond curly hair, acne on her chin, possibly fifteen or sixteen. She wears blue jeans and flip-flops with a colorful knit top. She smiles at me expectantly and holds out her hand. I shake it, looking behind her for Margaret, and say, “Well, hello. How do you do?”
    â€œI’m Graison,” says the girl. “Mimi’s coming. She’s parking the car.”
    â€œM-Mimi? Is Margaret your . . .”
    â€œGrandmother.”
    â€œYes! Oh yes, I can see the resemblance now, that beautiful face, strong cheekbones.”
    â€œYeah, Mimi says I’m the one who takes after her. Poor me.”
    â€œPoor you, indeed,” I say, winking. I’m definitely taking a liking to this child.
    â€œYeah, she pretty much told me all about you and her going to jail and all. I think it’s cool.”
    â€œJail time is not cool,” says a steely no-nonsense voice, accompanied by the click-clack of heels along the walkway. Margaret Finke Peabody is dressed to the nines with a big showy pink hat, complete with fresh flowers tucked in, and a formfitting matching pink dress that shows she’s kept that figure and then some. Those bosoms got us into a lot of trouble once upon a time. “Though standing up for what you believe in, that’s always all right in my book.”
    â€œMargaret, my dear.” I reach forward and hug her tight. “You look amazing. Simply amazing.”
    She must have had some work done. She stops and looks in my face. A genuine smile breaks out, pearly white. “So do you, Ally. You really do. Look just the same.”
    â€œWell, a little older. But hopefully I’m in a holding pattern.”
    â€œAlways did love flying. The mile-high club, I believe it was?”
    â€œMargaret. Behave.”
    â€œI see you’ve met my granddaughter, Graison. I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought her along. She’s staying with me— well, for the time being. Did you say hello, Graison? Did you use