Lily Barlow by Carla Vergot

Author:Carla Vergot
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lifestyle Entrepreneurs Press
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Unlocking the back door, I sagged as I stepped into the dark hallway. This whole turn-Poppy’s-around initiative wasn’t coming together as perfectly as I believed it would. What if I couldn’t get the bakery open in time for the start of the fall semester? Was there any kind of dispensation for a family crisis that would allow me a late start, or would I be looking at forced drops across my schedule? Then what? Pick up whatever dregs that couldn’t get a minimum number of students enrolled? Ultimate Frisbee and some anthropological linguistics course on the evolution of the word “ho” in modern English rap lyrics? My major wasn’t set, so for the time being, it really didn’t matter what courses I took since I wasn’t working toward the completion of a specific program. However, taking classes just to take them was kind of a wasted attempt at a college degree. Sure, there were people doing it who fancied themselves professional students. How the hell they paid for a never-ending college career was a mystery the magnitude of crop circles.

The concept of putting the bakery up for sale reemerged as a tempting possibility, but then I remembered the look on Dad’s face. I had to keep trying. If we sold the bakery, I envisioned a very short decline until he turned off his oven for good. Then, both my parents would be dead, and I would be an orphan. Were you considered an orphan at twenty-one years old, or just a parentless adult? My thoughts went down this weedy path as I put coffee on for the interviews. The daisies on the corner table still looked, well, fresh as a you-know-what. Mama’s daisies. Mama’s pineapple upside-down cake. Connie Barlow. A whisper of sadness blew across my soul. What made me sad was not that my mama had died, I was sad that I never even knew her. The memories saved up by a six-year old are an odd collection of junk that makes sense only to the six-year-old heart, like a little girl’s purse that holds a spoon, three different kinds of string, and an expired plastic rewards card. There’s meaning, but you have to be six to understand it.

A knock on the front door brought me back to the present. When I unlocked and pulled it open, I encountered what was easily the most magnificently perfect woman I had ever met in real life. Too bad Jack had turned over this weird new leaf of his, because she was right in his wheelhouse.

Her auburn hair was half up, half down, and there were these wispy strands that curled around her face. How come my loose pieces never looked wispy like that? Self-consciously, I pushed one annoying culprit behind an ear while I continued my survey. The top of her off-white sundress hugged every inch of what was simultaneously a slender and curvy body. I shook an imaginary fist at the universe and screamed Unfair! in my head. The spaghetti straps grazed flawless shoulders that had no tan lines or freckles.

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