Alice finished snapping the ends off a green bean and added it to the bowl before sauntering over to where the day’s harvest was nestled. She gently tested the feel of the cucumbers. “They feel just right, Annie. If they end up mushy, it won’t be the vegetables’ fault.”
“Thanks—I think.” Annie frowned, only half joking. “How come I suddenly feel like the entire success of next year’s Labor Day picnic is riding on me following Gram’s recipes perfectly?”
Alice returned to the table and looked her childhood friend in the eyes. “Don’t you think you might be taking too much responsibility onto yourself?” Placing a hand on each of Annie’s shoulders, she gave Annie a little shake and grinned. “Just say no to perfectionism! Seriously, do you really want your identity to be wrapped up in pickles?”
Annie’s shoulders relaxed under Alice’s hands. “It does sound pretty silly, since you put it that way.” A quick shadow of embarrassment flitted across her face. “I loved Gram so much, but sometimes—the way folks talk—it seems like she was perfect. The shining example of the Proverbs 31 woman—I doubt I could ever live up to her legacy.”
“Who ever said you had to?” Alice asked. “Her legacy is hers, and yours is yours. Besides, you have talents Betsy never had. There’s a reason Charlie had someone else doing the financial record keeping for his and Betsy’s businesses. Does that mean you’re better than your Gram because you rocked at bookkeeping for the dealership? Or do you ever feel like you should be a missionary like your parents?”
Annie shook her head. “I never did feel any pressure to follow in my parents’ footsteps. For some reason, it was easier to realize I wasn’t called to missions than it has been for me to embrace being different from Gram. Maybe it’s because I always saw her as a kindred spirit, being more of a homebody like she was.”
“That’s OK as long as you remember you are her granddaughter, not her clone,” Alice said, wagging a bean at her friend.
Annie resumed her bean snapping. “Point taken. How’d you get so smart?”
“It’s always easier dealing with someone else’s emotional baggage than with your own,” Alice replied. “But in this case, it’s terrain I’ve traveled for decades, thanks to my own family’s legacy.”
“And you’ve done a pretty good job of being who you are all these years, in spite of it.” Annie smiled at her friend. “I know it was really tough on you going through your divorce. I wasn’t here for you then, but I know Gram was. I have always been thankful she was. Thanks for using your struggle to help me with mine.” She plucked the last bean from the bottom of the bowl. “Now it’s time to cook these beauties.”
“Good. I’m getting hungry.” Putting aside both the blessings and challenges of family legacies, the two women turned their attention to more immediate concerns, like cooking dinner.
Several hours later, the sun had gone down, and Alice had returned to her cozy carriage house. Annie opened her bedroom windows a little wider to let in more of the cool summer night air. The wonder of enjoying August nights free of air-conditioning never seemed to wane for her, and she stayed at the window for a while, simply letting the breeze move around her. By the time she turned away from the window, Boots had already claimed her patch of the patchwork quilt on the four-poster bed.
Annie collected the next veterinarian journal, 1986, from the short stack where she’d placed it on her bedside table and nestled into her comfortable chair. Opening the cover, she pictured her grandfather with that spark of latent mischief in his eyes as he sat at the rolltop desk in the library after each workday, scribbling his observations. The flow of his writing and the images he described reminded her of the bedtime stories he told her during her childhood summer visits.
“Here I am, a grandmother, and you’re still telling me bedtime stories, Grandpa. Thank you,” she murmured. Turning to the next page, a name jumped out at her—Mitchel Gunn. He apparently had needed Doc Holden’s help with a sheep that was suffering from a large abscess on his neck. Reading through the note, thankful it did not contain photos of the procedure, Annie’s eyes grew wider at the end. Her grandfather had written, “The sealskin goes to the one who bears the falcon and the rose.”
With a little squeal, Annie lunged for the phone, not bothering to check how late it was. Alice never went to sleep earlier than Annie.
“Hello?” Alice answered.
“I found it!” Annie exclaimed. “It was in 1986. Grandpa went to the farm of a Mitchel Gunn to help with a sheep.”