“Still, not bad for a first try,” Sam tells me after he’s tried some of mine. “Next time it’ll be better.”
I smile around a bite of tuna melt, more than a little pleased to hear there will, in fact, be a next time.
* * *
The good news is that when Asha rolls in two hours later, she doesn’t seem to mind that we ditched her. Well, not ditched. Ditched makes it sound like it was purposeful. Bailed is the more appropriate word choice.
Either way, she’s as bubbly as ever, humming along to the corner jukebox that blasts Otis Redding while she rolls the silverware. I help her sort the forks and salad forks and spoons and teaspoons and knives, and she shows me how to wrap them neatly into cloth napkin bundles.
“My family inherited a set of antique silverware from my grandmother,” she tells me. Like most things with Asha, it comes out of the blue. “It’s all from India. And there’s this teapot—it’s really ancient and beautiful. I love it. My mom used to make tea with it all the time.”
I stop sorting the forks and give her a questioning look.
“Oh, she’s not dead or anything,” she explains hastily. “She just…” Asha shrugs a little, looking down. “She’s sick a lot. She doesn’t do much these days.”
I’m glad I have an excuse not to speak, because I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t think Asha expects anything, though, because the next thing I know she’s chattering away about her knitting projects.
Once we’re done with the silverware, I join Sam and Dex in the kitchen so I can sweep the floor. Apparently Andy has the night off. I feel kind of bad for being so relieved—but I’ve had a really, really bad day, and it’s like God is cutting me a break for once. Maybe I should start going to church. Earn some points from the Big Man.
“I’d rather have a new milkshake machine than a new coffeemaker,” Sam says to Dex. They’re in the middle of a discussion about kitchen renovations. “If people want fancy frou-frou coffee, there are other places in town. No one else does milkshakes.”