Summer on Lovers' Island by Donna Alward Page B

laughed. “I’m not quite that domesticated. There’s this caf é in Jewell Cove. The cook’s name is Gus, and his fried chicken will make you weep and thank your maker. Not to mention potato salad. And I brought dessert.”
    â€œIt’s so good to see you,” Rosemary said, reaching over and patting Lizzie’s hand. “Let me freshen up first, okay?”
    Lizzie waited while her mom went to the bathroom. So far, the disease hadn’t progressed to the point where she needed help all the time and today she was remarkably clearheaded, so Lizzie let her have her independence and simply waited. When Rosemary emerged, Lizzie tried to hide her dismay and put on a bright face. Not bright enough to match Rosemary’s, though. She had put on cherry-red lipstick and brushed on some blush that was far too heavy for her delicate cheeks.
    â€œOkay, Mom, let’s just tell someone we’re heading to the garden and we’ll have a nice lunch.”
    Rosemary followed close to Lizzie as they stopped at the reception desk and then went to the car for the soft-side cooler she’d brought. It was only a few minutes and they were settled at a small iron table and chairs set in the middle of the English gardens, an oasis of tranquility remarkably free of the telltale scents of medical facilities.
    She unpacked a container of fried chicken, a dish of potato salad, and another of cool sliced cucumbers, plus two soft buns from the Main Street Bakery, sandwiched together with a thick layer of real butter. Then came the plates, real ones, as Lizzie knew how her mother despised paper, and proper knives, forks, and napkins. Lizzie’s one plastic concession was glasses, but the ones she’d picked up were cute, with little flowers painted on them, and she took out a thermos of cool, fresh lemonade.
    When she’d served both plates, her mom looked up with worried eyes. “Won’t your dad be joining us? Where is he? Is he working late again?”
    Lizzie’s heart plummeted to her feet and she swallowed against the lump of futility in her throat. “It’s just you and me today, Mom,” she said, forcing a smile and handing over a napkin. “Try the chicken.”
    â€œYour father works too hard. He never comes to see me,” Rosemary complained, her voice taking on a plaintive quality that grated on Lizzie’s nerves, making her feel even more guilty.
    â€œThen let’s just make this a girly day,” she suggested lightly. She got up and spread the napkin on her mother’s lap. She would not cry or let her frustrations show. She would be patient, kind …
    Sad.
    No, she had to lock that away for later. So she poured lemonade into her mother’s glass and handed it to her. “I know I’m not much of a cook, but I made the lemonade myself, just this morning. What do you think?”
    She saw Rosemary’s hand tremble a bit as she lifted the drink to her lips and sipped. “It’s tart,” she replied, puckering her lips. “Just the way your father likes it. Will he be joining us today?”
    More swallowing of tears. “Not today,” Lizzie replied. She forced herself to take a bite of chicken, trying to lead by example, but it didn’t taste good anymore. She was desperate to change the subject. “What are you crocheting, Mom? The yarn looked so pretty, a really nice shade of pink.”
    Finally Rosemary picked up her fork and started to eat. “Hats. For the neonatal unit.” She tasted her potato salad, then daintily cut a cucumber slice in fourths. “A few of the other ladies and I work on them and the nurses take them to the hospital.” She met Lizzie’s gaze. “It makes me feel like I’m doing something important.”
    â€œIt is important,” Lizzie agreed. “I’m glad. Can I do something to help? Buy you some yarn? There’s a craft shop in town that I think