How Sweet It Is Read Online Free Page B

anything anymore. But the boldness doesn’t surface in my tone; my voice merely utters a weak, “What?”
    My aunt prolongs her answer by first taking a doggy biscuit from the pocket of her dress. “Here, Handsome,” she calls. Giovanni raises his large head, jumps up, and races to her side, drool rolling off his mouth.
    I wouldn’t call him handsome.
    She hands him the treat, and her adoration for her pet is evident. As he chews, she gently runs her fingers over his coat. I start to ask what kind of dog he is, but then I think: Does it really matter that I know the individual breeds of the very animals I am allergic to?
    When he has devoured every crumb, he searches for some under the table and, finding none, resumes his position on the rug. Only then does my aunt give me her full attention. But she still doesn’t answer my question. “How are the pigs, Shug?” Her voice penetrates the darkness that has formed over the mountains outside the sliding glass door.
    “They’re fine.” I think of my parents’ farm as a strange longing curls through my stomach. I wonder if Dad is filling the troughs with dinner for the animals now. I can almost hear Clementine, the spotted sow with an attitude, quacking at him in a tone that makes us think she is part duck. I say, “Clementine had a litter of nine last month.”
    “Nine? Did you say nine?” Regena Lorraine clasps her hands together as if she’s ready to applaud. Laughing, she adds, “My stars! I bet your dad was happy. Lots of cash in those.”
    “He’s always happy,” I suppress the urge to say. If only some of that energy for living would rub off on Mom. And me. “So about what you said… ?” I hope to guide my aunt back to the original topic.
    She nods while rubbing her fingers over her rings. Some have tiny jewels and others are plain silver. “Do you know where I got this one?” she asks, polishing a silver band with an index finger.
    I shake my head. Swallowing, I want to say, “Rings make me sad.” But as surely as Giovanni likes dog treats, such a statement would cause my aunt’s interest to pique, and suddenly we’d be talking about Lucas.
    She gives my hand a pat, a gesture that makes me feel that I’m five years old. “You’re supposed to teach.”
    “Teach?” The word sounds hollow and foreign, like when I’m trying to repeat a word my missionary sister has taught me to say in Chinese.
    “At The Center. Ernest’s request.”
    “What’s The Center?”
    I wait for her reply while she takes a long drink from her mug. Wiping moisture from her mouth onto a tissue she pulled from somewhere out of her robust chest, she says, “The Center is a program for middle-school-aged children. It’s held at the church along with the preschool.”
    I picture a group of preadolescent kids and swallow again. The thought of preschoolers makes my nose itch. When I was small, I was known for squirming in my chair. I would move my bottom left and right, driving my mother to the point of glaring at me. “Deena, Deena, young ladies do not twist in their chairs.” The urge to twist is strong right now. I scratch my nose instead.
    My aunt gently tells me, “Ernest started the program at the Presbyterian church in town. They get donations from local people and businesses.”
    But what does this place have to do with me?
    She tucks her tissue into her chest and smoothes her dress. “Ernest wanted you to teach there. The older kids, I mean. That’s why he left this cabin to you.”
    No. No, I don’t have to teach. Teaching is not my gift. I cannot sing and I can’t teach.
    “He wanted you to live here and teach.” She studies my face. “With pay, of course.”
    At last I find my voice. “Teach what ?”
    “Flower arranging and martial arts.” She pauses to glimpse my expression.
    I have no smile, just a solemn look.
    Laughter overcomes her again. Even her glasses shake as she gives in to amusement. “Cooking, Shug!