Page 37 of Small Town, Big Storm

“Can I get this, Mom?”

Her shoulders slump, an aggrieved sigh slipping free as she gestures at her—our—daughter.“That,” she finishes.

I follow her outstretched hand and see the huge platter of cookies that Holly’s holding up.“Ah.”

“Can I get ’em?”Holly begs.“Please, prettyplease?”

“Sure,” Poppy says, much to Holly’s glee.

Glee that only lasts a heartbeat.

Because then Poppy adds, “So long as you don’t touch the ice cream that Storm brought.”

“I—” Holly blinks.

Then again.

“What?”she asks softly, as though she can’t quite believe what her mom just said.

It’s a rather brilliant move, and I can’t help but admire Poppy’s ingenuity.

Can’t help but wonder what other skills she’s learned over the years.

Especially when Holly looks over at me with a sort of growing resignation and asks morosely, “Is it bubblegum?”

“What?”

“The ice cream.Is it bubblegum?”

My lips twitch.“Is there any other kind of ice cream to get from Scoops?”

“Rocky Road,” Poppy chimes in, the edges of her mouth tipping up now that Holly’s capitulation is in sight.

I chuckle.“That’s so far beneath bubblegum, it’s not even funny.”

But even as I tease her in the here and now, I remember another time, another life, another moment when I waxed poetic about the superiority of bubblegum ice cream over rocky road.

On the beach that night.

Under the stars and the full moon, the cool summer breeze rippling over my skin.

Right before I gave into temptation and kissed her…and didn’t stop.

“Ugh,” Holly says, tapping a finger to her lips before sighing the sigh of someone far, far older.Then she exhales again, even more heavily, and says, “I’ll put these back.”

As she trudges away to do precisely that, I ignore the sensation of a dozen pairs of eyes on us and snag the pack of Italian sausage.

Then I make short work of grabbing a loaf of freshly baked bread—the canned breadsticks Poppy has in her fridge just won’t do—and push the cart to the front of the store.There’s a brief moment of tension when Poppy tries to pay for the groceries but I win that battle and swipe my card, taking the bags as Holly—already over her cookie sadness—chatters away.

She talks about her friends at camp, who she hopes her teacher in the fall will be, and all about the other things she wants to learn to cook.

“I know how to make ice cream—” she begins.

“Of course you do,” Poppy mutters.

But when I glance over, expecting to see irritation lining her expression—the words aren’t exactly encouraging—she’s smirking, her eyes dancing with mirth.

“What?”I ask.