Page 58 of Run Home

Marcia’s smiling as she opens her door. She’s neatly dressed in a pair of elastic-waist slacks with a matching blouse and a light cardigan. Glancing down at my cutoff jean shorts, plain tee, and Converse high tops, I hope I’m not disrespectfully underdressed.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Sam!” Marcia says. “Please come on in. I thought we’d have a little something to drink before we start on the cookies.”

“I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late! I definitely walked up to the wrong door first. All the identical buildings threw me for a loop,” I say as I follow her into the living room. “But you have a very nice neighbor in the unit around the corner—Deborah, I think was her name.”

“Oh yes, Deborah is quite nice,” Marcia agrees. “She’s quite the cheat at bridge, though.”

Chuckling, I say, “Please do spill all the tea over drinks.”

Her brow furrows. “I’m afraid I don’t have tea. I thought it would be too warm. I have a very nice homemade lemonade, though.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking to drink tea—tea is another word for gossip,” I explain. “Spilling the tea or pouring the tea is another way of saying you want someone to share the juicy gossip with you.”

Understanding lights in Marcia’s eyes, and she says, “Well, if you want to hear all the bridge gossip, we may need to add something a little stronger to the lemonade.”

“Mar-shuh!” I exclaim, drawing out her name. “Strong drinks at ten in the morning? I never knew retirement communities were so scandalous.”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Marcia replies in a no-nonsense tone. “Come on into the kitchen and pull out your teacup.”

I giggle as I follow Marcia, but I’m halted by the sight of several photos displayed on top of a sideboard. “This is Harry?” I ask, indicating the many pictures of her and a man throughout the years. The question is rhetorical, considering the lovestruck expressions on their faces in each snapshot through time.

“That’s my Harry,” Marcia confirms. “I told you he was rather dashing.”

“I’d go so far as to say quite dashing,” I tell her with a wink. “I’m only sorry I never got to meet him. Especially after all the stories you told me about your life together. He sounds like he was your perfect match.”

“He was. We were,” Marcia says, her eyes misting over as she stares at the photos. The emotion clears by the time she looks at me with a different sparkle in her eyes. “I sure hope you’ve recognized your perfect match.”

My mouth drops open as I stare at her mischievous expression. “Mar-shuh!” I exclaim again. “Bridge scandals, morning drinks, and meddlesome behavior—I’m afraid you’re only confirming all the retiree stereotypes!”

“I notice you’re not denying anything,” Marcia says with a smug smile. “I think you’ll be the first one to pour some tea. Come on.”

As we drink glasses of unspiked lemonade, I fill Marcia in on all that’s transpired between Adrian and me since we met her at the gala.

“Good. You would have been fools to deny what was so obvious between you. I’ll tell you the same thing I told that young man—don’t go wasting any moments. Snatch them up while you can,” she says.

“You told Adrian that at the gala?”

When she nods with pride, I tsk my tongue. “You are quite the meddler, Marcia Donnelly. But I’ll thank you for it because I couldn’t be happier with the results.”

After I pry the bridge-cheating scandal out of Marcia—with very little prying—she announces that we need to get started on the cookies if they’re going to finish baking before her after-lunch nap. She walks me through each step, starting with creaming the softened butter and sugars together. After mixing in the eggs and vanilla, Marcia pauses with gravity.

“Now this is where the secret part of the recipe comes in. Do you promise to not share this recipe with anyone undeserving and swear to bake dozens upon dozens of these cookies for all those who are deserving?” she asks.

Holding up a hand, I solemnly say, “I swear.”

Marcia pulls out a mason jar and says, “The trick is to add some homemade caramel sauce. I’ve written down the recipe for that as well. You’ll need to make the sauce before the cookies with plenty of time to cool down.”

I watch intently as Marcia continues through the rest of the recipe, and we sit down with a second round of lemonade as the first pan bakes. Twenty minutes later, both pans of cookies are finished, and we each take one from the cooling rack.

Biting into the soft, chewy cookie, I’m hit by the toasty layers of caramel flavor from the butterscotch chips and the caramel sauce. “Marcia, you have changed my life. I’ll never make another cookie recipe again.”

She bites into her own cookie with a pleased smile. Emotion clouds her eyes when she swallows. “These were always Harry’s favorite. Right up until the end.”

Setting the rest of my cookie on the counter, I wrap my arms around Marcia’s shoulders, gently hugging her. “I’m honored that you would share these with me. Thanks for giving me a little piece of the connection you and Harry shared. I hope it becomes good luck for the start of my connection with Adrian.”

“I’d hardly say your connection is just starting,” she says, returning a smile to her lips. “But I’ll happily wish all the goodness I had with Harry to the two of you.”

We eat three cookies apiece as I tell Marcia about the start of my career as a hair stylist. I can tell she’s tiring out when her movements slow ever so slightly, so I make quick work of washing up the dishes from baking before announcing that I should head home.