Chapter Six
The Mixer
Dawn Flynn
Bound at Mrs. Smith’s feet, the leather cords that pinched my arms were forgotten. I listened, riveted to her story. She fell silent and absently stirred a spoon in a small, filigreed bowl that contained some hot soup. When Chelsea delivered it curls of steam rose and I assumed Mrs. Smith waited for it to cool. But her eyes drifted into a far away stare and the spoon’s circular motion lessened. At last, her hand stopped, yet the gaze out to and beyond her small garden remained.
I said softly, “Ma’am? Did you and Nick...I mean, ever again?”
“Eh, what?” Mrs. Smith stirred. “I’m sorry. Nick? Well, yes, I saw him quite often, but it wasn’t until...” She trailed off, lips pressed together, then gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Oh, dear, I certainly didn’t
