“Thanks for coming with me this morning, Deenie,” Shirley said, as she drove over the rutted track to Maizey Simmons’s place.
“I’m happy to come. I want to see the look on Maizey’s face when you hand her that one hundred dollar check for her husband’s sculptures.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure the poor dear can use the money. There she is, now.”
Shirley parked in the gravel drive and waved to an older woman standing in the open doorway of a modest two-story farmhouse.
“Come on in, you two. Coffee’s on and I just took a batch of biscuits out of the oven,” Maizey called out.
“Homemade biscuits! Now, I’m really glad I came,” Naidenne remarked as she got out of the car.
Stepping through the wood framed screen door into the old-fashioned kitchen was like walking into another century.
Well-scrubbed butcher block counter tops and a square porcelain farmhouse sink would cost a small fortune in a trendy home supply store, but the signs of years of wear declared these were not some designer’s retro fashion statement.
A round oak claw-footed dining table, draped with blue and white checked oil-cloth, filled the center of the room, while open shelving lined the walls.
Maizey set a heaping basket of hot biscuits onto the table beside a mason jar filled with wildflowers and a dish holding a dripping honeycomb.
“Do you keep bees, too, Maizey? I haven’t seen a honeycomb in ages,” Naidenne said.
“My old man was the beekeeper, but I’ve managed to keep one of the hives alive. That’s bramble blossom honey, just as tasty as you’ll find anywhere.”
“This is wonderful,” Shirley said, as she added honey to a biscuit already dripping with melted butter.
“Eat up, you two. It’ll only go to waste, otherwise, ‘cause my waist sure doesn’t need any.”
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