I looked at Denise.
“I’d rather not lend that one.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Why?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“Oh.”
For half a second, I thought she understood.
Then she smiled.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Denise—”
“It’s one cake.”
“I really don’t want—”
“Come on.”
My daughter Sophie was sitting on the porch steps nearby.
She looked up at me.
And because I had spent most of my life worrying that saying no would make me difficult, I heard myself give the answer I didn’t want to give.
“Fine.”
The word was barely out before I regretted it.
Denise grinned.
“I’ll bring it back Saturday.”
“Please clean it first.”
“Obviously.”
That should have been my warning.
Saturday morning, I opened the front door and found the mixer sitting on the porch.
Denise hadn’t knocked.
Hadn’t handed it back.
Hadn’t sent a text.
