More Than You Know by Nan Rossiter Page A

rivulets of melting brown sugar and cream, chopped walnuts, apples, and raisins—just like they’d had on school mornings when they were kids.
    Beryl measured the oats and water into a small pot and lit another burner. When it came to a boil, she gave the oatmeal a stir and lowered the flame to simmer. Meanwhile, the kettle started to whistle and she scooped a teaspoon of loose tea leaves into the mesh infuser that hung over the stove. She dropped it into Mia’s old teapot, poured steaming water over the infuser, swished it around, and left it to steep.
    “You certainly are noisy,” Rumer said sleepily, pulling a faded blue sweatshirt over her head.
    Beryl eyed the sweatshirt. “There’s a relic from the past.”
    Rumer pulled her braid out of the back and grinned. “I know, I found it in the closet.”
    “I think it’s mine. You ripped the neck of yours.”
    Rumer frowned. “I did not.”
    “You did—remember when you were trying to get Jimmy Dixon to notice you?”
    “Hmm . . . well, maybe. I guess that’s possible; he was pretty cute—except for that gap between his front teeth.”
    Beryl rolled her eyes and Rumer laughed. She poured coffee into a big blue mug and cradled it in her hands, breathing in the fresh aroma. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, peering into the simmering pot. “Mmmm . . . you’re making oatmeal too?!”
    “Yup. Want to chop up some walnuts and apple for it?”
    Rumer looked around the kitchen. “Ber, I’m beginning to think that getting through everything that’s in this house is going to take a lot longer than a week. Have you seen Mum’s office?”
    Beryl stirred the oatmeal while Rumer chopped up a handful of walnuts and apple slices. “I know. It looks overwhelming, but I think a lot of papers can be thrown away. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, she started saving everything.” She spooned the steaming oatmeal into bowls, sprinkled generous spoonfuls of brown sugar and raisins onto each one, and then drizzled cream on top. Rumer added the walnuts and apples, and they sat down at the old Formica table that had been the site of countless school projects and childhood meals. Flan, who’d been watching their every move, waddled over and curled up between them. Beryl tucked her feet under Flan’s warm body, scooped a small spoonful of oatmeal from the inside edge of her bowl, and blew on it softly. “It’s so strange to be here without Mum.”
    Rumer looked out the window and nodded. “It’s hard to look around and see all of her things and know she’ll never use them again. She’ll never make apple crisp in her glass Pyrex dish or a pot roast in the big cast-iron pot she’s had since the beginning of time . . . or wear her silly pink hat . . . or any of her blinking holiday earrings.”
    “Or, out of the blue, start quoting poetry or Bible verses,” Beryl quipped. “I think she had a Bible verse for every occasion. Which reminds me—we need to think of some for the service.”
    “Have you talked to Reverend Peterson?”
    “He came to the hospital and then stopped by my apartment to see how I was doing. He said he can meet with us anytime, so I told him maybe this afternoon.”
    Rumer nodded. “Are you keeping your apartment?”
    Beryl looked up in surprise. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”
    “I don’t know—you could stay here.”
    “In this drafty old place?” She shook her head. “It’s too big and lonely . . . and full of memories. My apartment is cozy and bright and just the right size for me and one stubborn old bulldog.” She rubbed her feet on Flan’s side and Flan groaned, rolling onto her back.
    After Beryl had graduated from Wellesley with a degree in English and the dream to author the next great American novel, she’d moved back home to help her mom in the shop—temporarily. But the years had slipped by and, except for an occasional journal entry, she’d found little time for writing. Gradually, she’d lost