Shannon stared at this new version of Jeremiah. A less refined man, without the suit and shiny shoes. He wore a ball cap, shorts, and a T-shirt, and he carried a bag with food in it.
“My mother made Gertie some chicken soup. I guess she isn’t feeling well.” Jeremiah held up the bag with a few jars in it.
Shannon simply stared at him. It seemed impossible that their paths had crossed so many times in the past and yet nothing had come of it. She glanced up and down the street. “Where did you come from?”
“Right next door,” he said, nodding to his right. “My parents live right there.” He extended the brown paper bag toward her and she took it.
“Oh, this is still warm,” she said, the scent of yeast now meeting her nose. Freshly baked bread. It was one of Shannon’s downfalls, and the main re
