We went in on a Saturday, a few days before my parents were to arrive. My aunt had us wear aprons and went through each step with us.
As for the secrets, they really came down to this: It was important to use White Lily self-rising flour, not any other brand, and to sift the flour before measuring because it made the biscuits fluffier. Add Crisco, buttermilk, and a bit of (super-secret) confectioners’ sugar, which some people in the South might consider blasphemous. After that, it was all about being careful not to overwork the dough when you mixed it together. Oh, and never twist the biscuit cutter; press it straight down after the dough has been rolled out. Then, when the biscuits are fresh and hot from the oven, coat both sides of them with melted butter.
Naturally, Bryce asked a zillion questions and took the lesson way more seriously than I did. When he took a bite, he practically moaned like a little kid. When my aunt said that he could share the recipe with his mother, he looked almost outraged.
“Not a chance. This was my gift.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Bryce finally showed me the photo he’d taken of me and Daisy when we’d been checking out the village after the storm.
“I printed one for you, too,” he said, handing it to me. We were in his truck, parked near the lighthouse. I’d just taken a few sunset photos, and the sky was already beginning to darken. “In truth, my mom helped me print it, but you get the point.”
I could see why he’d wanted one for himself. It really was an endearing photo, even if I happened to be in it. He’d cropped the image to capture only our faces in profile and he’d caught the instant when my lips touched Daisy’s nose; my eyes were closed, but Daisy’s were brimming with adoration. And best of all, my body wasn’t shown, which made it easy to imagine the whole oops! thing had never happened at all.
“Thank you,” I said, continuing to stare at the image. “I wish I could shoot as well as you do. Or your mom.”
“You’re a lot better than I was when I first started. And some of your shots are fantastic.”
Maybe, I thought. But maybe not. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you think it’s okay that I’m in the darkroom. Being that I’m pregnant, I mean.”
“I asked my mom about that,” he said. “Don’t worry—I didn’t mention you—but she said she worked in the darkroom when she was pregnant. She said that as long as you use rubber gloves and aren’t in there every day, it isn’t dangerous.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I love watching the images start to materialize on the paper. One second, there’s nothing there…and then little by little, the picture comes to life.”
“I totally get it. For me, it’s an essential part of the experience,” he added. “I wonder, though, what’s going to happen when digital photography catches on. My guess is no one will develop pictures at all anymore.”
“What’s digital photography?”
“Instead of film, images are stored on a disk in the camera that you can then plug into a computer without having to use a scanner. They might even have cameras where you can see the pictures right away on a little screen in the back.”
“That’s a real thing?”
“It will be, I’m sure,” he said. “The cameras are super expensive now, but just like computers, I’m sure the cost will keep dropping. In time, I think most people will want to use those kinds of cameras instead. Including me.”
“That’s kind of sad,” I said. “It takes some of the magic away.”
“It’s the future,” he said. “And nothing lasts forever.”
I couldn’t help wondering whether he might also be referring to the two of us.
* * *
As my parents’ visit drew near, I began to feel antsy, a low-level nervousness that hummed beneath the surface. They were flying to New Bern on Wednesday and would take the early ferry to Ocracoke on Thursday morning. They weren’t staying long—only through Sunday afternoon—and the plan was for all of us to go to church and say our goodbyes in the parking lot right after the service.
On Thursday morning, I woke earlier than usual to shower and get ready, but even when Bryce showed up, I still had trouble concentrating on my studies. Not that there was much of anything to do—with finals behind me, I was plowing through second-semester work at a pace that would have made even Morgan proud. Bryce could tell I was anxious and I’m pretty sure Daisy picked up on it, too. At least twice an hour she’d come to my side and nuzzle at my hand before whining, the sound coming from deep within her throat. Despite her efforts to put me at ease, when Aunt Linda showed up to drive me over to the ferry so I could meet my parents, my legs were wobbly as I stood from the chair.
“It’s going to be all right,” Bryce said. He was stacking my work into neat little piles on the kitchen table.
“I hope so,” I said. As distracted as I’d been, I hardly noticed how cute he was or how much I’d come to depend on him lately.
“Are you sure you still want me to come over tomorrow?”
“My parents said they wanted to meet you.”
I didn’t mention that the thought of being alone in the house with my parents while Aunt Linda was at the shop kind of terrified me.
By then, my aunt had poked her head inside the front door.
“You ready? The ferry should be here in ten minutes.”
“Almost,” I told her. “We were just cleaning up.”
I dropped off my schoolwork in my bedroom, and after grabbing my jacket, Bryce followed me down the stairs. He offered a quick wink as he hopped into his truck, which gave me the encouragement I needed to crawl into my aunt’s car, despite my nerves.
It was cold and gray as we drove to the docks. My parents’ rental car was the second vehicle to roll off the ferry. When they saw us, my dad pulled the car to a stop and we walked over to join them.
Hugs and kisses, a couple of good to see yous, no comments about my size, probably because they wanted to pretend I wasn’t pregnant at all, and then I was back in the car with my aunt. My eyes occasionally flashed to the side mirror while my parents followed us home, and after parking beside us, they got out of the car and stared at the house. In the gloom, it struck me as shabbier than usual.
“So this is it, huh?” my mom asked, pulling her coat tighter against the chill. “I understand why we had to book a room at the hotel. It seems kind of small.”
“It’s comfortable and has a great view of the water,” I offered.
“The ferry seemed to take forever. Is it always that slow?”
“I guess so,” I said. “But after a while, you get used to it.”
“Hmm,” she said. My dad, meanwhile, remained quiet, and my mom added nothing more.
“How about some lunch?” my aunt chimed in with forced cheer. “I made chicken salad earlier and thought we could do sandwiches.”
“I’m allergic to mayonnaise,” my mom said.
Aunt Linda recovered quickly. “I think I still have meatloaf leftovers, and I could make you a sandwich with that.”
My mom nodded; my dad remained silent. The four of us started up toward the front door, the pit in my stomach growing larger with every step.