“You sure you don’t want more?” Killyama asked, taking the serving spoon from him and ignoring the sulks from the other side of the table.

“I had a big breakfast.” Train stabbed a lone noddle with his fork.

“You snooze, you lose at this table. It’s Hammer and Jonas’s favorite. Mama makes it for them whenever they come over.”

Train waited until Peyton had taken a small serving before he took a bite of the dish. Not caring about being overly polite, Hammer filled his plate with enough pasta to feed three grown men. Jonas had no problem doing the same, leaving the bowl empty.

“I tried to warn you.” Killyama dug into her own large portion. “It’s kind of addicting.”

Train enjoyed the one bite he had taken. It was good, but it wasn’t great.

“It’s really good. Thank you for lunch,” he complimented.

“You’re welcome. It’s just poor man’s goulash. I used to fix it for Killyama when she was a little girl, when the budget was tight. A neighbor of mine gave me the recipe years ago. Her trailer used to be further down the holler. She would come over for visits until she passed away.”

Train listened as she talked. Looking down, he saw his fork was scraping an empty plate. Frowning, he stared at the empty bowl then at Hammer’s and Jonas’s still full plates.

Killyama used tongs to place a mound of salad on his plate. “I tried to give you a heads up. That was a double batch, too.”

“I’ll leave my number so if you need any more chores done around here, I can swing by and help any day you feel like cooking.” Train politely smiled at Peyton.

“I’ll get Killyama to key in your number on my phone.” Peyton smiled back, blushing at the compliments the men gave as the two women packed the dirty dishes to the small sink.

Train was about to volunteer to do the dishes when they each returned carrying two delicate dessert plates. This time, Train made sure to nab the largest serving, trying not to flinch as the men used their boots to stomp on his foot.

He forgot about the pain when he slid the warm spiced peaches with ice cream into his mouth.

“This is delicious,” Train complimented.

“I can the peaches myself. Next time you come over, I’ll make you a cobbler.”

Train tucked his feet behind Killyama’s, having no problem being a coward where food was concerned. He even scavenged hers for her last bite.

“Why haven’t we had this before?” Jonas plaintively asked, staring down at his empty plate.

“Usually, Killyama hides the spiced peaches when I get finished canning them. She set out a couple of jars to use today.”

Train slid his hand under the table to squeeze her thigh when she would have slid out from the table. “It was delicious. Thank you for sharing them. I can understand why you hid them. Some things are just too good to be shared.”

“Jonas, go get the air fresher out from under the kitchen sink. The smell of bullshit is making me want to lose my lunch,” Hammer quipped.

Peyton, who had stood to gather the dessert plates, crashed a plate down on the side of Hammer’s skull. Hammer shrank back from the fury that had Peyton shooting sparks.

Train gaped, too scared at the sudden attack from the delicate woman to laugh at Hammer’s discomfort.

When Killyama would have taken his plate, Train stopped her. “I take it back.”

“What?” Her eyes twinkled in merriment. Killyama had enjoyed Hammer getting struck upside his head.

“You and your mom could be twins.”

“You think so?” Killyama cocked an eyebrow at him as her mother cleaned the shards of glass off Hammer’s shoulders.

“Hell yes.” He helped her carry the dessert dishes, enjoying Peyton scolding Hammer for his bad manners. “I have to admit; I didn’t see it coming, and neither did he.”

After doing the dishes, Peyton cleaned the table as the group sat down in the small living room. When she was done, she sat down on the recliner, while Hammer and Jonas sprawled out on the couch. There wasn’t a place for Train and Killyama to sit, so he started to bring in the chair that Peyton had been sitting on at the table when Killyama solved the problem.

“Scoot over, Jonas. Let Train sit down.”

Train would have rather have gotten the chair, but he sat down on the couch when Jonas made room for him.

Killyama sat down on the floor, settling against her mother’s legs. He was struck by the closeness of the two as Peyton rocked the recliner and Killyama laid her head on her mother’s thigh.

Conversation flowed around the room much easier than he had expected. Train listened without taking part as Hammer talked about repairing the underpinning of Peyton’s trailer.

“Let me know the next time you go out for a few hours. I’ll have to jack the trailer up to get underneath it. I want to lay some more support beams. I’m afraid the floor in the kitchen is going to give if it isn’t fixed soon.”

“A piece was ordered last week. I was going to get started on it tomorrow, if that’s convenient for you?”

“That works for me.”

Peyton, seeing Train’s curious look, explained, “I sell my pieces at a shop in town. Sometimes customers come in and commission me to make something for them.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Yes.”

“Do you paint or—”

“I do a little bit of everything. I paint, but my favorite is sculpting.”

“I would love to see some of your work. Do you have any pieces here?”

Peyton’s cheeks turned pink. “No. There isn’t much room to store them here. The neighbor I was telling you about who gave me her recipe passed away three years ago. She had no family, so she left her trailer to me. I’ve been using it as a studio. I make a mess when I’m working, and it gives me a place to store the finished items until I’m ready to sell. Killyama, hand me my album, and I’ll show him—”

“Mama, Train wouldn’t be interested—”

“I would really like to see your pictures.” He couldn’t understand why Killyama didn’t want him to see her mother’s work. Maybe she was embarrassed Peyton’s work wasn’t any good. Jamestown wasn’t exactly New York, where exclusive shops exhibited artists’ pieces.

Killyama rose to her knees to open a drawer in the side table, pulling out a thick photo album. Instead of immediately giving it to him, she opened the book toward the back before leaning forward to give it to him.

Train straightened on the couch, staring at the beautiful picture of a bridge. Unlike most pictures that focused on the idyllic beauty of a summer day, the sky in Peyton’s painting was grey and gloomy. The bridge was old, and part of it was broken. The water below seemed to toss with dark undercurrents. It was striking and thought provoking that the bridge had stood the passage of time, still standing, though withered with age.

He turned to see picture after picture, each brought to life by Peyton’s brush. Train turned one page, taking in the intricate beauty of a sculpture of a mother and child. The woman’s face was lined with age and worry as she kneeled at the child’s feet. The little girl was wearing a dress that was too big for her, slipping off her shoulders. She was crying while the mother wiped her tears away. Train had never been affected by art in his life, but the statue touched a part of him that he had never known existed.