“Is that why you’ve been trying her recipes?” Nan asks. “Maybe.” He smiles. “And I love to eat. I’ve missed those pickles.” “Not my thing,” I say, flashing him an apologetic grin. His eyes pop. “What?” “I don’t like them.” “Me neither,” Nan says. “I did all my pickling for Alice’s grandfather and the church bazaar.” “We just made a dozen jars,” Charlie says, glancing between us, mouth hanging open. “I know,” I say, laughing. “They’ll keep, don’t worry.”
