She left each lump where it landed, the baking sheet patterned like a minefield, random blobs here and there, some touching, some close enough to grow into each other as they baked. Claire offered to help. “No one complains about ugly cookies,” Beverly said. “Just as long as they taste good.” “These do,” Claire said, swiping a bit of dough. “Shame, shame. You should be resting.” “I’m fine.” “Mm-hmm.” Claire threaded her hand through the handle of her mug of tea. No dainty china cups for Beverly. All her beverages were served in sturdy, thick-lipped stoneware, dark, earthy colors with the glaze dried dripping down the sides. They’d been handmade by a potter acquaintance years ago, Beverly had told her yesterday, even though Claire knew that already. Her friend repeated things more often, forgot things.
