Molly Fitzpatrick

Menial task accomplished, Celia decided to chance a trip to the kitchen. It was nearly suppertime, she figured “the crew” could use a hand. She was wary on her way down, lest she catch Max in a bad mood. Luckily, no sign of him anywhere.

“G’devenin’ Ms. Celia!” a usually-cheery Molly Fitzpatrick called to Celia over the clatter of regular flurried kitchen activity. She smiled.

“Evening, Ms. Molly,” she replied. “I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oh, don’cha know it?” Molly sighed, mocking extreme exasperation as she worked. “Master Stevens wanted potatoes with supper tonight. I go down to the market, & what do I find? No potatoes!” She scoffed indignantly. “And no surprise, neither. Jesus, Mary, & Joseph, it’s the middle of February! Everyone’s scrounging for their own potatoes t’feed themselves, let alone spare ones to sell. But, I managed to get some from a friend of mine down the way.”

She effortlessly lifted a large misshapen sack onto the worn cedar counter.

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