Even back then, months ago when I read the minutes for when Carp signed off on the idea, I knew they were biting off more than they could chew. Relying wholly on volunteers rather than hiring a construction crew to complete it, simply because there was no money in the budget for the labor, set them up for trouble.
At first, people were down there every weekend. But like I thought it would, enthusiasm has waned, and now Beverly, who took on a director role for the project, is doing her best to find people to help before the winter is over and the summer tourist season starts up.
“Evan?”
I jolt out of my thoughts, realizing Beverly is standing by the door, tucking her scarf into her coat and looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “I didn’t catch that.”
She smiles knowingly, sliding her mittened hands into her coat pockets. “We could really use your help down there. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to entice you.”
“Sure thing,” I say, but I’m relieved when she heads out, letting a cool burst of winter air into the warm kitchen before the door shuts behind her.
“All right,” Gramps says, shifting in his seat and gesturing to the cabinet behind him. For a second, I think he’s going to veer us back around to the conversation about the renovation, but to my relief, he says, “Grab that chessboard. I am itching to whoop you in a game right about now.”
I chuckle as I cross the room and take it out, setting it on the table and lining up the pieces like he taught me to when I was a little boy, fresh off the death of my parents and grasping for anything to ground me.
Chess is just one of the many things Gramps gave to me back then.
“You be white,” he says, spinning the board around so I’ll have to go first.
I resist rolling my eyes before reaching for a pawn, opening up the game the way I always do. I’ll stay here for a few hours, keeping a close eye on the snow coming down outside, and when the nurse comes to help Gramps with his bath, I’ll take off, heading back up to the quiet comfort of my cabin.
But for now, with just the two of us in the house, I can relax into this game.
“All right,” I say, sinking down into my seat and reaching for my own cup of coffee. “But I’m not going to go easy on you.”
CHAPTER 2
AMY
Ishould have known better than to have a piece of cake.
My body always reacts strangely to sugar, and now the stuff is buzzing through my brain, making me feel like a shaken-up soda pop. Normally, I wouldn’t go for something like the sugary, Bluey-themed birthday cake in the middle of the table, but there’s something about being around Rae and Jordan that makes me feel loose and reckless.
“Again!” Rae pleads, laughing and jumping up and down, throwing her little hands in the air toward me, the universal baby sign forup!
She’s wearing a sparkling pink dress—which coordinates with Jordan’s sparkling blue overalls—and there’s a huge pin on her chest that readsBirthday Girl. A smear of frosting on her cheek, her messy hair, and the wild look in her eyes tells me she’s had more than her fair share of sugar today, too.
“Okay,” I say, reaching down for her, because I’m physically incapable of saying no to these kids. For the next three minutes, I run Rae throughout the party, holding her up andmaking plane noises as she “flies” through the air, giggling and screaming.
“Me next!” Jordan cries, appearing when I stop, huffing and puffing in the middle of Kirstin’s streamer-strewn living room. He’s the spitting image of Rae, except he has a tiny scar over his right eyebrow from a jump-roping incident, and his hair is in close curls, while Rae’s cascades down her back.
And both of them look just like Kirstin did when she was little.
“I think we need to give Aunt Amy a break,” my sister says, appearing and taking Rae from my arms, who shrieks with glee as her mother kisses her chubby little cheek.
“I think Aunt Amy needs to work on her cardio,” I say, folding over and putting my hands on my knees, turning my head and looking up at her through my hair. “I don’t know how you carry them around all day.”
Kirstin laughs, then rolls her eyes, saying, “You sound just like Mom.”
I know she’s talking about the “working on cardio” part. Our mother is not the type of woman who skips a single day at the gym. She can hold two lattes, power-walk through a city’s downtown, and juggle phone calls without even breaking a sweat.
And she’s not here today—overseas to negotiate a new international deal between various manufacturers. In her place, she sent both Jordan and Rae a set of designer clothes that Kirstin pulled out, rolling her eyes even as the other momsoohedandaahed.
Now, Kirstin sets Rae down, who toddles away with Jordan, back to the pile of new toys sitting in the corner of the room. The party is dying down, the floor littered with little scraps of wrapping paper and cardboard, though the piñata still swings from one of the ceiling’s artfully exposed beams, ready for a kid to swing at it.
“Come on, Aunty,” Kirstin says, tugging on my arm. “Let’s get you a glass of water.”
