My eyes land on a family photo framed on the wall. My father, with his beard, stands in the back. His hand rests on my mother, Ingrid’s, shoulder. Young versions of Bran and me sit in front of them.
“Is that Bran?” Everly asks.
I nod, emotion pouring through me like syrup. “I was five and he was seven.”
“Bwan, Bwan, Bwan,” Sonny sings.
Everly wears a sad smile as though aware that this is a tough situation.
For the first time since I hung it there, the pain of loss doesn’t bite with sharp teeth. Instead, I feel blessed.
“You asked me where I worked before. Sorry, sidetracked by this amazing meal,” Everly says. “Yes, I did image consulting—kind of like what I do now for individuals at Blancbourg, but for companies. Officially, I worked for Lefevre Holdings. That’s where I got my start, but I set up a small side business doing private sessions with,” Everly’s eyes widen and her voice lowers to almost a whisper, “the competition. I’ve never told anyone but Heidi this. I mean, they weren’t the direct competition. I included a life coaching component for the company members, which helped everyone identify strengths and weaknesses so we could best leverage those. I also started to think about my own and began to question my father’s business practices. I wanted to raise awareness about metal recycling and alternatives, so I aligned with some smaller companies doing amazing work to keep places like this pristine and not strip them of their natural beauty due to mining or factories.”
“Admirable. Did your father find out?”
“Thankfully, no. That was during the year before I got involved with you-know-who. I had to scale back a little bit and then needed to come up with an exit strategy. The great recommendations I received from past clients got me the job at Blancbourg. Speaking of that, let’s see, I get to check off all the boxes on your evaluation. So far, you’re passing with flying colors.” She smiles. “Don’t tell anyone, but the secret to winning me over is food. Waffles, cookies, chocolate cake...” She laughs. “Just saying.”
“I noticed.”
“Mamma, are you going to eat your blueberries?” Sonny asks.
Everly’s smile grows. “How about we share?”
She helps him count all the berries and then they divide them up evenly. After seeing her with the two children outside the ice cream shop in Concordia and now with Sonny, Everly is a natural, balancing the responsibility of being a parent—andknowing eating all the berries is going to cause Sonny problems in the bathroom later—educating him with the counting, and making it fun by tucking the berries into the waffle squares and seeing how many they can fill.
The little guy is delighted. So is the big guy. But guilt rises to the surface of my mind. “I’m passing the program, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” Everly says, not at all suspecting what’s coming.
“The guys and I had an agreement. Well, it came down from the coach. If any of us, you know, fooled around, then we’realloff the team.” I waggle my eyebrows so she knows I’m using code forfooling around.
Everly goes still. “Is fooling around something you do often?”
“No. Never. The other guys do, though. But for the thirty days in the program, we made a pact. Called it the playbook. No kissing, dating...” I leave off the rest because of Sonny, and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
“I think we broke the rules,” Everly says, suppressing a smile.
I can’t help but have the same response to the recent memory of the kiss we shared. “Maybe it’s time we make up new rules.”
In Norwegian, Sonny says, “I have rules. Stay with my grown-up, say please and thank you, and no potty talk.”
I tip my head back with laughter, then translate for Everly. “Sounds like Elsie made quite the impression during the short time he spent with her. Sonny, those are very good rules. I have one more. Remember that I always love you.”
“I love you too, Pappa. And you too, Mamma.”
Everly hops to her feet. “I love you, and I’d like to add a rule. We do family hugs.” She picks him up and we wrap our arms around each other.
“I like this and you smell good, Mamma. Like a cookie. Do you like cookies?”
“She sure does. I do too,” I whisper.
“Yes. I love cookies and cookie dough. Do you?”
Sonny nods.
“Me too.”
“Can we make some?” he asks.
