Her little electric toothbrush swirls, the soft buzz filling the bathroom as she waits patiently, eyes wide with curiosity. I clear my throat, the words catching slightly before I find them. “Well, someone I loved very much used to call me that when I was your age, and I guess it just slipped out.” I hesitate before adding. “It was my dad, and I guess you just remind me a lot of myself when I was little.” She beams at me beneath a film of toothpaste froth dripping down her chin.
“Do you not love your dad anymore?” she asks, her voice so profoundly sincere that it takes me a heartbeat to answer.
“I do love him,” I say softly, “but my parents aren’t here anymore, Catalina. And I miss them so very much.”
She spits out her toothpaste hurriedly, wiping her mouth, then flings her arms around me with as much comfort as her tiny body can muster.
“Oh, Ms. Nadia, I’m so sad for you,” she whispers against me, her small hands patting my back. And something inside me, something I tried to bury deep beneath these couple of months, begins to shift. I realize that I haven’t talked about my parents or thought about them in the way that I should. I haven’t even touched their room at home. I just ran. The stages of grief are real. I know that somehow, I got trapped in the very first one—denial. If I ever want to truly heal, then I need to progress and let myself feel some of the things that go with loving and then losing someone.
Catalina pulls back just slightly, her head tilting to the side curiously. “Why did he call you pickles?” I smile, remembering the story and how the nickname came about.
“Well,” I begin, my voice wrapped in the warmth of the memory, “I used to go to the movies with my parents all the time. My dad always asked me if I wanted any popcorn or candy, but I never did. I only wanted a pickle. A big, sour, mouth-puckering pickle from the concession stand.” I laugh, and Catalina’s eyes widen. “So that’s how it stuck,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Pickles.” I glanceat her, my heart softening as she hangs on my every word. “Now, it’s your nickname.”
“Ms. Nadia?” She looks up at me with those big blue eyes so much like her dad’s, making my heart melt. I’m a sucker for this little girl, knowing that I’ll give her whatever she asks for.
“Yes?” I begin to clean up the little puddles of water we left around the sink, trying to steady myself against the emotions swirling up from the depths of my heart. I thought I had forever closed the gates since my parents’ passing.
She hesitates, then asks so sweetly that it nearly breaks me, “Do you think we could go to the movies and get pickles? Like you did with your dad?”
I blink against the sting of moisture in my eyes, the sharp ache suddenly swelling up in my chest. I want to ugly cry at the beautiful gesture she’s offering without even knowing it. “Sure, kiddo.” I tuck a stray curl behind her hair band. “I’d really like that.” She beams at me and jumps down from the little stool by the sink, her whole body radiating with happiness, and I can’t help but smile back.
We leavethe library after a sweet little ceremony with light refreshments, held in honor of my mother's dedication as Volunteer of the Year. A plaque bearing her name now rests in the Friends of the Library Garden, nestled beside the flowers she helped plant a few years ago, her favorites. Hand in hand, Catalina and I walk out into the sunlight, her backpack bulging with so many adventures ready at her fingertips for us to read together. I cradle two books of my own against my chest—summer romance beach reads that take place on the island of Nantucket, written by one of my favorite authors. She lives on the same island as in herbooks, always weaving stories about fictional characters that live in grey-shingled cottages who ride their bikes through the salt-laced streets in the summer and who take leisurely Christmas strolls through the snow-covered cobbled stone walkways in the winter. She does it so seamlessly that I almost believe that it’s real. I’m convinced that if I ever needed a police officer on Nantucket, it would be the very same chief of police from her stories, showing up with a kind smile and offering his help. I would already know his name, as does everyone else who lives there. That’s how deep I’ve fallen into her world.
That’s the feeling that envelops me whenever I am here at the lake house. It’s the deep, familiar coziness, like reading your favorite book in the hammock and slipping into your comfiest pajamas that still smell like the woodsy scent of New Hampshire pine trees and the humid, sticky summer heat. It’s the familiarity of the local shops on Main Street that I have frequented since I was a kid. I always envisioned coming here in the summers with my own kids and taking them to all the places my parents brought me, like the hidden gems that only the locals know about. My parents and I had plans for summer parties, endless lazy days in the dog days of summer by the water. And after they retired, they planned on moving here permanently, but they never got to see their dream unfold, and mine shattered in the process.
As I pull into the sloped driveway of the lake house, I hear Catalina gasp softly. “Ms. Nadia?” she asks in wonder as her gaze goes back and forth to take in the big house. “Do you live here?” I open the door and help her out of her car seat. The warm breeze from the lake welcomes me home, and I never tire of it.
“Yep, sure do, pickles.” She smiles now at the name, understanding why I call her that. She shoulders her backpack securely and sprints up to the hammock I have on the covered porch that surrounds three-quarters of the house. Before she can launch herself into it, causing herself an injury, I tug her gently by the straps of her bag, effectively guiding her away from the hammock that would have guaranteed a bruise or bump at the very least. “Maybe later, kiddo, but first, I want to show you the inside. We can read some books while I make dinner, and then,” I lowermy voice to a whisper like I’m telling her a secret, “we’ll watch a movie before your dad comes here to pick you up.” She nods, looking up at me with a huge grin and practically vibrating with excitement about everything to come.
We walk through the door, and my steps echo on the tiled flooring in the entranceway. Catalina twirls in a slow circle, taking it all in and looking around with curiosity and excitement about being here. She darts toward the expansive windows at the back of the house, pressing her hands against the glass that overlooks the large patio leading to the lake.
“Wow,” she says as her head turns from side to side, taking in the panoramic views of the lake that reflect sunlight streaming through large pine trees. My parents put a lot of care into the perfect view when they selected these floor-to-ceiling windows. It was the one thing they agreed on without argument, and even now, I’m glad they did because the view is truly stunning.
“Why don’t I get us a snack? We can sit out on the swing on the deck and watch the boats zip by,” I suggest, pulling out a chair at the table for Catalina. She slides into the seat and watches me grab a cutting board as I walk to the kitchen island. I don’t see any apples in the bowl, so I open the fridge and grab a couple from the fruit bin that I core and slice. I add a generous helping of peanut butter and toss in some cubed cheese. She readily jumps up when I grab the plate and two water bottles. I have her pull a book from her backpack as we walk toward the backyard swing. She stands there momentarily, mesmerized by the lakeview, and I can’t help but stand there alongside her, admiring it, too, despite having seen it countless times in my life, but it never gets old.
We settle onto the swing, the wooden beams creaking softly as we sway in a steady rhythm. We sit in comfortable silence as she takes a couple of apple slices and dips them into the peanut butter. After the snack, I place the plate on the grass and pick up the book. When I look at the title, I remember reading this book when I was her age. My parents stopped at a bookstore, and I quickly fell in love with the smells of the musty pages along with the cover ofAlice in Wonderland. I clutched the book to my chest, refusing to let go, therefore forcing my parents to buy it. It was and continues tobe my all-time favorite book. I open up the first page and begin to read. Catalina leans against me, her eyelids growing heavier with each page, until she finally begins to nod off.
“Come on, pickles,” I whisper, gently brushing her hair from her face. “Let’s get you inside so I can start dinner for us.” Manny should be here in a few hours, and I know exactly what I want to make.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ileave the tavern a little later than planned. Before heading out, I call Nadia to tell her I’ll be on my way soon and to ensure Catalina has eaten. While wrapping up the proposal, Mr. Tremblay asks if I want a drink. I could have stayed, but I just wanted to get home to my daughter and see that she was taken care of. Also, a big part of me wanted to see Nadia. After I left the house this morning with the worst case of blue balls, I found myself thinking about her the rest of the day. My employees even noticed my distraction at work, commenting on it, but I blew them off, making random excuses for my lack of attention to detail today.
Nadia had been at my house bright and early this morning and has already put in a twelve-hour day. She insists that she doesn’t mind, but I do. I hate feeling like I’m takingadvantage of her kindness, and that’s what it feels like. I pay her, but still it’s too much to ask. I punch the address into my phone and follow the voice prompts as it leads me down a winding dirt road onto the last mile to her lake house. As I take in the scenery around me, I notice the homes in this area are nice. Big, too. I wonder how she ended up with this house and if her parents are there with her. God, I hope not.
The robotic voice crackles through the speaker, announcing I’ve arrived, snapping me out of my racing thoughts as I park my truck alongside her car.
When I spare a glance at the digital clock, I notice that it’s verging on close to 8 p.m. I already know Catalina’s either fast asleep or fighting it like she always does, not wanting to miss a thing, especially if it’s with Nadia. So why does that excite me to be here at this hour?
I can’t say I blame Catalina for feeling this way because I wouldn’t want to miss a moment away from her either. My pulse increases as a light turns on when I step onto the walkway, heading toward the front door. Before I even get the chance to knock, the door swings open. And there she is, holding it open in invitation as she casually rests her arm against the doorframe.
“Hey,” she says, voice low. “She’s asleep, so keep it down when you come in, yeah?” I arch an eyebrow at her bossy tone about my kid, but it doesn’t piss me off. If anything, it crushes me, reminding me that those are the words a mom would say and the kind of thing Catalina deserves to hear, but never did.
I nod and step inside, toeing off my sneakers in the tiled entrance, careful to be quiet like she asked. The house is gorgeous and tidy, but what gets me are the smells drifting from the kitchen, which make my stomach growl loud enough to embarrass me.
Nadia giggles, attempting but failing miserably to stifle it. I shoot her a glare, but all it does is make her smile widen. She reaches for my hand, lacing her fingers with mine, leading me into her home. We move through the living room, and I catch a glimpse of blankets piled around the sofa, but no sign of Catalina. I’m just about to ask when Nadia tugs me into the kitchen and pulls out a chair for me to sit. That’s when I notice that she is in her pajamas.Her tiny sleep shorts leave nothing to the imagination, and a fitted tank top makes it impossible not to notice that she isn’t wearing a bra. Nadia must see me attempting, but failing miserably, to avert my guilty gaze. She goes over to a chair by the window and pulls a cardigan from it, placing her arms through it and wrapping it around her. Part of me wants to tell her not to, that I wasn’t bothered by it in the least, but instead I ask what I should be asking.
“Where’s Catalina?” I glance around, but don’t spot her anywhere. Nadia retrieves a plate from the open shelving and places it on the counter. She peels back the foil from a pan, and the rich smell of pasta sauce and melted cheese hits me so hard that it makes my stomach seize. She cuts a big piece of lasagna, slides it onto the plate, and pops it into the microwave without saying a word.
