Her expression shifts into part surprise, before she nods once and turns to look back out the window.
The sun’s soft when we pull into the driveway. Low enough to catch the dew still clinging to the grass, to turn the ivy on the side of the house into a glimmering patchwork of green and gold.
“You never told me he was the reason you started the hives,” she says quietly.
I pause with my hand on the gearshift. “I guess I didn’t.”
“You talk about him like he’s background, but it’s clear he’s everything.”
And you are, too.
The front door creaks before I can knock, and there he is. Wearing his battered old straw hat and a flannel shirt that hasn’t fit properly since the Bush administration.
“Took you long enough,” Harry says, eyeing me first, then sliding his gaze to Carina. He takes her in, then breaks into a crooked smile. “You’re prettier than he deserves. And probably smarter too.”
Carina blinks. “I’d argue, but… I won’t.”
Grandpa barks out a laugh. “Oh, I like you. Come on, I’ve got tea. Or whiskey. Or prune juice if you’re into that kinda punishment.”
She glances at me. “You didn’t say he was charming.”
“That was strategic.”
“Mm.”
We follow him into the house, the scent of rosemary immediately hitting us from the kitchen. He must’ve baked bread. Everything’s cluttered but clean. Carina takes it all in—the hanging plants, the mismatched cushions, the faint hum of bees from the garden beyond the kitchen window.
Harry chats as he pours drinks, talking about the tomatoes and the squirrel war currently waging in his front yard.
Then, he points her to his favorite armchair, demands to know how she likes her tea, and interrogates her about everything from her birth order to whether she likes bees or finds them “a bit rude.”
Carina, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She leans into every question with that composed, razor-sharp poise she keeps for strangers. But I can see the corners of her mouth twitching, the effort it takes not to laugh.
“You two a thing yet?” Harry asks at one point, entirely straight-faced as Carina chokes on her tea. “Or just playing house without the furniture?”
“Jesus,” I hiss
Harry winks at her. “I only ask because I’ve got a story locked and loaded for whoever finally takes him down. Needs the right audience.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Takes him down?”
“That boy came out of the womb with a scowl. Refused to cry unless he thought no one was looking,” Harry says, leaning back and pointing out the window. “But he built that treehouse at nine and said it was for ‘someday.’”
“Someday?”
“Someday, when he had someone to share it with.”
My throat tightens as Carina looks over at me, her expression unreadable.
Harry doesn’t notice; he’s already wandered to the shelf and returned with a tiny terracotta pot. Something green and wild curling out the side.
“Here,” he says, placing it in Carina’s hands. “Delly rooted this from a cutting off the east fence. Said ivy was the tough stuff—keeps growing no matter what.”
She looks down at it, thumb brushing over one of the glossy leaves. “Delly?”
“My wife, Adele.” His voice softens. “She passed a few years back.”
Carina’s gaze flicks to me, then to Grandpa’s. Her fingers curl gently around the pot.
