“My girl feels good about Frostys,” he says. “So that’s exactly what we’re going to get.”
Chapter 19
LOGAN
The second half of the drive is scenic. We pass houses that look like boats, inflatable lobsters on top of restaurants, and in one person’s yard, a moss-covered stone well so picturesque that Hazel insisted I pull over so we could make a wish in it.
We get to Mom’s in the late afternoon without getting a flat tire, running out of gas, or getting into any accidents, though I do somehow manage to run over a few pots of mums lining the driveway.
Hazel and I walk around the house and up to the deck, where all the noise is coming from.
I point out everyone I know to Hazel: my mom, my stepfather, my older sister and her boyfriend, my younger sister, my oldest stepbrother and his husband, my other stepbrother and his girlfriend. Everyone else must be friends and coworkers. They’re all paired off in conversation, warming themselves next to space heaters and the fire pit.
We meet Mom at the outdoor dining table that’s covered in bowls filled with chives, sour cream, cheddar cheese, diced bacon, and butter balls. My stepfather, Warren, sets a giant silver tub of foil-wrapped potatoes onto the end of the table, completing the baked potato bar. When he sees us, he doesn’t bother taking off his oven mitts before wrapping Hazel and me into a group hug.
Originally from Canada, Warren was transferred to a hospital in our town in Washington. That’s where he and Mom met as nurses after my parents had divorced. After a couple years of dating, they got married. Warren’s kids were also in their teens and twenties, so we were all off doing our own thing. We mostly get to know each other at holidays and gatherings.
“Thanks for coming,” Warren says to us. “You really didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “This one’s for real?”
“You can only retire so many times, I suppose,” he says, clasping his mitt-covered hands together. Warren has retired about four times at this point. He never sets an end date, which means he keeps showing up to work.
“Have you had your last day yet?” I ask Warren.
“Last Friday. I had to make sure my patients were in a good spot,” he says, eyeing my mom. “Your mother is happy.”
“It’s going to be great!” Mom says, overhearing our conversation and meeting us at the head of the table. “We’ll have more time for traveling. We can seriously think about that boat you’ve always wanted.”
Warren nods. “It’ll be great,” he echoes.
Mom has tongs in one hand, an empty plate in the other. It takes her a second to notice my arm. “Oh my god, Logan!”
“This? It’s nothing,” I say, giving her a hug. “Just a scratch. Mom, meet Haze—”
“It’s clearly not. What happened?” Mom asks. She’s wild-eyed, her tone coated in concern.
“I fell down a few stairs.” I shrug.
She gives my shoulder a shake. “Oh, honey, this could’ve been so much worse. You could’ve broken your whole arm.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Phew.”
Mom glances over to Hazel. “Honey, it’s so wonderful to meet you!” she says, sweeping her into a hug.
“Your house is… wow. It’s beautiful,” a wide-eyed Hazel tells Mom. “I love the scallop siding. Was that part of the original house?”
Mom looks delighted, her worry no longer present. “Thank you for noticing,” she says. “Logan did that. A house on the coastline needs pizzazz.”
“It looks like a mermaid’s house,” Hazel says, staring up at the 2,800-square-foot house painted a sea foam green behind us. “I mean that as a compliment.”
Mom beams. “I take it as one!”
Hazel looks like she’s lost in a daydream. “I’d love to do something similar with my grandparents’ house. I’m taking notes.”
Mom’s house is perched on the rocky coastline overlooking Penobscot Bay. It’s an unobstructed view with endless blue water in the distance, trees flanking the house on both sides. At this time of year, the leaves are painted every shade in the warm color palette. Set against the bright bay and sparsely clouded sky, it’s practically a fall paradise.
Mom points to the round windows built into the dining room nook and on the second floor. “Logan added those, as well as the cabinetry in the kitchen. Oh! And that entire setup,” she says, directing Hazel’s attention to the long dining table and benches I built. “Obviously, the backs of the benches needed to look like shells.”
