Her eyes go straight to Chloe, who reaches for her. Maren takes her granddaughter in her arms, and her eyes flick to me, soft and assessing.
“Hey, Mom,” Dahlia says. “Hey, Aunt Ginny.”
Ginny walks over and hugs us too. She’s taller than her sister. Also beautiful, in a more relaxed way. Maren has a full face of makeup, not a hair out of place, and is perfectly put together. Ginny isn’t wearing any, and her graying hair falls in loose waves down her back.
“Move, sis,” she says. “Let the poor kids breathe. And give me that baby.”
Dahlia laughs, tired but real. Maren rolls her eyes, but she carefully transfers Chloe into Ginny’s arms.
“Hi, lovey,” Ginny says.
“Hi, Aunt Ginny,” Chloe croaks and then burrows into Ginny’s neck like she’s happy to see her too.
“It smells delicious in here,” I say.
“We have roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes, rosemary focaccia, and apple pie that’s still bubbling on the stove,” Maren says.
“Wow.” My stomach growls, and everyone laughs. “I guess you can tell what I think about that.”
“I can’t take credit for any of it.” Maren puts her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Ginny did all the work. I didn’t even set the table.” She laughs. “I had a pickleball tournament, and it went later than I expected.”
“Well, thank you,” I say.
“Yes, thank you, Aunt Ginny.” Dahlia smiles at her warmly.
Conversation flows easily at dinner. Chloe sits in an ornate wooden high chair that looks like an antique and says everything is “yum-yum.” Ginny keeps refilling my plate like I’ve got a bottomless stomach.
Ginny tells stories about Dahlia at eleven years old trying to surf on a boogie board in Lake Minnetonka.
“She was determined,” she says, smiling at Dahlia fondly.
Dahlia laughs. “Because I kept wiping out spectacularly.”
They ask questions about me and my family.
“I’d love for you to meet them. They’re wonderful,” Dahlia says, smiling over at me.
Halfway through, Maren sets her fork down and looks at me, really looks.
“Dylan,” she says, her voice low. “I need to say this once, and then we can talk about happier things. I am so sorry. About Bruce. About the fire. All of it.” Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry. “He’s always had this…thing about your family. I thought it was mostly pride, stubbornness…and a misguided loyalty to his father. I never thought he’d—” She stops, shakes her head. “I never dreamed he’d go that far. I’m ashamed…and, well, devastated for your sake…my daughter’s…my granddaughter’s. I don’t know if he’ll ever see sense about his vendetta toward the Whitmans, but I want you to know, you are always welcome here. You’ve made my girls so happy.”
The table goes quiet for half a second. Dahlia’s hand finds my knee under the tablecloth.
I swallow. “Thank you, Maren. I appreciate you saying that. I feel like the luckiest man alive having your daughter by my side. And Chloe, well, there’s no one like her.” I smile at Chloe’s sweet little face. “And honestly? Theshop’s going to be better than it’s ever been. We rebuilt it the way it should’ve been all along. Insurance covered most of it. And Bruce…he’ll have to live with what he did. I’m more concerned with how this affects Dahlia than anything.”
Maren nods, presses her lips together, and reaches across to squeeze my forearm once. She smiles over at Dahlia. “He’s a keeper.”
Dahlia smiles, her eyes glassy, and clears her throat. “Can we officially declare the arson portion of the evening closed? I’ve heard the word ‘fire’ more in the past few weeks than I ever want to again.”
Ginny raises her wine glass. “Hear, hear. Only happy topics.”
Later, Chloe crashes hard on the couch between Dahlia and me, clutching her unicorn. Dahlia’s curled on the other end, feet in my lap, eyes half-closed, while Maren shows me baby pictures: Dahlia in a tutu, Dahlia missing both front teeth and holding a fish longer than her torso, Dahlia during a growth spurt, her sleeves and pants a little too short while she’s playing outside.
Maren leans over and whispers, “She hasn’t looked this peaceful in years, you know.”
I look at Dahlia, her eyes fully closed now, and my chest squeezes.
“I’m so in love with her,” I whisper back.
