Joel opens the door before we reach the porch, handshake firm and gray eyes welcoming as I hand him the bottle of wine I grabbed from the basement cellar on my way out the door. Mariel appears behind him and pulls Avah into a hug like they’re old friends.
Inside, the walls hold evidence of a life well-loved. There are school photos, wedding pictures, and grandchildren at various stages, from first steps to toothless grins. Scattered among them, in places of honor, are photos of a daughter gone too soon.
My childhood home was absent of these sorts of chronicled memories. In place of gap-toothed smiles bound by silver frames, we had heavy wooden bookcases lined with artifacts my parents collected on dig sites across three continents, with strict instructions not to touch. They were relics from civilizations that held their attention in ways their own children never could. The contrast makes my throat tight.
“Hope you like spaghetti and meatballs.” Mariel leads us toward the kitchen, where the smell of garlic and basil fills the air. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Joel places the wine on the counter, then chokes out a laugh. “Wait. This is a 2010 Screaming Eagle cab.”
“I hope it pairs well with meatballs.” I didn’t think to ask about what they were serving.
“It’s a four-thousand-dollar bottle.”
In the excruciating silence that follows, I imagine the Johnsons adding another check mark in the out-of-touch-billionaire column.
“Jeremy’s assistant has excellent taste.” Avah loops her arm through mine, her smile bright and easy. “Unfortunately, her boss is as much a wine connoisseur as your typical frat boy.” She elbows me gently. “Last week I watched him drop an ice cube into a glass of Petrus Bordeaux.”
It’s a lie. I would never. But Joel and Mariel both laugh. Once again, Avah—a woman who apparently is an expert on both cinnamon rolls and expensive wine—has saved me from myself.
As we sit down in a dining room that has clearly hosted decades of family dinners, Avah’s coaching plays in my head. Ask questions. Listen. Most importantly, let them see who I am. I’m petrified that could be a problem, but vow to try. Mainly because I don’t want Avah giving me shit on the way home.
So I talk honestly about my own cancer journey, and then Sloane’s diagnosis. How helpless I felt sitting in hospital waiting rooms and wanting to do something more substantial than writing checks.
I draw out their own stories about the NorthStar community as we enjoy Mariel’s delicious meatballs, and do my level best to convince this couple that I believe in what they’ve built and want to help them reach everyone who needs it.
Despite my obvious shortcomings, it seems to work.
“The caregiver camp starts next week,” Joel says, leaning back in his chair after devouring one of the brownies Avah brought for dessert. “Just outside Steamboat Springs. Maybe you could come up for a day or two to meet some of the community?”
“Yes.” The word comes out too fast, but I don’t care. This is the chance to prove I’m more than a bank account. “I’d like that.”
Mariel turns to Avah. “We’d love to have you, too, of course.”
Avah hesitates, but then returns Mariel’s warm smile. “I just started a new job, but if I can get away, I’ll plan on it.”
“Good.” Mariel reaches across the table to squeeze her hand. “Joel took me camping when we first started dating,you know. There was a freak snowstorm, and we had to snuggle together for warmth in his tiny two-season tent.”
“All part of the plan.” Joel winks at his wife. “I figured if she didn’t run screaming after that, she might be worth keeping around.”
Mariel rolls her eyes, but her smile is wistful. “Thirty years later, and we’re still going strong.”
The look that passes between them captures decades of love and loss and choosing each other anyway. Is that envy making my chest ache?
They think we’re a couple. It hits home as Mariel glances between Avah and me with a knowing smile. I open my mouth to correct her, but Avah’s fingers lace with mine under the table.
She squeezes, and I keep my pie hole shut.
We say our goodbyes on the front porch, Joel’s handshake friendlier than it was at the start of the evening. I made real progress tonight, mostly thanks to the woman walking beside me toward the car. At this point, I owe her for rescuing me more times than I probably deserve.
Purple dusk fades to proper dark as we drive back to Skylark, and the mountains turn to jagged outlines against a sky full of stars. I attempt to focus on what I need to do next as I replay the evening, but my mind keeps circling back to Avah’s hand in mine under the table.
“Why didn’t you correct them?”
“About what?”
“You know what. They think we’re together.”
