“Hi, Joan,” he said, surprising even himself by answering the agent’s call, despite his mental goal to unplug, as he usually did while walking by the stream in the woods behind his house.
Joan sounded surprised, too. “Whit! Hi. I’m glad I caught you. How are you?”
“I’m good,” he said, actually smiling.
“Really?’
“Really. I’m good. How are you? Any big plans for tomorrow?”
“Well, yes, actually,” Joan said, and Whit could hear noise in the background. “I’m on the train headed in your direction.”
For the space of a breath, Whit did panic at the thought that she was coming to find him, to threaten him with physical violence if he didn’t have a draft ready, but Joan kept talking.
“My family lives in Plymouth, and as you can imagine, Thanksgiving is a big deal there.”
Relaxed now, Whit smiled. “Does everyone wear lace collars and buckle shoes?’
“Sort of,” Joan said, laughing. “There’s a parade, of course. Several reenactments, you get the picture.”
Whit laughed, too, realizing in the back of his brain that this was perhaps the first time he and Joan had done sustained, pleasant small talk since Helen died.
“So listen,” she said eventually. “I just wanted to check in before the holidays get into full swing—”
“We’re halfway there, Joan. A little more than, actually. And moving swiftly.”
He winced and crunched a dry leaf with his duck boot in the space of silence that followed. Thewehad come out of him without thinking, but then Joan didn’t take it the way he’d meant it.
“Weare?” she said, in the same tone a child would use upon learning she was taking a surprise trip to Disney World.Close one.
“Yes,” Whit said, and the ability to say that word and mean itfilled him with a light easiness he hadn’t ever felt when talking to Joan before.
“Oh, Whit, that’s great. That’s great. Do you think, by January, you’ll...”
“I really do.”
He was nodding vigorously, more to himself than to her. They were really going to do this thing. The Monumental Task had been chipped and chiseled away at like the ominous face of a Greek sculpture worn down by the centuries. It wasn’t scary anymore—it just was—and if it weren’t so cold out, he might have been tempted to grab the beanie off his head and toss it in the air like Mary Tyler Moore. They were going to make it after all.
It took a lot to take Ian Hoult’s vile little email off Merritt’s mind, but the sight of the Longacre homestead glowing like a dollhouse against the overcast November day did the trick. Her fondness for the place had grown over the last two months or so, in spite of its neglected single-father-slash-widower state. Inside, it had been at turns gloomy and cozy, and the cozy was mostly to do with its fireplace and what it meant for Merritt, and yes, its inhabitants. Annie, Evie, Whit.
Whit.
On Thanksgiving Day, however, the house was cozy on its own terms. Evie had met Merritt and her mother at the door wearing a bright white bodysuit top, jeans, and a light pink apron at her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a copious high ponytail but was as glamorous as ever, and Merritt had immediately second-guessed her own outfit, which, just half an hour earlier, she had felt was quite chic: a smocked, long-sleeved black maxi dress. She had even put earrings in—little gold fan-shaped ones that hadmade her lobes bleed at first. And then, there was her signature indigo coat and the bulky crocheted scarf and, oh God, she had thought, do I look like a teacher on Back to School Night? A minister’s wife? And why am I suddenly sofreakingnervous?
These thoughts passed in an instant as Evie pulled first her and then Kathleen into hugs before stepping back to welcome them into what amounted to a brand-new house. Lamps were on in every room, and candles burned, in both the squat scented and skinny white beeswax varieties. Curtains that were usually drawn had been pulled pack; the Vince Guaraldi Trio played in the background; and the kitchen, which in Merritt’s experience had only ever been used to make tea, was emanating oven heat and noise and the smells of a dozen delicious seasonal dishes.
Willa and Adrienne were here, as was Albie, and more hugs were exchanged. Annie was in the living room, streaming the Macy’s parade, and a very, very handsome and fashionable man in a ribbed black turtleneck rolled up to the elbows sat on the couch beside her.
“This is my uncle Édouard,” Annie explained when Merritt stopped to say hi, now without her coat or scarf. “This is Dad’s friend Merritt.”
The man was long-limbed and broad-shouldered, with olive skin, pond-green eyes, and a dark, elegantly trimmed beard. He quickly came to his feet and held out a hand to shake, revealing veiny arms and a tattoo in French just below the inner crook of his elbow.
“Hello,” he said in a slight accent, as she shook his wide, moisturized hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Hello,” Merritt said, trying to ignore the flustered feeling fluttering in her chest. God, he was handsome.
“You’re the hockey player?” she asked, because she felt a desperate need to say something to keep from staring at his eyes, hisarms, the thighs that seemed to be testing the durability of his designer jeans.
“Former,” he offered with a shrug, before explaining that he was workingsomewheredoingsomekind of law, though the details went unheard as all of Merritt’s attention had now centered itself on the man’s sharp jawline and enticing accent, the Frenchness with which he’d said the wordsMontréalandliaison.
