She stopped in the doorway.
The new one was larger than hers, the seat clearly built for a man with broad shoulders and long legs, the wood the same warm honey-amber as her own, the rockers the same gentle, balanced curve.
She set down her coffee on the porch rail because her hand had begun to shake.
She walked over to the third chair and ran her hand along its back and arms.
It was perfect.
She crossed the wet grass in her pink boots without bothering to put a sweater on.
Arlo was sitting in his own rocker on his own porch with Brown Dog at his feet. Didn’t look surprised to see her.
“Mornin’.”
“Arlo, it’s perfect.”
“Mm.”
“How did you finish it so fast?”
He took a slow sip of coffee. “Had a head start.”
“What kind of head start?”
“Started one for myself a few years back. Never got around to finishing it.”
She stared at him.
“You,” she said slowly, “gave Dillon your unfinished chair?”
“I got this one already. From Fern. Don’t need two.”
“Arlo Pickett, you absolute softie.”
His eyes, fixed on the lake, had a glint she recognized as the one he got when he was extremely pleased with himself and refusing, on principle, to show it.
“Don’t go spreadin’ that around town,” he grumbled.
“I’m telling everyone in Cobbler Cove.” She wagged a finger at him. “And you can’t stop me.”
She lowered herself onto the top step of his porch, with Brown Dog leaned against her side
“Arlo, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. You might have noticed Makayla calls you Pops.”
He kept looking at the lake, but his coffee cup had gone slightly tilted in his hand.
“She wants you to be her grandpa,” Tessa said. “She’s just been, you know, working up to asking.”
“Mm.”
“So. Will you?”
“I don’t,” Arlo said carefully, “want to be called Grandpa.”
“She likes Pops.”
“Pops is acceptable.”
