Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
LIAM
I wonder if this is the new routine.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m up with the sun, sitting on the back porch with my dad and Hank, drinking coffee.
Hank’s not drinking coffee. Hank’s currently lying on his back, belly available for free rubs.
It’s not a scene I would’ve ever expected to see, but this whole trip has been full of surprises. Dad’s apology, especially, took me off guard.
Dad and I don’t talk much out here. It’s funny—we don’t need to. And it’s actually pretty nice to be around someone who doesn’t expect conversation to fill in every gap of silence.
I think of Olive. Because sometimes it’s also nice to have someone who happily fills in those gaps, whether I reciprocate or not.
We sit in silence, both lost in thought and appreciating the view, which is probably why I don’t hear Olive until she’s standing in the yard a few feet away. She pauses at the base of the steps and stares at us.
“Morning, Olive,” Dad says .
A frown shadows her face, and I can practically see her trying to put together the scene in front of her. Olive doesn’t know everything about my relationship with my dad, but she knows enough to be curious.
Also, we’re both sitting here in silence, which is probably a foreign concept to her.
After a moment of hesitation, she says, “Sorry to interrupt.”
Hank rolls over onto his feet, hops up, moves about five feet closer to Olive, plops back down, rolls back over, and looks at her expectantly.
She smiles. “Ooh, Hank, does this good boy need his belly rubbed?” She does so, and Hank’s tail shows his appreciation.
“Do you want some coffee? Jo just made a fresh pot.” Dad’s different these days, I realize now. Friendlier. Calmer.
Now that I’m older, I can appreciate the rigors of keeping this place going. The physical toll alone could make a person difficult—cranky—but add the stress of making ends meet and supporting a family? It was a lot.
I never thought about it that way before.
Olive says I’m different too, though in my case, I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. I was never an outgoing person. But I wasn’t rude, and I wasn’t unkind.
I wonder how she sees me now . . .and I wonder how I can go back to the way she saw me before.
“Um, no thanks,” Olive says, walking up the stairs just as my mom opens the door and steps out onto the porch. She puts an arm around Olive and smiles, then looks at Dad and me. “Have you seen what this girl did yesterday?”
Olive’s cheeks turn pink.
“She made the cutest signs, all in that perfect hand lettering she does. Liam, did you see them? They just bring things to life out there in the fields. And the Mistletoe Walk is just brilliant . Your creativity never ends.”
“Well, thanks, Jo,” Olive says. “It was fun to put together. And I really am loving spending so much time out here.” She casts her gaze off to the side of the porch, where the large yard extends back to a tree line that instantly makes this place feel like it’s hidden from the rest of the world. “It’s so peaceful.” She turns back toward my mom. “Thanks again for letting me be a part of it.”
“Are you kidding? You are a gift .” Mom squeezes her. “I heard we have you to thank for the field trip yesterday too. We haven’t done field trips in years! But I heard the kids had fun.”
“Oh yeah! I set it up,” Olive says. “But they had fun because of Li?—”
I jump up. “Did you say you wanted coffee?”
Olive smiles sweetly. “No. I was going to tell your parents about your little presentation.”
I glare at her. She doesn’t budge.
My mom tilts her head. “What presentation?”
I slump back in my seat while Olive tells the story of the way I saved Eddie from the throng of third graders and the way they were completely enamored with everything I said, hanging on my every word.
She tells this like it was a celebrity encounter for these kids, and I want to go hide in a ditch.
When she’s finished, my mom walks over and squeezes my shoulders. “That Pine Creek blood runs thick in your veins, kiddo.”
I wait for it to annoy me, the way Pine Creek comments used to. I wait for the twist in my gut, knowing there’s a double meaning to the words.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, I glance over at Olive, who’s still beaming, and I shake my head. “They really only cared about the four-wheeler.”
They all laugh, and I go along with it. I don’t know why, but I’m not upset. The pressure of expectation seems to have vanished, maybe because there aren’t any expectations .
I wasn’t asked to run the tour. I wasn’t asked to work trimming the trees—I chose to do those things.
Maybe that’s the difference.
Plus, it’s almost like my father’s apology wiped the slate clean. We’re just four adults with a history, sharing a funny story over coffee.
I meet Olive’s eyes. “Did you come out here this early just to embarrass me?”
She smiles and points at me. “That would be a great reason to get up at the crack of dawn, but no.” She makes a pouting face. “I know, it’s hard to think you’re not the center of the universe.”
Mom and Dad both laugh as Olive’s smile returns.
“Olive is here to see me ,” Jo says, like she’s the favorite. “We have work to do before people start showing up. I’ve got my wreath-making classes later.” Her wince is slightly dramatic. “I’m nervous.”
“You’re going to be wonderful,” my dad says. “Just like always.”
Mom moves into the space behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You would say that even if I was a complete disaster.”
They start talking in low, hushed tones.
Are they flirting? My parents are flirting. I glance at Olive, who has clearly noticed.
“Get a room, you guys,” I say, hoping to alleviate some of the tension.
Mom stands upright. “You should be thrilled you have two parents who are still so in love.”
“Gross.” Lacey has caught the tail end of this conversation as she walks out of the house. She’s wearing jeans, a pair of too-big work boots, and one of my dad’s old Carhartt jackets.
Mom looks confused. “Where are you going?”
She barely stops long enough to say, “Going to help Manny! ”
My parents exchange a worried glance, but Lacey is already gone. “I really hope she’s not holding on too tightly to this place,” my mom says. “She should be letting it go, not trying to save it.”
“I don’t think she’s still trying to save it,” I say. “We talked the other day.”
Olive looks away, most likely because no matter how many times my mom insists she’s practically family, I’m guessing these family conversations have to feel a little awkward to her.
“About . . .?” Mom raises a brow.
“Just the farm,” I say, not wanting to get into it with them. Lacey reminded me of all the ideas our dad had rejected. Tried to say we could do them now. That it would be great for us to be in charge. I got the impression it was her last cry for help. I felt bad turning her down, but hopefully she’s starting to accept the facts.
“Probably just her way of saying goodbye,” Dad says.
“What’s crazy is that Manny said she was one of his best workers,” I say. “Maybe you guys aren’t giving her enough credit.” I pause. “You didn’t ask her if she wanted to take over, did you?”
Mom goes quiet, then says, “It’s more complicated than that. Lacey is a great worker, but you know her. She gets bored. She likes change. Besides, I don’t think she’d enjoy doing this without—” She snaps her jaw shut and looks away.
“Without me,” I finish. “It’s okay, Mom. I get it.”
And she’s probably right. This farm has so many moving pieces, and even if Lacey understood every single one, there’s no way she could handle it on her own. Plus, it’d be too expensive. It’s not like our parents can afford to just hand it over. They need the money from this sale.
“Anyway!” Mom claps her hands together and turns to Olive. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes!” Olive looks relieved .
As they start down the stairs, I move toward her. “Hey, do you have a second?”
Olive and Mom both turn toward me, Mom doing nothing to hide her obvious surprise and interest in this.
But Olive hitches a thumb in the direction of the driveway. “Actually, no. We have a ton of work to do.”
I nod and shove my hands in my pockets.
She clears her throat. “But, uh, I’ll be done in a couple of hours. Maybe meet me in Santa’s Village around eleven?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good,” I say. The building across from the main barn has housed Santa’s Village for years now, but now it’ll also be home to workshops and classes, starting with Mom’s. It’s the perfect space for it, really. Rustic, but with that signature Pine Creek charm.
Olive gives a single, forceful nod, like she’s just dismissed an underling and walks off at a pace that would have an Olympic sprinter jogging to keep up.
I turn and find my dad looking at me quizzically. “What?”
He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head, pats me once on the shoulder, and walks past me into the house.