13. Smyth Family Farmstead
SMYTH FAMILY FARMSTEAD
Dylan
I follow the ruts up the long gravel lane, tires pinging stones against the truck’s undercarriage.
The Smyth farmhouse sits ahead — century-old clapboard painted the color of whipped honey, its porch already bright with kitchen light.
Mom stands in the doorway, wooden spoon in one hand, apron flapping in the breeze like she’s guiding a bush plane to land.
Sunday supper at the Smyths never sneaks up on anyone.
I step out and barely get the door closed before a pint-sized torpedo slams into my knees. Hazel, Leah’s five-year-old, runs up to me.
“Password, Uncle Dill,” she demands.
I crouch. “Apple pie?”
She salutes in solemn approval, pigtails swinging, then tears off across the lawn, leaving glitter in her wake. Nice to know the security detail’s on duty.
Inside, the house smells like brown-sugar pork, cinnamon apples, and cedar kindling. Leah, firstborn and bossy by divine right, yanks the tape measure from my chest as I unlace my boots.
“Working on a Sunday, or has flannel become your whole personality?”
“Could be both,” Jenna chimes, leaning against the coffee station with her phone at the ready. “Hashtag carpenter-core. My followers are into it.”
Before I can fire a comeback, Morgan breezes in wearing Finley — seven months old — in a bright red wrap dotted with cartoon flames. Morgan’s our first family firefighter and resident mischief-maker.
“Let’s skip to the juicy part,” she says, grinning. “How’s the wedding arch coming, Dilly-Bar? Or should I ask how the wedding planner is coming along?”
Leah nearly drops the cider jug in glee. Jenna’s eyes shine the way they did when she got floor seats to Harry Styles. Mom, whisking gravy, casts me the look every Smyth kid recognizes: I love you, but I’m listening.
I rinse my hands. “The arch is solid. Addison Bennett gave the preliminary approval last night when we did a light test.”
Leah’s brow arches, twin to mine when I spot a bowed beam. “‘Approval’ — nice, neutral verb.”
“She also smooched off on it, I bet,” Morgan sings.
Heat barrels up my neck. Jenna squeals loudly, eating up the drama. Dad shuffles in from the mudroom, grease on his coveralls, moustache twitching with cosmic amusement.
“Let the boy breathe,” he says, though you can hear the grin in his voice. Leah’s husband Dean and Morgan’s husband Rob follow him in. “His volunteer projects keep him busy and out of trouble, always have.”
“Volunteer, my butt,” Leah mutters as she pours the cider.
Mom slides a maple-pecan pie into the bottom oven, then turns with a gentle shoot-to-kill stare. “You sure this is what you want, sweetheart? Loving a woman who is responsible for other people’s disasters is definitely difficult.”
“Who’s talking about loving anybody?” I ask, and Leah chokes on her cider.
Hazel wanders back, climbs a stool to “help” Mom taste gravy. Morgan bounces Finley and leans closer.
“Addison’s older, yeah? That bug you?”
“Only bothers people looking for gossip.” Mostly true, until Cassandra’s smug face and Meredith Langford’s wide-eyes flash across my mind.
Jenna, temporarily phone-free, slides a bowl of rosemary rolls toward me. “She’s levelled-up — career, life, wardrobe. That can be intimidating. Which scares you more, getting left behind or getting outclassed?”
I break a roll, steam billowing. “Neither. You’re all reading too much into this.”
Dad claps my shoulder. “Treat her like a crystal cake topper — steady hands, no sudden moves.”
My family sees right through me. Always has. Always will.
I take out my phone to send a quick text to Addison.
Pie-slice IOUs still valid? We could turn it into a pie tasting thing for the fundraiser meeting, strictly professional, of course. Also, do you prefer cherry or rogue-hot dog flavor?
It doesn’t take too long for her to reply.
Ah-Ah! Cherry — no rogue-hot dog-flavored pie, please!
Mom announces “Table!” and the family migrates like geese. Hazel corrals her brothers, Theo and Milo, who are sword-fighting with breadsticks. Leah confiscates the weapons under threat of dish duty until college.
The meal blitzes by: pulled-pork sliders, scalloped potatoes, garden-tomato salad, Dad’s cider cold enough to mist the glasses.
Conversation pinballs — Leah’s municipal-council campaign, Jenna’s eco-party-favor side hustle, Morgan’s burn-room training exercise.
I soak it in, half listening, half replaying Addison real laughter under orchard fairy lights.
A lull opens, and I clear my throat. “Since two of you” — I nod at Leah and Morgan — “are about Addison’s age, I need advice. Tips for dating someone who already has her act together.”
“There it is! You finally admit having a crush on Addy!”
Three sister faces light up like hazard beacons.
Leah starts. “Don’t ever call her ma’am. That’s death.”
“Foot rubs,” Morgan adds, patting Finley. “Age has nothing on sore feet after twelve-hour events.”
“Ask real questions,” Jenna says. “Addison spends her life reading other people’s needs. Let her talk about hers.”
Leah’s husband, Rob, breezes by with extra napkins. “And learn her nieces and nephews’ names early. Shows commitment.”
Theo pipes up from under the table. “Bring her to my hockey game!”
“Only if she’s ready to holler louder than your mom.”
Dessert arrives — Mom’s maple-pecan masterpiece. Hazel claims she’s “allergic to nuts” until she sees the vanilla-bean ice cream. Morgan slices her piece in half, slides the bigger wedge onto my plate.
“Fuel for your emotional support romcom marathon. Featuring you and Addy,” she whispers.
I tuck it into a bakery box, scrawl on the lid: Emergency Pie Ration – Handle With Care.
Leah catches me sealing the box. “If Addison is worried about the age gap, bring her here. Let her see how we measure people. Spoiler: not by birthdays.”
Jenna snaps a picture of me holding the box: “True love is pastry transport,” she narrates for her followers.
Cleanup spins into controlled chaos. Dad tackles the roasting pans, Mom wipes faces, Hazel drops a spoon down the heating vent. Morgan hands me a laminated card: Baby Rock-to-Sleep Playlist, Guaranteed! “Here. For future reference.”
“We aren’t even dating,” I protest.
“You build things,” she says. “Prep work matters.”
Boots back on, I haul leftovers to the truck. Sunset paints the hayfield cantaloupe and lavender, and crickets crank up their evening symphony. Dad leans through the window.
“Watch for deer by Stony Creek. And watch for opinions — people wreck young love faster than a bull in a china shop.”
I promise to be on the lookout and shift into gear. In the rear-view mirror, Hazel chases fireflies, Leah and Morgan wave vigorously, and Mom holds Finley, smiling that soft, knowing smile worn by moms who’ve seen every version of their boy.
The cab fills with the smell of leftovers. Halfway to Bluewater Cove, my phone buzzes in its dash mount.
Addison.
Should we meet at Butter we build things meant to last.
The age gap? Just background chatter. What matters is how steadily two sets of hands can hold the same arch.
I signal right, my truck rumbling over the tracks, the future spreading wide, steady as cedar beams under orchard lights.