CHAPTER THREE ~ ABBY ~ SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
Abby not only can he cook, but he happily makes dinner for us most nights.
He’s also invited Fern and me to come along on several excursions because he knows how important we are to Drew, and he wants to get to know us better.
Drew confided in me last week that she’s felt an anxious sort of anticipation lately. “No guy can be that perfect, right? I keep waiting for him to get angry about something or tell me I’m too much or...I don’t know, kick a puppy or something.”
She was clearly in distress, so I stifled the laugh that wanted to spill out. “That’s your trauma talking. You’re not used to things being effortlessly good.”
She’d bitten her lip and tilted her head, her eyes glassy as she pondered that.
“I won’t lie, I keep waiting for him to reveal some hidden, nefarious side too, but there’s not a disingenuous bone in that man’s body.”
She’d smiled then, slowly at first until it unfurled into the beaming smile I loved so much. “You’re right. I just have to trust myself and trust him, which you know isn’t easy for me. You’re the only person I’ve ever fully trusted.”
Now, as she, Fern, and I wait outside the house, I ask, “What do we know about the brother?”
“Graeme? He’s a sweetheart,” Drew says. “I’ve met him a few times. He’s basically an older version of Brodie. He came here for university and stayed after he graduated.”
A shiny silver car pulls up in front of the house.
For a moment, I think whoever’s driving has stopped at the wrong place until Brodie opens the passenger side door.
I don’t know much about makes and models of vehicles, but I do know I wasn’t expecting such a nice car from someone only a few years older than us.
As we make our way down the front walk, Brodie’s brother rounds the car to stand beside him. Without meaning to, a soft “wow” slips out between my lips.
I can hear the smirk in Drew’s voice as she says, “Good genes, eh?”
I’ll say. Besides their similar facial features and height, Brodie and Graeme also have the same brown hair threaded through with strands of dark red. But where Brodie has the lanky appearance of someone who’s still growing into his body, Graeme has filled out and has a solidness to him.
“Ladies,” Brodie says. He greets Drew with a tight embrace before kissing my cheek and high-fiving Fern—her preferred form of greeting until she knows someone well. “You’re all looking festive.”
The three of us are wearing sweaters crocheted by Fern.
Theirs are pullovers made of autumn-coloured granny squares, while mine is a burnt-orange cardigan with 3D pumpkins and leaves attached.
It’s busier and more colourful than anything I’d normally wear, but it was made with love, so I’ll wear it with pride.
I shift my attention to Graeme, who’s studying my sweater with a small smile.
His gaze lifts to mine, and I see his eyes are a stunning cerulean blue rather than the same blue-grey of his brother’s.
His smile widens as Brodie makes the introductions, and he gives my hand a lingering shake before greeting Fern.
On the drive to the farm, Drew and Brodie keep a steady stream of conversation going, her from the backseat and him from the front.
When we arrive, Drew gets sidetracked immediately by the petting zoo, while Fern veers toward a cart selling hot drinks.
I wander aimlessly, admiring the stacks of pumpkins and bushels of apples, while snapping photos on the ancient camera my grandma gave me shortly before she died.
I’ve just taken a shot of an enormous tree with fiery red and orange leaves when Graeme appears at my side.
I expect him to ask how I am, or comment on the weather, or maybe even say something about Drew and Brodie.
Instead, he says, “I must admit, I’m excited at the prospect of a Canadian Thanksgiving. ”
Other than a few words when we met at the house, this is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is a low rumble wrapped in a delicious Scottish burr.
“This’ll be your first?” I ask.
“Aye. I’ve been here for five years now, but the holiday has been little more than a three-day weekend for me.”
“Well, you’re in for a real treat, let me tell you.
All the boxed stuffing and canned cranberries you can eat.
Oh, and gravy from a can too, but we agreed to splurge on a good brand.
Fern suggested instant mashed potatoes, but I figured we had to draw the line somewhere, so I said I’d handle all the peeling, chopping, and mashing.
That seems like the hardest thing to screw up. ”
Graeme chuckles. “As appealing as all of that sounds, I should point out that both Brodie and I are decent cooks and would be happy to pitch in.”
“You’re supposed to be our guests, though,” I say.
“So we should lounge in the living room and watch sports on the telly while the women spend half the day in the kitchen?”
“Watching football on Thanksgiving is more of an American thing,” I tell him.
“Their Thanksgiving is in late November, and they do the big parade in New York City, football, and stores that open at midnight for Black Friday. All of that may seem cool in theory, but our Thanksgiving is superior because it’s in mid-October, which actually aligns with the harvest season and nice weather. ”
Graeme nods along as I speak, his lips twitching as he attempts to suppress a smile.
“Thank you for that inter-country lesson.” When I laugh and roll my eyes, he adds, “No, I mean it. I grew up watching American sitcoms, and assumed Canada was much the same. Even after five years here, I’m still learning the differences. ”
I catch sight of Drew as she waves at us and points toward the tractor and wagon pulling up nearby.
“Our chariot awaits,” Graeme says.
A dozen or so people flock toward the wagon and clamber on board.
I lose sight of Graeme in the crowd until he appears in front of me as I attempt to heave myself onto the wagon beside Drew.
I’m about to make a joke about having the upper body strength of a kitten when he steps closer and hovers his hands near my hips.
“May I?” he asks.
I let out a garbled sound of ascent. He grips my hips, and my hands go instinctively to his shoulders as he lifts me into the wagon.
The whole thing takes a matter of seconds, but time seems to move in slow motion.
I’m not sure which is better: the way Graeme’s large hands feel on my hips or the firm muscles beneath my own fingers.
Or perhaps it’s the way his eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, or his lopsided smile as he pulls away to jump up effortlessly beside me.
It’s a rough ride through tree-lined fields to the pumpkin patch. Drew grabs my hand and holds on tight as we bump along. We’re both laughing breathlessly by the time we pull up alongside the vast field of pumpkins.
The five of us head into the patch together.
Drew and Brodie are the first to break away when something catches her eye.
A minute later, Fern says, “I see warty pumpkins,” before skipping off.
We learned last year that she prefers the pumpkins people tend to overlook or avoid: misshapen, warty, and mottled.
She’s the same way with Christmas trees, which is how we ended up smuggling a tree worthy of a Charlie Brown special into her dorm room last December.
“Mind if I stick with you?” Graeme asks.
“Not at all.” We wander through the patch, pointing out the pumpkins we like and crouching to inspect others. Graeme admits he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for since he’s never done this before, and I assure him he’ll know the right one when he sees it.
I snap a few more pictures as we go—some of the pumpkins themselves, one of Fern kneeling in front of a row of lumpy pumpkins, and one of Drew and Brodie paying more attention to each other than to their surroundings.
When I swing around, the viewfinder still raised to my eye, Graeme is a few feet away, watching me.
A grin flashes across his face when I don’t lower the camera, and lingers after I’ve snapped a photo.
“How about I take one of you?” he asks. “That cardigan of yours blends right in with the scenery.”
“I’m more comfortable behind the camera,” I tell him, holding it close to my chest as if I’m afraid he’ll attempt to take it from me.
“What about a compromise in the form of a selfie?” he suggests. “Trickier to do with a camera like that than a mobile phone, but I bet we can make it work.”
My exaggerated sigh is all bravado, and the smile he gives me tells me he knows it.
When I shift to stand beside him, he hovers his arm around me without touching me.
At my nod, his arm settles over my shoulders, gently pulling me closer.
I hold the camera in front of us and hope we’re both in the shot as I depress the shutter.
I move the camera slightly and take a second shot for good measure.