13. Chapter 13
thirteen
Skye
“Thank you for this lovely dinner, Mrs. Longfellow,” my mom chirps, dressing her greens with vinaigrette she pours from a silver sauceboat.
“Oh, it’s our pleasure.” Mrs. Longfellow smiles. “Archer’s been head over heels for Skye since well before he found the courage to ask her out.”
Archer gives me a boyish smirk, momentarily distracting me from the thoughts tapping against the inside of my head: still no word from Boston.
I keep thinking I can feel my phone vibrate, but anytime I glance at the screen, it’s blank.
Mr. Longfellow chuckles, refilling his wife’s wine glass. “We’re very pleased with our youngest’s choice. I know many parents who can’t consider themselves as lucky as us when it comes to their offspring’s choice in mates.”
My mom nods, a small frown on her face. “I see that all too often in my line of work. Young people—especially young women—getting trapped in unhealthy relationships. I’m very happy with Skye’s path.”
Look at me following that yellow brick road.
“Are you two originally from Stillwater?” Mrs. Longfellow asks her.
“Dan grew up here. We met in college. And after grad school, we came back here to start a family,” my mom says. Archer notices her empty water glass and refills it before she even asks.
Mrs. Longfellow smiles at her son, then my mom. “And Skye’s your only child?”
My dad chuckles. “Yes. But not for lack of trying.”
My mom lets out a soft sigh. “Skye’s our miracle. Years of trying, then finally IVF.”
“Best money we ever spent,” my dad says.
That earns him an appreciative nod from Mrs. Longfellow. “We had the opposite ‘problem,’” she says, making air quotes. “Once I got pregnant with our oldest, Wilder, it was like Orson just had to look at me funny and boom, I was pregnant again.”
Mr. Longfellow lets out a booming laugh. “Four boys in six years. I was buying diapers in my sleep.”
“But when Archer came along, he put an end to that,” Mrs. Longfellow says with a wink.
“Yes, but mostly because he refused to sleep in his own bed until he was almost ten,” Mr. Longfellow adds. “Not much privacy when you got a kid wedged between you every night.”
A muffled groan slips out from behind the hands covering Archer’s crimson face. “Was that necessary, guys?”
That’s… unexpectedly adorable. Archer definitely doesn’t carry himself like someone who was afraid to sleep alone. Doesn’t look like it, either.
“Archer is your youngest, then?” my mom asks.
“Youngest and best,” Archer says with a smile, the flush ebbing from his cheeks.
“Youngest and most spoiled, more like it,” his dad says, chuckling. “But we’ve always said that raising a family in a small place like Stillwater comes with certain expectations. Reputation matters here. We always tell our sons to be the kind of people who make us proud to share our last name.”
Jeez, it’s like my parents and the Longfellows attended the same parenting summit.
My dad nods. “We couldn’t agree more. We want Skye to be accomplished. Hardworking, educated, poised. To be the kind of young person who opens doors for herself.”
“I can tell we’ll get along very well,” Mr. Longfellow announces, turning to my mom. “What is it that you do for work?”
“I own a non-profit helping individuals leave abusive relationships. We offer all sorts of assistance in navigating that perilous time.”
“Did you know, statistically, the most dangerous time for a victim is when they’re trying to leave an abusive partner?” I offer. I’ve heard my mom repeat this line a million times.
Mrs. Longfellow’s eyebrows rise. “I was not aware of that. Why is that?”
“Abusers are driven by control. A victim leaving is loss of that control. It’s an exceptionally dangerous time for victims and their children. It often requires a coordinated effort. My organization helps with things like restraining orders and government programs.”
“Here in Stillwater?” Mrs. Longfellow asks, sipping her wine.
My mom nods.
Mr. Longfellow’s fork clanks against his dinner plate. “Wait, NorthStar?” he asks. “Is that you?”
“That’s her,” my dad says, chest inflating like a birthday balloon.
“That’s incredible,” Mr. Longfellow exclaims. “You do terrific work. Your organization is mentioned at court all the time. Judges and mediators alike regularly recommend NorthStar. What a worthwhile endeavor.”
“And so selfless,” Mrs. Longfellow adds, nodding.
The crystal chandelier above the dinner table floods the room with enough light that the flush in my mom’s cheeks is impossible to miss.
“Oh well, that’s very flattering. I… it’s a calling, really. And incredibly fulfilling.”
“So fulfilling that there have been nights when she slept in her office because she was working on something urgent,” my dad says, beaming with pride.
My mom swats his shoulder playfully.
“I bet it’s challenging,” Mrs. Longfellow muses. “Emotionally, financially?”
My mom dithers. “It certainly can be. I’ve had to learn not to get too emotionally invested.”
Mr. Longfellow gives a knowing grunt. “I can relate. Took me a long time not to bring my cases home with me.”
“I vividly remember the first child death Orson prosecuted.”
Mr. Longfellow nods. “Couldn’t sleep for days. The crime scene photos were burned into my retinas,” he says. “But tell me, how do you make payroll and provide legal assistance? Your clients don’t pay for services, correct?”
“Brandy may be five-foot-nothing with the face of an angel, but she’s an aggressive fundraising queen,” my dad booms. “She even got my law firm to agree to a multiyear donation north of three million dollars. All tax deductible, of course.”
“Honey…” my mom whispers, the blush returning to her cheeks.
“Ah, Archer told me you were a lawyer. Civil, correct? Which firm?” Mr. Longfellow asks.
I take the opportunity to check my phone under the table, hoping for a message from Jake. Some kind of update on Boston. But it’s virtual crickets.
“McClausky & Trench in Minneapolis. We do a lot of transactional work. I specialize in mergers and acquisitions,” my dad says.
I drop my phone back in my lap.
Mr. Longfellow wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin that’s embroidered with a cursive L.
I didn’t realize people still use cloth napkins.
What a pain it must be to wash those after every meal.
“I’ve heard of McClausky. You have offices all over the U.S.
, right? Do I remember correctly that last year’s merger of two online retail giants was handled by your firm? ”
I didn’t think my dad’s grin could get any wider, but the corners of his mouth practically meet his earlobes. “Indeed. I was lead counsel on that merger.”
I can’t help but smile at how much my dad sounds like he’s auditioning for a TV ad.
Mr. Longfellow lifts his glass. “Well done. Clearly our children come from good stock.”
Cattle following a map. Who knew?
Archer flashes his dad a smile, reaching for my hand. “Told you I got lucky.”
I feel almost feverish with the heat creeping up my neck.
Then Archer clears his throat, expression sobering. “Mrs. Monroe, I’ve been thinking about something you said.”
My mom tilts her head expectantly.
“About how dangerous that window is when people are trying to leave a bad relationship,” Archer continues, his tone earnest. “You mentioned helping with the legal stuff and programs. But that’s once these people come to you for help, right?
Where do they go in the meantime? Like, when they first leave? ”
The tapping in my head quiets with the genuine concern in Archer’s face.
“I mean, not everyone has someone they can stay with,” he says. “Or, like, the money or whatever to just… disappear.”
My heart feels all gooey in my chest.
My mom sets her fork down slowly. “You’re absolutely right, Archer,” she says.
“And that’s one of the biggest gaps. Emergency shelter exists, but not nearly enough.
It tends to be overcrowded. Some shelters limit spaces to men, others don’t have appropriate family resources.
And temporary housing options are scarce and often require extensive paperwork or take too long to secure.
That’s all time a lot of victims don’t have. ”
Archer’s brow furrows. “So, what happens?”
His dad responds in my mom’s stead. “Victims go back to their abusers or they never leave in the first place.”
My mom nods, while Archer exhales, shaking his head. “That feels… backwards,” he says. “Like, if the most dangerous point is when people try to leave, that’s when they should be most protected, right?”
My heart flutters at how serious he sounds.
My dad nods slowly. “Brandy’s talked about expanding services for years. Her dream is to provide permanent transitional housing through NorthStar. Somewhere secure, discreet. But it’s… a giant undertaking.”
“A massive funding issue,” my mom adds quickly, almost apologetically.
“Property, security, insurance… I already have the land scoped out. It was developer-owned, but the project went bankrupt just a few months prior to completion. It already has buildings that can be finished, but… yeah, finances.”
Mr. Longfellow leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “How much are we talking?”
My mom blinks. “I… well, my estimate is a hundred-fifty to three hundred thousand per unit, turnkey, for a total of up to fifteen million for a fifty-unit complex. And that’s just to get it off the ground.”
There’s a brief pause.
Then Mr. Longfellow nods. “Send me a proposal.”
My mom blinks. “Pardon?”
“A formal proposal,” he repeats. “Scope, timeline, projected costs. I can’t promise anything without seeing details, but…
” He glances at Archer, then back to my mom.
“This sounds like exactly the kind of project that should exist. And if it’s as well-run as NorthStar, I’d be very interested in supporting it—personally and through my network. ”
My mom’s mouth falls open, her eyes welling up. Just like that, fifteen million dollars turns from a pipe dream to an actual conversation. My dad always says connections only hurt those who don’t have them. I finally understand that phrase.
“Oh, that’s… incredibly generous,” she says, voice cracking. “I’ll get started immediately.”
“Not tonight,” Mr. Longfellow says warmly. “Tonight, you’re our guest. Enjoy dinner first.”
I smile widely at Archer, who radiates pride.
My mom reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Archer.”
I was right. This is serious.