Chapter 29 #2
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” He doesn’t ask where I’ve been all summer. He’s trusting me to tell him when I’m ready—even if not knowing is killing him.
I smile. “Thanks for letting me heal and figure things out in my own time.”
“Always.”
When our call ends, I stay on the bed a while longer, phone resting on my chest, heart pulled in too many directions to name.
Only fate knows what happens next, in New York or with Knox.
Back downstairs, I find Knox in the kitchen, hands moving with quiet purpose as he chops celery at the butcher-block counter. His mom and grandma are elbow-deep in prep: Hazel stirring something fragrant on the stove; Claire setting out mismatched soup bowls like it’s some sort of tradition.
“There she is,” Hazel calls. “You’re just in time to earn your keep.”
I laugh and slip off my cardigan before washing my hands. “Put me to work.”
Claire hands me a cutting board and a pile of potatoes. “Thin slices, not cubes. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Hazel nods in agreement. “She’s right. Slices cook evenly and soak up the broth. Cubes just sit there like starch bombs.”
Knox flashes me a grin from across the kitchen, and of course, my insides turn to mush.
For a while, there’s only the sound of knives on cutting boards, the low croon of a saxophone from a local jazz station, and the clink of spoons against Dutch-oven enamel. This kitchen smells like butter and bay leaves and something that feels like belonging.
Sy calls from the den, asking for help with the TV remote, and Knox excuses himself, his hand gliding across my lower back as he passes. “Be right back, beautiful.”
And just like that, I’m left with his mom and grandma, who glance at each other, then me. I know that look. I’ve seen that look. It’s the same one Paxton gives me when he’s about to meddle.
Claire dries her hands on a dish towel and leans her hip against the counter. “So…just putting it out there…we think you’re good for him.”
Hazel nods. “He’s lighter. Smiles more. Doesn’t sulk into his coffee like he’s starring in a French art film.”
Claire snorts. “Ever since that woman finally flounced out of the picture.”
I feel my cheeks warm. “It’s only been a couple of months.”
“Sure.” Hazel sighs. “Truth is, things were bad long before their divorce. We all saw it, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.” She flashes a knowing smile. “Now, the boy’s acting like someone lit a candle in that cave of a heart.”
Claire gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow. “Also, the way he looks at you? Whew. Like you hung the moon. Or at least made the chowder.”
That shouldn’t make my eyes sting, but it does.
Claire’s posture eases. “Is it true you’re headed to New York soon?”
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “First of September.”
“Well, that gives you time,” Hazel says, handing me a wooden spoon and gesturing to the simmering pot. “To stir. And maybe figure out what you’re really hungry for,” she adds with a sly wink.
I take the spoon, blinking fast, heart suddenly a mess as if I’ve been handed a rite of passage.
Claire walks past me and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Just don’t overcook the potatoes. We’ve got a strict policy: mushy spuds, no soup privileges.”
Hazel elbows her. “Let the girl stir in peace. She’s clearly got enough on her plate.”
Knox re-enters with a grin, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Remote crisis averted. Turns out Grandpa just needed his glasses.”
Hazel chuckles. “That man’s had the same prescription since 1978.”
Knox leans over to peek into the pot, his arm brushing mine. “Smells incredible. Is it safe to say I missed the hard part?”
Claire crosses her arms with mock offense. “You missed my part, which is the hardest.”
“Of course. Adding the crispy bacon.” He straightens and presses a hand to his chest. “And I’ll never forgive myself.”
Claire swats him with the dish towel, but she’s smiling.
Hazel gives the chowder a final stir. “Alright, moment of truth. Let’s taste.”
We each take a spoon and gather around as if it’s some sacred tradition. The broth is creamy and briny, the potatoes soft but intact, the clams perfectly tender. And the bacon addition—amazing.
Knox hums low in approval. “Not bad for a team effort,” he says, catching my eye with a look that makes my knees untrustworthy.
Hazel lifts her spoon like a toast. “To love, in all its forms. And to not screwing up a family recipe in front of company.”
Claire raises hers, too. “And to honorary seats at our table. Earned, not given.”
I lift my spoon, heart tight. “I feel pretty honored.”
Knox squeezes my waist. “You should.”
Hazel claps once. “Alright, let’s eat before it goes cold. Someone go fetch my husband before he gets too cozy in that recliner.”
“I heard that,” Sy calls from the den. “And I am cozy, thank you very much.”
Knox laughs and grabs the wheelchair folded near the doorway. “Come on, old man. Time to feast.”
A few minutes later, we’re all gathered around a worn oak dining table. The overhead light casts a buttery glow on the mismatched place settings. Hazel ladles chowder into our bowls like a proud general serving up victory.
“This recipe’s been in the family since my great-grandmother made it during the Depression,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Back then, it was more potatoes than clams and no cream. Just broth and whatever milk hadn’t turned.”
Sy grumbles as Knox pushes his chair into place. “And every generation since has messed it up with their modern nonsense.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “Like bacon?”
He points his spoon at her. “Exactly. Your mother started that nonsense. Ruined perfectly good chowder.”
Hazel winks at me. “Ruined, my foot! He loves the bacon. He proposed after his third bowl.”
“That was the indigestion talking,” Sy says, but there’s a gleam in his eye when he looks at her.
Everyone chuckles, and the table falls into that happy rhythm only real families share. Passing bread. Telling stories over full bowls.
Sy looks across the table at me. “So, young lady. What do you think?”
I smile, lifting my spoon. “Honestly? It tastes like comfort.”
His eyes crinkle. “That’s the highest compliment a chowder can get.” After a beat, he adds, “Glad you’re here, you know. My grandson seems happier. We all see it.”
Knox downs his water like it’s a shot of vodka while that gravelly lump in my throat returns without warning.
“I’m glad I’m here too,” I manage.
Claire refills my water with a smile that rivals sunshine. Hazel slides another slice of bread onto my plate. And Sy, gruff, warm, and fully committed to his one-man comedy set, won’t stop until I’m laughing between bites.
By the time we finish, my belly isn’t the only thing that’s full. My heart is, too.