Chapter 9
Fourth of July
Melissa
The stage at Redwood Hollow’s Memorial Park was draped in bunting, red and white and blue fabric catching the afternoon breeze.
Melissa stood behind the podium, microphone in hand, delivering a speech she had memorized—gratitude for the community, pride in their shared values, hope for the future.
The words came automatically, polished by repetition, while her eyes scanned the crowd for two familiar faces.
She found them near the back, beneath the shade of an old oak tree. June in a white sundress with tiny red flowers, her hair loose around her shoulders. Lila beside her in the polka-dot dress she and June had bought last weekend, bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement.
“—and so on this Independence Day, let us remember not just the freedoms we celebrate, but the responsibilities that come with them. Thank you, and happy Fourth of July.”
Applause rippled through the crowd. Melissa shook hands with the mayor, posed for photographs with the city council, accepted congratulations on the infrastructure bill’s progress from constituents who had opinions about broadband access they were eager to share.
She smiled until her cheeks ached, nodded until her neck was stiff, and all the while she was aware of June and Lila waiting at the edge of the park, patient and unhurried.
“Senator Brandt?” David appeared at her elbow. “The Rotary Club president wants a photo, and then the Herald is hoping for a quick statement about the festival.”
“Five minutes. Then I’m done for the day.”
“But the Chamber of Commerce—”
“Five minutes, David.”
He retreated, and Melissa finished her obligations with ruthless efficiency.
Photo with the Rotary Club. Thirty-second soundbite for the Herald about community spirit and small-town traditions.
A final wave to the crowd before she extracted herself from the stage area and made her way across the grass.
June saw her coming and smiled—that warm, easy smile that Melissa had been cataloging without meaning to. The way it started in her eyes before reaching her mouth. The way it made small lines appear at the corners of her eyes. The way it felt, inexplicably, like coming home.
“You survived,” June said.
“Barely.” Melissa crouched down to Lila’s level. “How’s my favorite constituent?”
“I’m not a constituent. I’m seven.”
“You live in my district. That makes you a constituent.” Melissa straightened. “Even if you can’t vote yet.”
“Politics is boring,” Lila declared. “Can we get ice cream now?”
“After the parade.” Melissa glanced at June. “Did you find a good spot?”
“We have a blanket under the oak tree. Prime viewing location.” June gestured toward the main street, where barriers were being set up along the parade route. “It starts in about twenty minutes, if you want to grab a seat.”
They walked together through the crowd, Lila between them, her hands reaching up to hold both of theirs. Melissa’s chest tightened at the casual intimacy of it—the three of them linked together, moving through the festival like any other family.
We’re not a family, she reminded herself. June is an employee. This is a job for her.
But it was getting harder to remember that.
The blanket was spread out in a patch of shade, far enough from the street to escape the worst of the crowd but close enough to see the parade clearly—prime viewing indeed.
Melissa settled onto the soft cotton, tucking her legs beneath her, and June sat beside her—close, closer than strictly necessary, their shoulders almost touching.
“I brought snacks,” June said, producing a canvas bag. “Strawberries, cheese, crackers. And lemonade, because I don’t think you like soda.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve never once taken a sip of anything carbonated. And you made a face when Lila asked for Sprite at the restaurant last week.” June smiled. “I pay attention.”
Melissa turned that over in her mind, unsure what to do with it. People paid attention to her all the time—constituents, colleagues, reporters, opponents. But they paid attention to Senator Brandt, to the public figure, to the carefully constructed image she projected.
June paid attention to her. To the small things. The real things.
“Mom.” Lila tugged at Melissa’s sleeve. “I can’t see. There are too many tall people.”
“The parade hasn’t started yet.”
“But when it does, I won’t be able to see.”
Melissa considered the problem. The crowd had thickened around them, families and couples jostling for position along the parade route. Lila was small for her age, easily lost in the forest of adult bodies.
“Come here.” Melissa patted her shoulders. “Climb up.”
Lila’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.”
It took some maneuvering—Lila’s sandaled feet finding purchase on Melissa’s thighs, her small hands gripping Melissa’s hair for balance—but eventually she was settled on Melissa’s shoulders, legs dangling against Melissa’s chest. Melissa thanked her many hours of Pilates for her strength.
“I can see everything!” Lila crowed. “I can see the whole street!”
“Good. Now hold on.”
June was watching them with an expression Melissa couldn’t quite read.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“Nothing. Just—” June shook her head. “It’s nice to see you being just a mom. Less thinking, more being.”
Before Melissa could respond, music swelled from down the street—a marching band, drums and brass, the opening strains of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The parade had begun.
The next hour passed in a blur of color and sound.
High school marching bands and vintage cars, local business floats and community groups tossing candy to the crowd.
Lila squealed at the fire truck, waved frantically at the dance troupe, caught a handful of taffy that she insisted on sharing with June and Melissa.
By the time the last float had passed, Melissa’s shoulders ached from supporting Lila’s weight, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
The view from up there must have been spectacular—Lila had narrated the entire parade in breathless detail, pointing out every dog in a costume, every flag, every sequined baton twirler.
“Ice cream now?” Lila asked as Melissa lifted her down.
“Ice cream now.”
They found the cheerful Piper and Whisk booth near the center of the festival, selling mostly their signature cupcakes, but also offering a selection of homemade ice cream flavors.
Once they’d decided, June ordered—strawberry for Lila, lemon for Melissa, something called “Summer Sunrise” for herself that turned out to be mango and passionfruit.
“Why am I not surprised that you prefer lemon?” June asked as she handed Melissa her ice cream.
“It’s fresh and clean. Unfussy,” Melissa said. “What’s not to like?”
“Very you.” June licked her cone, catching a drip before it could run down her wrist, and Melissa absolutely did not watch that tongue.
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Melissa said, forcing herself to sound normal and probably failing.
“It’s not. I respect people who know themselves.” June’s eyes met hers over the ice cream, bright in the sunlight.
Melissa didn’t know what to say to that. She focused on her cone instead, on the cool tanginess melting against her tongue, on the sounds of the festival swirling around them.
A woman stopped in front of their bench, an older lady with white hair and a Redwood Hollow Festival Committee t-shirt. “Senator Brandt! Lovely to see you enjoying the festivities.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Addison. It’s a wonderful event, as always.”
“And this must be your family.” Mrs. Addison beamed at June and Lila. “Your daughter and granddaughter are just beautiful. The little one has your eyes, Senator.”
Melissa froze.
“Oh, I’m not—” June started, but Mrs. Addison had already bustled away, waving to someone across the path.
“What did she say?” Lila asked, focused on her ice cream.
“Nothing, sweetheart. She was just being friendly.”
She glanced at June before looking hastily away, the words settling into her chest like stones. Your daughter. As if June could be her child. As if the twenty years between them were that obvious, that insurmountable.
She was old enough to be June’s mother.
The thought made her stomach twist. Not quite shame—she had nothing to be ashamed of—but awareness. Sharp, uncomfortable awareness of exactly how ridiculous she was being, letting herself feel whatever she was feeling for a woman young enough to be her daughter.
You’re not feeling anything, she told herself firmly. You’re grateful. She’s good with Lila. That’s all.
But when June turned to her a moment later, cone in hand, sunlight catching the gold in her hair—Melissa’s heart flipped in a way that had nothing to do with gratitude.
The fireworks were scheduled for nine o’clock, and by eight-thirty the park had transformed.
Families spread across the grass on blankets and lawn chairs, children waving glow sticks, couples tangled together in the gathering dark.
The air smelled of popcorn and gunpowder and the lingering sweetness of cotton candy.
The three of them stayed beneath the oak tree, settled on the blanket, watching as the colors of the sky changed. Lila was wedged between them, her energy finally flagging after hours of parade-watching and ice cream and running through the festival booths.
“Ten more minutes,” June said, checking her phone. “Can you make it, Lila?”
“I’m not tired.” But her voice was drowsy, her head listing toward Melissa’s shoulder.
“I can see that.”
The festival sounds had softened around them—less shouting, more murmured conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere in the darkness. Melissa could feel June beside her, the warmth of her body in the cooling night air, the brush of her shoulder when either of them shifted.
“I love this,” June said quietly. “The waiting. Everyone looking at the same sky, holding their breath for the same thing.”