Chapter 2 #3
It suddenly hit him where he’d gotten that spare hat, and that he’d just unknowingly given Posey her own great-grandmother’s gift to him.
“You okay?” Allie asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to shake the whole thing off.
“I know you always had a thing for Jillian,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Don’t be a meanie,” he said, giving her a light shove. “Just because you’re married off doesn’t mean you can give me a hard time about my high school crush.”
She laughed at that and headed for the school as he turned toward the lot.
“See you for Sunday dinner,” she called to him over her shoulder.
Heading to his truck, he tried to feel grateful that he’d see Allie at Sunday dinner, and not resentful that he wouldn’t see her between now and then.
The restless feeling that had eased while he was playing in the hose with Posey notched back up again.
He and Allie had been the last two kids in the farmhouse with Mom and Dad these last couple of years. Now it was just Tripp.
His new brother-in-law Ash was great, and his niece Maya was one of his favorite people in the whole world.
He honestly couldn’t be happier for Allie, but he still missed his sister sometimes. And he felt more alone now than ever.
He pulled out onto Maple and made the turn onto Fox Hollow Road toward home.
A lot of people would probably not believe that Tripp Lawrence wanted a home and family of his own.
But he felt more and more like his days as a carefree young guy were behind him.
Of course he wanted a woman in his bed and children to play with and teach.
He wanted something to build and someone to build it for.
He rolled down the window and gave the horn a light tap when he reached the covered bridge, then went on through, trying and failing not to gaze at the Johnson house on his way past.
It would be wrong to stop by just because Jillian was there with her family. As a matter of fact, now that she was there, maybe Coach wouldn’t need him stopping by as much.
The idea made him sad. Much as he told himself he was there to help out, the truth was that those visits were as good for him as they were for the older couple. He would really miss his time with Coach and Mrs. Johnson.
He reached the long drive with the Lawrence Farm sign outside and pulled in. Cows dotted the hillside, grazing and lifting their snouts to the wind, as if they were also expecting snow.
The stone farmhouse that belonged to Tripp’s parents looked as cozy as ever against the backdrop of wooded mountains. And a little smoke was swirling out of the chimney, meaning Dad had lit a fire.
Tripp parked his truck and headed for the front door, taking the porch steps two at a time to get into the house and see what was for lunch.
His stomach was grumbling like crazy even though it wasn’t noon yet. Of course, he’d been up before five to see to the cows, so lunch couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned.
He pushed open the front door, letting loose a breeze scented with what he hoped was his dad’s beef stew.
“Shoes,” his parents’ voices called out happily from the back of the house.
When he was younger, Tripp was often so eager for lunch or dinner that he would forget to take off his filthy boots when he came up from the barn.
The whole family had gotten in the habit of yelling out to him whenever the front door opened so that thick mud wouldn’t be tracked into the center hall.
Eventually, what had once been a practical reminder had become a time-honored tradition, and Tripp knew it was nothing more than that.
But as he got older, it was hard not to be a little chagrined that a whole family custom had formed around his carelessness. No wonder he couldn’t shake his old reputation—he was steeped in it every day.
“Hey,” he called out as he kicked off his boots.
Sure enough, a fire was crackling in the living room, but Dad’s book had been abandoned on the coffee table. He was definitely making lunch, and if Mom was in there too instead of tending to the herd, then it was probably going to be a really good meal.
Tripp headed down the hall, past generations of family photos. There seemed to be more and more smiling faces in those photos every year as Tripp’s siblings got married and added to the family. He smiled at Maya’s school picture as he passed. Allie’s little stepdaughter was a hoot.
When he reached the kitchen, Dad was at the stove, stirring something in the big copper pot.
“Stew?” Tripp asked hopefully.
“And biscuits,” Mom said with a smile from the table, where she was rolling out the dough. Her long hair was pulled back in a braid and she wore her favorite red apron. Maybe it was the fresh air and working outside, but besides the streaks of silver in her hair, the woman seemed ageless.
“Amazing,” Tripp groaned, moving to the stove in the hopes he could convince Dad to let him just sample a taste of stew.
“You’ll burn your tongue,” Dad scolded fondly, shooing him away.
“Fine,” Tripp said. “I’ll just set the table.”
“That gets us one step closer to lunch,” his mom agreed with a smile.
They all worked in a friendly silence for a few minutes, and Tripp found his restlessness settling.
Whatever his life might look like on paper, he spent his days happy. The farm was running well, the cows were happy, and his parents were healthy. He had a roof over his head and food on the table. And this afternoon, he would be coaching the high school hockey kids.
Everything was just fine.
“Did you hear the Johnsons’ granddaughter and her two little ones are moving home?” Dad asked casually.
Almost everything was just fine.