Chapter 9
Nine months later…
Easter Sunday fell at the perfect midpoint between gray and green, when the winter chill finally gave up and the new grass dared to emerge all at once.
Lauren’s house, visible from the street by its bank of forsythia and the wreath of pastel eggs taped to the glass, seemed determined to manifest the holiday, even if the sky wouldn’t quite cooperate.
Inside, the dining room was prepped for spring: a linen cloth covering the scars of decades on the table, mismatched plates lined up like promises, a centerpiece of daffodils that Lauren had clipped herself from the muddy patch by the driveway.
The bulbs were early this year, which Lauren said meant “luck,” though Olivia, her daughter, claimed it just meant global warming.
There was a small, soft argument in the kitchen over the correct way to fold napkins, punctuated by the smell of honey-glazed ham that drifted in waves through the hall.
Above it all, the sharp, happy squawk of Sam, Lauren’s other twin, as he pestered his mother for permission to “just sample the glaze.”
Rachel arrived with her father and Lucas, the three of them timing the doorbell so no one had to keep running for the door.
Thomas wore his old Sunday best, the navy blazer that had hung in the closet since Rachel’s high school graduation.
He moved with a deliberate slowness, not from pain but caution, and this time, there was no cane—he’d left it in the trunk of the car, claiming the forecast threatened rain.
Lucas carried a dessert box and a bottle of wine, and as soon as they stepped inside, he took in the warmth of the house with a low whistle. “Smells like the start of a good memory,” he said, and Olivia, never one to let a stranger off the hook, shot back, “Smells like diabetes.” They both grinned.
Lauren appeared from the kitchen, oven mitts on both hands like boxing gloves, a smudge of flour bright against her cheek.
“You’re early,” she said to Rachel, though it was clear from the half-set table that she’d been hoping for rescue.
“Hang up your coats and help yourself to coffee—Sam, can you show Mr. McCroskey where we keep the mugs?”
Rachel shrugged off her jacket and took a quick inventory of the entryway.
There was a single coat hook by the door.
Where, last year, Jake’s camo parka and size thirteen boots had taken up an entire quadrant of the bench, today there was only a pair of neat ankle boots—Lauren’s, probably—and a bright blue windbreaker that belonged to one of the kids.
In the hush of the mudroom, Rachel felt the absence.
But the rest of the house was full, the kind of full that made up for anything missing.
Sam—tall for sixteen, hair unbrushed and wild—led Lucas to the coffee machine and performed the local ritual of explaining the milk options—oat, almond, and the “cow kind, if you must.” Olivia had arranged the breadbasket with the precision of a gem-cutter, the rolls perfectly spiraled and glistening in the afternoon light.
Thomas, surveying the room, let out a low hum of appreciation before guiding himself to a chair near the window.
He looked at the daffodils, then at Rachel, and she thought she caught the flicker of pride in his eyes.
He’d grown more transparent since Rachel had returned to Willow Point Shore, and it suited him.
Lauren set the ham on the counter, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and leaned into the doorframe.
“Is everyone accounted for?” she asked, and her voice had none of the brittle edge it sometimes wore in emergencies.
There was no crisis here, just the hum of old friends, aging parents, and two teenagers destined to break something before the meal was over.
“We’re all here,” Rachel said, unable to keep her tone entirely neutral.
At the table, Olivia launched into a debate with Thomas about the merits of folding vs.
rolling napkins, and Sam slid the coffee carafe toward Rachel with the practiced flick of a diner waiter.
Lauren played referee, but it was clear she enjoyed the chaos—every raised voice, every competing anecdote.
They settled in with a round of clinking glasses with water for the kids, wine for the adults, and a polite toast from Lauren: “To the people who show up, every time, even when it’s easier not to.
” The meal began with stories about Easter disasters—one year, a squirrel raided the egg hunt before the kids; another, Lauren’s meringue exploded during transport and coated the inside of her Subaru in sugary stalactites.
Laughter came easily, like muscle memory.
Rachel found herself at the far end of the table, flanked by Thomas on one side and Lucas on the other.
Lucas picked his way through the ham with the expertise of a man who knew not to get between a Midwesterner and their holiday meal.
He offered quiet asides to Rachel—“I think your dad’s gunning for a second helping already,” or “Did you see Sam just pocket that roll?”—and she found herself enjoying the undercurrent of mischief.
Midway through the meal, Olivia leaned forward and asked, “What was Grandma’s lemon cake actually like? My mom says it was legendary, but she’s biased.”
Lauren gave her daughter a look of mock offense. “I am not. It was. She could out-bake Julia Child.”
Rachel, catching the thread, said, “She always put too much zest in, so the frosting tingled. If you were lucky, she’d add a little sea salt.” She smiled, not at the memory but at how easily it came.
Thomas offered, “Unlike Sandy, who never measured a thing. She sang to her cakes. If you caught her on the right day, she’d be humming ‘Here Comes the Sun’ in the kitchen, and that was your clue it’d be a good one.
” His voice was soft, the words heavy and careful, but for once, there was no ache at the end of the sentence.
Lucas said, “That sounds like a proper bakery rivalry.”
Lauren raised her glass. “They never competed, but they never missed a chance to one-up each other, either. The town benefited.” She paused, caught Rachel’s gaze, and held it for just a moment longer than needed. “I miss it,” she said, and the twins, in their unembarrassed way, nodded along.
After the plates were cleared and the evidence of the ham was boxed up for leftovers, Sam and Olivia made a break for the backyard, armed with a carton of plastic eggs and a challenge to see who could set up the Easter hunt for neighbor’s young kids in under five minutes.
Rachel watched from the porch as the twins zig-zagged through the grass, heedless of the mud and the threat of grass stains.
Lauren, armed with a refill of wine and a second dessert plate, joined the adults outside.
The air had a bite to it, but the sunlight was strong enough to make the porch boards warm underfoot.
Thomas sipped coffee and recited the names of the birds he could spot from the railing, an old game from Rachel’s childhood: cardinal, downy woodpecker, two mourning doves on the neighbor’s gutter.
Lucas leaned against the railing beside Rachel, close enough that their arms brushed when she reached for her cup.
“Nice out here,” he said, looking out over the yard.
“First nice day we’ve had in months,” Rachel said. “It’s the kind that tricks you into thinking winter’s over.”
He laughed. “Give it another week. Lake effect snow’s probably plotting a comeback.”
Rachel smiled, but her attention drifted to the yard.
The twins were locked in a tug-of-war over a gold foil egg, both refusing to yield.
She watched as Olivia finally relented, but not without launching a stealth attack with a marshmallow peep, which hit Sam squarely in the temple. It was impossible not to laugh.
Lauren took it in, too. “Remind you of anyone?” she asked Rachel, nodding toward the brawling duo.
“I plead the fifth,” Rachel said.
Thomas, who had perfected the art of listening without appearing to, said, “Rachel used to commandeer entire hunts. Once, she even hid all the eggs from her own basket to win twice in a row.”
“Strategic thinking,” Lucas said. “Or mild sociopathy.”
“Why not both?” Rachel grinned.
It went on like that: easy, steady, the conversation circling without the need for direction.
Rachel found herself relaxing into it, surprised by how quickly the discomfort of old wounds had faded in the warmth of the afternoon.
There was no sense of performance, just the pleasure of being together, of letting the day do what days were supposed to do: pass gently.
Eventually, the twins collapsed on the grass, laughing and pelting each other with empty eggshells. Lauren shook her head, but her smile lingered. “Every year, I swear I’ll keep it dignified,” she said.
“No one wants a dignified Easter,” Rachel replied.
She leaned her elbows on the porch railing, the wood rough but familiar, and let the sun creep across her arms. Lucas was still beside her, not needing to say anything more. His hand was close to hers, not quite touching, but Rachel realized with a start that she wouldn’t have minded if he did.
“The kids are coming,” Lauren called out while pointing at about five children ranging in age from three to eight years, with pastel-colored baskets in hand, and all making their way up the driveway.
Olivia and Sam pulled themselves together and ran over to direct the children toward the front yard.
For now, the holiday was enough: the sound of kids giggling and yelling in the yard, the smell of fresh earth and old grass, the coffee slowly cooling in her cup.