Page 145 of Never Let You Go

“And, after you’re done, I’ll be backpacking a bit. Care to join, or will you be too busy being important?”

My heart sinks. I already have a slew of emails from Red Barn’s lawyers I need to answer, meetings that are being planned by Barbara, situations to address. It’s like I can see the clouds gathering. “That’d be great,” I say, my voice faltering, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

After we hang up, I wave to Skye that it’s time to go. While I wait for her, I snap a few photos of the house. It looks like it’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered by the right family. I notice a For Sale sign and find my caption: Waiting for a #happyfamily.

I call Skye again. She’s due at Grace’s now for some quality time with her aunt, followed by a sleepover, so I offered to drive her. Christopher drove in a friend’s car, so I can just use his truck. And, while she’s at Grace’s tonight, Christopher is taking me out to dinner. I have butterflies in my stomach thinking about it—an actual date. As if I had an actual boyfriend.

Little things, right?

I notice some blue paint in Skye’s hair and on her fingers. “Where did you get that paint?” I ask. “At school?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “It’s for the Mother’s Day gift.” She makes as though it’s nothing, but my heart falls at the words.

“Oh.” I’m caught off guard. “That sucks. I remember those days.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugs.

And she does look okay. She seems unbelievably strong, but I know she must be hiding a lot under the surface.

“Christopher trusts you with his truck?” Grace smiles as she hugs me hello. “I thought he didn’t let anyone drive it.”

“He didn’t really have a choice,” I answer, plopping Skye’s bag at the bottom of the stairs. “Take your stuff upstairs, sweetie,” I tell her so she doesn’t start leaving a mess in Grace’s tidy house.

“I kinda like seeing my cousin having his decisions made for him,” she says, picking up her cat. “It’s about time.”

I have the feeling she’s not talking about the truck, so I swerve the conversation elsewhere. “What’s going on here?” I ask, pointing at the ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter.

She sets her cat down and washes her hands. “Skye and I are going to make Gram’s sandwich bread. Ready, sweetie?” Skye is already rolling her sleeves up.

I’m in awe of this family that can take three or four basic ingredients and make a variety of different foods, each one more delicious than the next. “Who’s Gram?” I ask, pulling my phone out to capture Skye’s concentrated look as she measures flour.

“Me and Chris’s grandmother,” Grace answers. “Our mothers’ momma. She’d always make that when we were kids. It was a summer staple.”

Skye nods. “Back in Maine.”

“My mom still makes it.” Grace doesn’t mention Chris’s mom, though.

Things start to fall together. I picture a grandmother lovingly making bread for her family and understand Christopher’s passion.

He mentioned a strained relationship with his mother, and I want to know more. For a long time, I nurtured this fantasy of what my life would have been if my mother hadn’t died when I was ten. It was always near impossible for me to understand my teenage friends’ epic fights with their mothers, and right now, I’m dying to know what an adult could possibly hold against theirs. But with Skye present, I don’t ask any questions. And I do realize that Rita was someone’s mother—my own mom’s mother—so I get that not all mothers are this idealized model I constructed for myself.

“It’s great you’re doing this,” I tell Grace, and I feel my eyes water. I grab my phone and snap more pictures of Grace and Skye baking together, as much to hide my emotion as to capture this beautiful moment.

My own grandmother admittedly built the largest baking empire in the United States, yet she never bothered to teach me anything herself. Here, traditions are passed along from generation to generation.

“Is that how Christopher learned to bake?” I finally ask.

Grace seems to hesitate. “I suppose it inspired him? Or not.”

I drop the topic, sensing some underlying family tension that is not my place to dig into.

When they’re done with the bread and Skye is in the living room coloring a mandala book, Grace asks, “Wine or tea?”

I hesitate.

“Wine it is.” She chuckles. “No need to be reasonable.”

“Just a drop, then,” I say. Then, lowering my voice, “We’re going out tonight.”

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