Page 84 of Came the Closest

“We’re only ten minutes late,” Graham says. “And you’re not wearing a watch.”

Colton gasps, hands pressed to his cheeks and eyes wide. “I’m not?”

“We’re trying to decide who gets to ski first,” Sam explains, hip propped against the driver’s console of the boat.

Love swells in my chest. For his smile, and for the man himself. Strong legs in black swim trunks, a white short-sleeve linen button up, and Oakleys tipped over his eyes. I fell in love with Sam for who he is inside, then and now, but looking at him still makes me fizzier than a glass of 1919 root beer.

I realize, now, that he’s looking directly at me. And so is everyone else. Thankful for the sun as an excuse for my flushed cheeks, I lift my eyebrows. “What did I miss?”

“Dad said you should ski first,” Graham says.

My widened eyes snap to Sam’s. “Oh, no. It’s been—”

“Not too long,” Sam cuts in. I bet his eyes are twinkling. He grins at me before turning to the kids. “Back in the day, the very lovely Hazel Palmer was the water skier to beat.”

“Sam,” I say chidingly. But I’m smiling.

“Lilah,” he counters, brow arched. “You can try to tell me I’m wrong, but I will go find my mother’s newspaper article from the summer before our junior year of high school.”

My stomach swoops. “You still have it?”

His full attention settles on me. “Of course, I do.”

The implication that I thought otherwise makes my chest twinge. I mean, Lizzie used to be a journalist, so still having her articles isn’t surprising. But I don’t think that’s entirely why they were saved.

“I haven’t—”

“Colton!” Indi hollers from the back deck, hands propped on her hips. “I need help!”

“Yeah, we know,” he replies lightly.

I can’t tell, but I bet his sister rolls her eyes.

Cheyenne touches his arm on his way by her. It’s brief enough that no one else notices, but it feels important. As does their eye contact before Colton dips his chin and treks up the backyard. Indi leads him around the house toward the garage.

“I mean…” Jordan dangles a pair of ski gloves in front of me. “It’s never too late, right?”

I sigh. All it takes is one look at the identical grins Sam, Jordan, and Graham wear to make my decision. Who cares if the last time I skied was over forty years ago?

“Okay,” I say, but I hold up a hand when the boys cheer. “But I’m going on two.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” Sam says, tossing me a life jacket. “Slalom or nothing.”

Twenty minutes, three tries, and two full laps later, I wonder how I’ve gone so long without skiing. The pull of your body out of the water, the feel of the ski or skis under your feet while maneuvering from wake to wake, the warmth of the lake after you drop. If my legs hadn’t felt like jelly, I’d have kept going.

Now, I’m wrapped in a freshly dried beach towel on the passenger seat of the Ski Nautique. Jolene is tucked next to me, and she cheers while her father gets his ski situated with the rope. I know he’s concerned about how his weaker shoulder will handle the pull, but if I can do it, I’ve no doubt Jordan can too.

“Hit it,” he hollers to his dad.

Sam pushes the throttle, giving it notably more gas to pull his oldest son out than for me. Jordan wobbles momentarily, but he balances out. He releases his right hand to adjust his swim trunks. Jolene bounces with excitement, and I see Sam’s smile before he glances over his shoulder.

I can’t help but think this is how life should be. The vibration of the humming boat motor. Sam giving Colton a hard time when it takes him five tries to do what I did in three. Jolene using the children’s skis that are strapped together, and almost getting up on her seventh try, her dad and uncles coaching her. Colton helping Milo get situated on the inflatable EZ-Ski and wrapping him in the fluffiest towel after a short lap around the bay.

It’s not novel; we’re certainly not the only lake people who dedicate a Sunday morning to such activities. But it is the quintessential summer morning, and we follow it with grilled burgers, fresh watermelon, and chips for lunch. We sit in the backyard under the shade of a gnarled oak tree, our folding lawn chairs set up in a semi-circle. Jimmy Buffett’s voice drifts in from a boat anchored offshore, and the children play contentedly in the newly installed sandbox nearby.

“Admit it,” Colton says after lunch, hands propped behind his head. “This is what you were most looking forward to.”

Graham looks up from the gift bags he’s sorting. I think it’s by color, and Ember doesn’t seem to care when they open what. I can’t help but compare today to the day after my own wedding. Here, in Sam’s backyard, hot summer wind rustles damp hair and children’s laughter echoes from the sandbox while several conversations flow at once.

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