Page 38 of When Love Is Lost and Found

"I don't think you should date him," I say.

Why? Why did I say that?

"Why, exactly?" Sharon asks, sitting back in her chair. "Please elaborate."

"Because you're still a—."

"A what?" Sharon asks, her eyes boring into me.

"You're only eighteen," I say, "You're still, you're like, like a child."

"Oh really?" she says in a clipped tone. "And you're what? Like, oh, I don't know, behaving like an older brother."

"Ouch!" I say.

"You started it!" she says, laughing.

"Again," I say, "you're only eighteen. Patrick, Pat, Patty, whatever his name is, he's like thirty. That was my point."

"To be fair," Loren says, "Patrick is only twenty-eight."

"Thanks, Loren," I say. "You're not helping."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Sharon says. "Can we please drop it?"

***

Now that the family is back together, the week has flown by. We've had a garden picnic with Noah, morning walks, and lively dinners with the entire family every evening. After dinner, Mom and Dad spend time with Noah until his bedtime while Sharon and I clean the kitchen. Conversation between us is easy. The more I know her, the more I like her.

When Friday rolls around, I get up early to join Loren for coffee before leaving for New York.

"What time are you leaving?" she asks.

"At noon."

"Is that all you're taking?" she asks, pointing to the overnight bag I put on the chair beside me.

"It's only a weekend," I say. "We'll be back Sunday morning for church."

"How are Olivia and Robert working out?"

"They both started Monday," I say. "Olivia is a good cook. Between the delicious breakfasts she makes, the great dinners Mom prepares, and the addictive desserts Sharon bakes, I feel like I've gained five pounds in five days."

"I wouldn't worry about it," she says. "The only thing you've gained from what I can see is muscle."

"You think so?" I ask, flexing a bicep.

"Now, go on, you big show off," she says when I pick up my bag and walk to the door. "Have a great weekend."

"You too," I say.

When I reach our property line, I walk along the path to the garden, knowing that's where I'll find Sharon.

"Are you always up this early?" I ask when I find her kneeling beside some pink and yellow flowers. She's wearing overalls belted at the waist with a tank top underneath. Her long curls are pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. She has a few freckles on her shoulders that match the ones on the bridge of her nose.

"It's almost eight," she says. "Six is early. Eight is almost late. It's what my dad used to say. He was an early riser, too."

When she grows quiet and reflective, I let her indulge in the memory of her father by remaining silent.

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