Page 20 of Again, In Autumn

Grayson glances in the direction of my gesture. “That’s where I sleep.”

My head nods, ominously, mouth fighting a smile.

“I’ve never heard anything in the middle of the night,” he questions, raising a fair eyebrow and squinting his freckles.

“Well, that’s because you didn’t know about it. Now that you know…” I drop to a whisper. "You can’t unknow.”

He swallows.

I wrap my arm around his shoulder, and he screams.

“Give me a proper hello!” I beg, reaching for a hug.

He backs away, “No, no, no. Why would you tell me that story? Dad! Dad!” He takes off out the front door.

“My God, Vienna,” Francesca scolds from atop the stairs. “You are getting up with him in the middle of the night when he’s screaming bloody murder.”

I throw a hand over my mouth. “It’s just so easy!” I cackle.

She narrows her eyes, carrying both of our coffee mugs, and we walk into the kitchen together, my favorite room in the house.

Big windows that overlook the lake, white marble countertops, and rich dark wood cabinets. Heddy hung stained glass and colored pendant lights that look like tulips over the butcher block island that always made me feel like a true pastry chef. I spy a drop of frosting from the cookies I made last night.

Francesca puts the dishes away and begins unpacking the grocery bags.

One loaf of bread. Then another. Then another. Five containers of juice boxes. Three bags of oranges. Two cartons of two dozen eggs.

“Are you moving in?” I lean my arms on the counter and inspect a package of dried seaweed. “Or is this apocalypse prep?”

“These kids eat a lot.”

“Like a loaf of bread a day?”

“Nearly.” She wrenches open the fridge. “Grayson says he’s vegetarian once a day and he’s ‘allergic’ to milk every other meal but sometimes he will only eat dairy products, but most of the time he eats nothing until he’s suddenly starving. I buy so much food just hoping he will eat.”

“You were a picky eater, too.” I rip open a box of granola bars.

“Well, he turns it into an extreme sport.”

I take a bite and sink into the well-worn wooden stool, the backs of my thighs prickly from the cold surface.

“Where are your pants?” Dave asks from behind me. “It’s forty degrees outside.”

I shrug. “I like to be cozy but cool. You know?”

“No. I don’t know.” He heads up the stairs with suitcases.

Francesca asks, “By the way, did you bring anything nice to wear? Not that you don’t already look fabulous, but we were thinking Caroline might babysit one night and the four of us can go out to dinner or drinks in town.”

I grab a falling chunk of granola and argue with my mouth full, “Now you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday? I figured we were lounging around the house all week, stuffing ourselves, watching TV and refusing to read any of the books David tells me will make me a well-rounded individual.” I shake my head and scoff, “I prefer to get my well-roundedness from cookies.”

Francesca waits for me to finish, frozen in human form, before scoffing, “You always pack more clothes than you need. You always have at least one outfit that would get you into the MTV movie awards.”

I hold up two fingers.

“Two?” She sounds exasperated. “At least tell me they cover your complete ass.”

“What exact portion of the body qualifies as ass?” I tease.

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