Page 56 of Taking A Chance

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Oh, call me Judy,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “None of thatma’amstuff.”

I nod, sticking out my hand in preparation for a shake, but she embraces me instead, wrapping her delicate arms around me with a surprisingly tight hold.

“You have a lovely home,” I say, as she pulls back from her embrace.

“Thank you so much,” she says.

Considering the span of time they’ve lived here, the house is in immaculate condition.

“And who’s this out here?” a man’s voice booms as he steps out of the front door and onto the porch.

It’s not hard to guess. Declan’s father looks just like Declan. Or I should say, Declan looks just like his father. The two are spitting images. His father’s jet black hair is graying at the temples, and his laugh lines are much deeper. Crow’s feet line his nearly black eyes. But there’s no mistaking it.

“Cora,” Declan says, pushing me toward him. “This is my father, Eben.”

I put my hand out once again to shake, but this is a family of huggers for sure. The older man embraces me warmly. It’s not one of those awkward hugs you feel forced into.

“It’s nice to meet you, Cora,” Eben says. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

I deliver a quiet but sharp look to Declan, hoping my facial expression says,“What the hell did you tell them?”;but he just smiles, completely content.

“Come on in,” Judy says. “Dinner is almost ready.”

We step through the threshold and into a well-decorated foyer, then into the living room and open space to the kitchen.

“It smells great, Mom,” Declan says. And something about the softness in his voice catches me. It’s different with Judy.

“Declan, why don’t you give her a tour? I’m sure she’d love to see where you grew up,” Judy says, rounding the kitchen’s center island to stir something in a pot.

“Come on,” Declan whispers to me. “I’ll show you around.”

We start up the stairs to the second floor of the home, but I stop mid-climb. On the wall, all the way up, are family photos. Declan in a traditional school pose catches my eye. He doesn’t have long hair here, nor the cut he has now. His hair is nearly buzzed all the way to his skin. But he wears the same bright smile.

“I think I was in eighth grade there,” he says. “It was a terrible fashion year.”

I laugh, my attention snagging on the next photo. It’s older, black and white. Baby Declan in his mother’s arms. He can’t be more than six months old, all rolls and wild baby hair.

“You sure were a cute baby,” I say. “What the hell happened?”

Declan laughs as he grabs me. “Oh, you got jokes, huh?” He pokes fingers into my ribs until I cry out in laughter.

At the top of the stairs, he points to various rooms, showing me the bathroom, then his parents’ room, and so on, but stops in front of the door furthest from the landing.

“And my room,” he says. “My mother’s kept it the same since I moved out for college. It’s like a time capsule in here.”

His words make me eager. I’m eager to know younger Declan, to be in his space, see where he slept.

He opens the door slow and wide, allowing me to step in before him, and my eyes dart everywhere. The walls are painted a navy blue, the bright white trim of the windows popping against it. A full-size bed sits on the far wall of the room, covered in white bedding.Teenager Declan slept there.

“What were you like as a teenager?” I ask, stepping to his dresser and examining the items on top. I run my hand over some art awards.Best in Show. First Place. Judge’s Pick.So many medals.

“Uh, well,” he hesitates. “That’s probably a question better suited for my mom, to be honest.” He laughs.

“Well, what do you think you were like?” I ask, adjusting the question.

“Nerdy,” he says. “And very much a loner. I took every art class I could get into, including the advanced ones. I always had paint on my clothes.”

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