Page 96 of Every Chance After

Marina introduces the bulky man emerging from the truck as Peter Pike. Marigold lights up when she sees him, her usual expressionless face beaming into an almost-smile. I fielded texts in the family chat all day yesterday about Marigold’s late-night date and her new desk, delivered promptly at ten yesterday morning. It’s nice putting a face to the guy who seems to be romancing my sister. I have to give him credit. Building a high school crush an art desk after upsetting her, keeping it for years on the chance she might reenter his life, and then presenting it, hulk-style, to her when she happens to visit your tenant and following up that genius move by dazzling her with trains—I don’t blame her for being enamored with him.

Based on the Tripp family texts, we all are. Marigold hasn’t had many friendships, none that have stuck, anyway. Dating prospects have been an even farther reach—she’s never shown interest. Now, even I see the sparks between them. It makes me smile.

Marina bypasses questions about the structure by organizing us to move it into place—an effort she attempts to join, taking one side, and I quickly refute, reminding her that she’s still healing. Though big, it’s not very heavy. We move it exactly where Marina wants it—butted against a sprawling live oak between the store and the swamp.

It’s a half-circle structure with pallets for floors and old doors for walls, some with windows, one with stained glass, and all different paint colors. A glass and wood hodgepodge that somehow works elegantly together. A metal roof finishes the piece, creating an eclectic covered porch.

“What the hell is this?” Wade barks. “Grandma’s garden shed?”

“No, your smoking porch,” she returns. “Going family-friendly means no more smoking in the store. So, with Pete’s help, we devised a pleasant alternative.”

She doesn’t wait for their reactions but turns to Marigold. “Your first project is to create an employees-only sign, weatherproof and rustic to hang on this. Christie, you’re responsible for chairs, environmentally-friendly ashtrays, and twinkle lights.”

He claps and bounces in his hot pink clogs. “On it, Marnie!”

Then, she breathes in deeply, eyeing the structure with awe. “It’s perfect, Pete.”

Wade examines the structure sheepishly. Roy scratches his head. Marigold and Pete talk softly to the side.

I move beside her, nudging her shoulder and admiring her and her efforts at once.

“How in the world did you come up with this?” I ask.

“Oh, with the help of my elaborate Pinterest board and my carpenter neighbor with a shed full of scraps, and a serious interest in seeing Marigold again. It didn’t take us long once we figured out the plan. Isn’t it cool and weird?”

“You’re cool and weird.” Her eyes cut to me, making my head swim. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” She laughs.

“Blown away is more accurate,” I admit, an uncontrollable rumble stirring in my chest. “This. The way you handled Wade. How you’ve helped Marigold. You’re incredible. Truly.”

Her pale cheeks pinken as she shrugs. “Thanks. What can I say? I’m a strategist. Can’t expect them to give me their all without giving them something first.”

“Smart.”

“I’m surprised you’re here today,” she says, shuffling on her white sneakers.

“Couldn’t miss this. It’s okay, right?”

“Of course. Always. Just… could we talk? If you have time?”

Her arms fold over her green notebook, her brow pinching as she awaits my answer.

As if I could say no.

“Wren! Honey, what happened?” Christie’s distress pulls everyone’s attention to the black-haired teenager behind us. Her arms are folded over her untucked white button-down, and black streams of mascara streak her tear-stained cheeks.

Christie races over to his upset daughter, and she says weakly, “I got fired.”

“Oh, honey, you hated that job anyway. Bad energy,” Christie consoles.

“She didn’t even give me a good reason,” Wren sobs, “just that I no longer met expectations.”

Christie gasps with offense.

Roy and Wade meander over, serious looks under their ragged facial hair, and Wade says, with a fatherly tone I’ve long forgotten, “Want us to rough someone up?”

“We’ve got chainsaws, hungry gators, and alibis,” Roy adds, making her laugh.

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