Mom holds the door open, waving a path with her hand. “There’s no age limit on welcoming someone to the neighborhood. Let’s go smarty pants.”
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Avery grumbles. “Let me loose in New York City.”
“I’ll be right in,” I call after them, hoping Mom didn’t hear her comment. “I’m going to clean up some of this stuff.” I bend down to scoop up Mom’s gardening tools from the grass, but not before I catch Avery’s waggling brows as she disappears into the house.
Navigating my way around the garage is a bit of a challenge. Piles of fabric and design books lay on the floor while Dad’s tools litter a countertop covered in sawdust. Bundles of wood from a new project he’s working on scatter the ground and it makes me smile. Dad is always dabbling in new ideas, but never manages to finish one thing before he moves on to the next. This last notion shouldn’t make me laugh, however, it does. My parents divorced five years ago but remain the best of friends. Because of that, evidence of Dad is still everywhere. Today is Wednesday, and every Wednesday he comes over and has dinner with us. This is aside from the rest of the time we spend with him. I’ll admit that it’s a strange setup. But it works for them and Avery and I couldn’t be happier they’ve remained close. It used to give us false hope. Now we understand and have settled with it.
I set the pruning tools down on the wooden counter. A picturesque rendering of a new design for our backyard snags my attention. We live in a craftsman-style home in Eastmoreland that, as far as I’m concerned, is already fairly picturesque. My mother, being a visual person, has bushes trimmed to perfect ovals and tulips in every color dotting the brick path surrounding the house. I told her I’d much prefer Mickey Mouse-shaped bushes but she didn’t go for it.
Sifting through the dusty maze, I find my way back outside. It really is a beautiful day. The sun shines bright in a cloudless blue sky. It makes me want to get in the car and drive, the wind on my face and freedom within my grasp. I really do know how Avery feels. Still, I worry about Mom.
I lift my arms above my head in a catlike stretch and make my way to the front door, stopping only when I see someone in black running shorts on the sidewalk. He’s bent over at the waist and I try not to stare, but muscular calves and a flattering behind give me pause. Asses aren’t really my thing, though. That’s Avery’s department. I much prefer eyes.
Take Exhibit A—the eyes that catch me gawking from a distance. Mortified, my cheeks flame but luckily he’s too far away to notice. He waves and I lift my hand to return it, fleeing into the house like Cinderella leaving the ball, sans the glass slippers.
Avery has her ear buds in and she’s humming along to, I’m guessing Taylor Swift, as she sweeps the floor and attempts to dance at the same time. I sidle up next to her and pull the white cord from her ear. “You might want to get started on those brownies right away.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Mom shuffles into the kitchen carrying a new batch of fabrics. She drops them on the table and tilts her head with interest. “It looks very conspiratorial.”
“Here are my three favorite girls,” Dad calls out as he enters the room, holding a slab of wood and a piece of paper. He’s wearing his favorite jean overalls and his dirty blond hair sticks out in all directions. “Who wants to help me build a birdhouse?”
Avery and I burst into laughter and she reads my thoughts when she says, “Dad, you’ve already got three unfinished ones in the garage.”
“Ahhh,” he lifts a finger in the air, “but this one is very special. It looks like a Chinese pagoda. Lots of areas for the birds to feed. This is the winner right here.” He crinkles the paper and his thick sandy eyebrows rise with his smile. “Any takers?”
“Actually,” Avery pipes up, “we were just getting ready to make some of those Ghirardelli fudge brownies to take to our new neighbors down the street.” She nods her chin at Mom. “Upon Mom’s insistence, of course.”
Mom returns a knowing smirk and narrows her soft green eyes. “Of course.”
“Right. Okay,” he answers absentmindedly, reminding me of the nutty professor with his black-rimmed glasses and quirky smile. “Well, maybe I can double back when it’s time to paint it, huh Em?”
“Sure, Dad.” I give him a thumbs-up. “Hit us up then.”
“Whaddya say, Dolores?” He sets the wood down on the center island and plucks a stale doughnut from the box.
“I can’t,” she responds, distracted by colors and texture. “I have to get these fabrics in order for my client tomorrow.”