“Because he’s a bloody suck up,” Camden mumbles as he washes his hands in the sink next to me.
This makes me smile. Today was Hayden’s first proper Harris Sunday dinner. Gareth definitely helped clear the path for his re-entry into the Harris brothers’ good graces. Whatever Hayden said to him at Leslie’s wedding must have won him over because I’ve never seen him react to a boyfriend this well. Although, after this Barcelona battle, I’m quite certain Hayden will be on Booker’s shit list for quite some time.
“Oi!” I interrupt finally after having listened to this dreary argument for nearly twenty minutes now. “Enough. I’ve brought presents for everyone and I’d like to hand them out now if you’d all shut your gobs.”
Hayden and Booker’s heads both swerve to me. Booker’s expression looks positively psychotic. Hayden’s face is flushed red with anger, but his eyes heat with a different kind of fire when they land on mine. God he’s beautiful. And he loves me. I bite my lip to conceal my happy smile and stand to grab the large bag I brought over with me. Everyone settles back into their chairs, Booker still mumbling obscenities under his breath.
“So,” I start as Hayden takes the heavy bag from me and sets it on the table. I grin at him just as he pats my bottom subtly behind the table. “This is something kind of special that took some organising for me to get it all perfect. As you all know, I went through Mum’s cookbooks and basically claimed that entire box as my own. But what you don’t know is that it wasn’t just cookbooks in there.”
I reach in and pull out a wooden keepsake box. My fingers smooth over the glossy wood and I smile recalling the night I helped Hayden stain these. I sit down on my stool and eye all of my brothers meaningfully. “There was a special book inside the box that wasn’t full of recipes. It was full of poems. Poems that Mum wrote. I couldn’t read them for the longest time because they were written in Swedish. And it took some time for me to get them all translated. But that’s what I’ve done here.
“They all vary in topics, but the majority of them are her feelings she had during motherhood. And there’s several poems about you, Dad.” I stop and look at my dad whose eyes are rimmed as he stares at the box in my hands.
“I’m not sure I can read them,” he croaks and turns away, a faraway look in his eyes. Gareth eyes me seriously, speaking straight to my soul with unspoken words about the guilt our father must still carry with him.
Grabbing the box, I walk over to him and touch his shoulder. He shudders with emotion and Tanner and Camden’s eyes go wide in confusion. “You must read these, Dad. The way Mum spoke of you,” my voice cracks. “We should all be so lucky to find what you two had.”
Dad looks up to me. His dark blue eyes glistening with unshed tears as his chin betrays him with a mighty wobble. “I should have done better.”
I smile sadly. “You did what you could. Mum saw that. And she loved you fiercely. Even in the end. You’ll see.” I push the box toward him.
“Oh Vi,” he croaks and pulls me down into a fearsome hug. “Thank you, my darling.”
“You’re welcome, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you too.” He releases me and I see even Camden’s eyes red around the edges.
“Chin up, men. Let me pass these all out. I have specific boxes for you all because Mum also saved some crafts that we made for her as kids. Booker, your craft is quite awful, really…You were only one and very clearly untalented.”
Camden and Tanner howl with laughter. Dad places a reassuring hand on Booker’s shoulder all the while his belly is shaking with silent laughs. Booker frowns in annoyance. “That’s just cruel, Vi.”
I giggle and wink at him while peeking inside each box and handing them out appropriately. I carry Gareth’s over to him and notice that he’s been eerily silent this entire time.
“There’s a special one about friendship in there,” I say quietly to Gareth. “It’s called ‘Friendship Has No Age’ and I’m pretty certain it’s entirely about you.”
Gareth’s jaw clenches and he nods woodenly. They all open their boxes and begin shuffling through the poems that I had printed on special paper. “Dad, I put the Swedish originals in your box.”
“These boxes are beautiful,” Booker says, rubbing his fingers over the underside of the lid where Hayden burned an inscription on the interior:
Vilma Nystr?m Harris ~ Wife, Mother, Friend
An original soul always in our hearts.
“Hayden made them, actually. All of them. And he did the inscription.”
Booker’s eyes lift to mine and then flash over to Hayden. He frowns and croaks seriously, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Hayden replies and the two of them exchange subtle nods. A peace offering, perhaps?