“Hey, Pa, what’s for dinner?”
Einars pulled a square, white dish from the top oven and set it on a blue and white ceramic trivet. Sanna grabbed two plates and a serving spoon, preparing to start scooping.
“Let it cool. You can pick out the veg.” He pointed his oven-mitted hand to the freezer. She opened the door and grabbed the bag on top—green beans. She tossed them into the microwave and turned back to her father as he pulled a second dish out of the bottom oven; this one scented the room with cinnamon and apples. Einars had long insisted on an apple dessert every day, their reward for tending the orchard so carefully, or so he told her. She thought he just wanted a sweet every night.
“Cheesy chicken noodle and cobbler?” Sanna pointed her chin to the potato chip–topped casserole and toasty brown pan.
He nodded. When their veggies dinged, they scooped out servings and poured drinks in a synchronized routine, ending with them sitting at the table in silence, Sanna’s mind wandering to the fresh bottles waiting to be filled with a new batch. Between bites, Einars cleared his throat and pulled her back to dinner.
“Anders called today,” Einars said.
Sanna kept chewing—she didn’t trust herself to not make snide comments about her absentee brother.
“He invited us to Thanksgiving at their house this year.”
Sanna swallowed before she choked on her food, gulping it down with her milk. She couldn’t contain a small cough, which her dad interpreted as intentional.
“He’s trying to stay in touch. It wouldn’t kill you to reach out to him, too.”
“Pa, I’m not going to argue about him. You know how I feel.”
Sanna took a big bite so she could avoid saying more about her brother.
“I told Bass he’d start with you, tomorrow.”
But this was not the topic change she was hoping for. Sanna stopped chewing and took another drink of her milk.
“I’m not dealing with him. He can help you or his dad. I don’t want him near the cider stuff.”
“You will deal with him.” Einars pointed his fork at her. “He broke your equipment and he needs to work it off.”
“I don’t like kids.”
“You don’t know any. Besides your nieces, who are, frankly, pretty spoiled. Not all kids are like that—you were an okay kid, once. He’s working with you, and that’s final.”
Einars went back to scooping forkfuls of chicken and noodles into his mouth, ignoring Sanna’s blinking. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d issued a direct order. Maybe never.
“Fine. I’ll teach him curse words. Even the really bad ones.”
“At ten, he’ll probably be teaching you a few.” Einars snorted a laugh. “And you’ll need to cancel any plans you might have for tomorrow, Isaac and Bass are going to have dinner with us here.”
Sanna shrugged. Thad wouldn’t care if she canceled. Their mutual apathy was one of her favorite things about their weekly outings.
“Besides, since when do we hire help in June?”
Einars looked quickly at his plate, trying to spear a green bean on his fork. “I’m not so young anymore. I can’t do what I used to.”
Ridiculous. Just last week she’d seen him install her new fermentation tanks. This was absurdity. There was no reason for him to mess with their routine. It had worked great for a decade, and there were no grounds to change it now.
She cleared their plates when they were done and set them next to the sink. Their deal was he would make dinner and she would clean the dishes—though he cleaned while he cooked, so her job was easy. With a quick peck on his cheek, she shooed him from the kitchen with a plate of cobbler in his hands, set her own plate next to her journal, then filled the sink with steaming water and fluffy bubbles—doing the dishes by hand gave her time to think.
The journal itself was one of many bound notebooks she had. This one had a faux lizard cover and a ribbon placeholder. Each one was a little different, wide lines, no lines, leather bound. Whenever she found one she liked, she bought it. They were the place where she scribbled every thought, every experiment, every success, and every failure of her cider making. The early ones overflowed with more failures than successes, but lately the drawings had evolved. She pulled out her colored pencils and started layering colors, stopping long enough to turn off the water and set the dishes in the water to soak.
She wasn’t particularly artistic, but without thought she knew the combination that would get her the color she wanted. Last night she’d arrived at a rich royal made up of layered cobalt blue and indigo, and she knew exactly what it would taste like. Dry, but not bitter, with a bold apple finish. Not shy of what it was, but proud and majestic.
Tonight the greens she sketched spoke to her of gentle whispers and a soft sweetness, with just a lilt of apple, but very refreshing. She’d need to finish her orchard chores with Bass early if she’d get a chance to play with this. She’d met him for two minutes and was already annoyed by the little beast. Frustrated, she slammed the journal cover closed, causing a scrap of paper to escape and flutter to the floor. She had a routine, a life, and babysitting a little boy did not fit into it. Giving up on her journal, she scooped a bite of her dessert and turned to the dishes in the sink, taking regular breaks for another bite of cobbler—leaving a trail of water from the sink to the counter. As the sun took its last few breaths before night, the answer to the Bass problem hit her.
Kids didn’t like her! Her nieces had made it abundantly clear that her short hair and mannish clothes made her a loser, as did her lack of knowledge of any current movies or shows. Not to mention, on more than one occasion she’d made them cry with her blunt opinion on their spoiled behavior. She’d just be her normal self, and the kid would most likely beg his dad to get away from her.
Standing at the counter, solid with her decision, she scraped the last of the cinnamon sauce from the plate and set it in the deflating bubbles. Just being herself was the perfect solution. She picked up her dad’s empty plate from the end table next to where he shuffled through orchard paperwork, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. She finished washing their dishes, retrieved her novel, and curled into a chair, confident tomorrow would put an end to needless disruptions.
CHAPTER FOUR