“So you’re the only believer in your family. That’s tough.” He seemed to mull the statement over. “My brother was on the fence for a lot of years, nearly tore us apart with his anger over an offense that happened inside his home church. He told me once that if God and church were a package deal, he didn’t want any part of either of them.”
“What happened with him?”
“He met Rebekah.” He chuckled. “And she wouldn’t give him the time of day until he made a complete U-turn with his life, a one-eighty we’d been praying he’d make for a long time. After they married, my dad started referring to her as Saint Rebekah.”
I smiled at the sweetness of such a nickname. I could hardly imagine such an alternate reality. Me as a wayward prodigal, my parents as the faithful prayer warriors who prayed me home. “You’re really blessed to have a family like that, you know.”
He dipped his head, pinching his mouth to one side in contemplation until his eyes found mine again. “Sometimes that’s easy to forget. But you’re right. They are a blessing.” His lips parted into his signature expression once again. “What’s your game plan for surviving tomorrow?”
“Hot fudge brownies.”
Joshua busted out a laugh that melted the remaining tension in my chest. But the truth was, hot fudge brownies did have a way of making everything better. Even ridiculously hard conversations with the Bailey family.
chapter
ten
I placed my Jeep in park and something like reflux flared in my chest. My parents’ three-story, craftsman-style home loomed before me, confirming the never-judge-a-book-by-its-cover sentiment of old. Where the exterior might be polished and pristine, the reality of the dysfunction inside was . . . well, not.
Was it too late to ask Jesus to take the wheel now that I was no longer driving? Surely there was some catchy country song about entering the lion’s den on Thanksgiving Day. Where was Jenna when I needed her? She was a walking Spotify channel, always at the ready to throw out a symbolic lyric or show tune.
I stepped out of the car and opened the door to the back seat, grateful I’d gone the extra mile and frosted my out-of-the-box brownies. Double-fudge with chocolate icing might be my only ally for the next three hours. Two, if luck were on my side.
An expletive soared through the crisp afternoon air, and I turned in time to see two teen boys rounding the corner of my parents’ garage. A pair of glowing embers crashed to the ground. In an instant, the light was snuffed out completely on the paved driveway. Cigarettes. Of the many things my stepnephews had been caught doing since gaining my sister as a stepmom six years ago, this one fell somewhere in the middle. At fifteen and thirteen, Austin and Andrew Metzer walked through life with the maturity of toddlers in adolescent packages.
Neither of the boys moved an inch as I approached. Maybe, like several of my first graders, they believed if they stood still long enough, they’d simply acquire invisibility superpowers. Or perhaps they just hoped my eyesight was too poor to have seen the cancer sticks hanging from their mouths.
Unfortunately for them, neither was true.
“Happy Thanksgiving, boys.” Balancing the brownies on top of my mostly apple and grape fruit salad, I headed for the porch steps. “Would one of you mind holding the door for me, please?”
At my casual tone, the boys looked momentarily dumbstruck. Austin, the older of the two, elbowed his younger brother in the ribs as if he’d just tagged him in a game, then hightailed it around the side of the house.
The thirteen-year-old jogged toward me, bounding up the short flight of stairs in pants I suspected weren’t nearly as flexible as he made them look. How much longer would the super-skinny jean trend survive?
“Thank you, Andrew. How very gentlemanly of you.”
He refused to make eye contact. “Uh-huh.”
“Andrew?” Somehow, he managed to shove the tips of fingers into his too-tight pockets. Really, that should be a universal requirement for all pants: pockets made to fit an entire hand. “Smoker’s lung won’t get you a girlfriend.”
Eyes still averted, he mumbled, “I didn’t even inhale.”
“Okay,” I said, in an I-wasn’t-born-yesterday tone.
He stared out at the spot his older brother had occupied moments ago. “Just, please don’t tell Lisa, okay? She’s super pis—I mean, she’s really ticked at me—about my grades. I already lost my phone for a week.”
I smiled and touched his shoulder. I didn’t have it in me to rat either of them out tonight. Not when the holiday agenda would soon be overthrown by judgmental commentary over my reckless decision: a.k.a. adopting a child as a single woman on a teacher’s salary. A decision that would not align well with my mother’s “security first” life mantra.
But neither of my nephews needed to know all that.
“I’ll tell you what, if you and Austin handle dish duty for Grandma after dinner without complaining, I’ll forget what I saw.”
Relief flooded his acne-pocked face. “Wait—seriously?”
“Seriously, but you’re going to go tell Austin to put that stolen pack back in his dad’s truck, right?”
He swallowed. “Right.”
“And you’ll never touch them again? Because if I find out otherwise, I can pretty much guarantee your phone will be confiscated for a lot longer than a week.”
“Yes. Promise.”
“Perfect.” We reached the top step together. “I’m so glad we had this little chat.”
“Yeah . . . me too.” He gave me an almost-smile that, on any other day, would have made me laugh. But my brownies were sliding into my fruit salad bowl, and the purse on my shoulder had slipped down to the crook of my elbow, and I really just needed to get this holiday meal over with.
Andrew twisted the knob and popped the door open for me.
My plank-walk awaited.
Andrew slipped behind me, fading into the background of privileged suburbia with ease, while the smell of reheated turkey breast and overdone stuffing saturated the air. For a moment, the familiar aroma took me back to the days of my childhood home—one I hadn’t been inside for over a decade. Funny, because that robin’s-egg blue 1970s split-level resembled absolutely nothing of this custom-built three-story house with hardwood floors and granite countertops. But I supposed that was the thing about moving: A person could upgrade their location, their appliances, and even their tax bracket . . . and still find room to unpack their old habits.
I stepped through the entryway into the spacious and modern floorplan decked with neutral paint and thick white baseboards my mom had chosen to finish herself.
“Dad?” I didn’t know why I called it out. I knew exactly where he’d be—the same place he was every time I came over. Recliner by the window, overlooking two acres of a well-groomed lawn. A new crime novel rested on the sofa table beside him—different title and author, same CSI-looking cover, bookmarked with a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. His aluminum walker and cane resided in the corner, half hidden by the afghan he refused to use.
“Ren?” My father was the only person who called me by a nickname. “That you?”
“Sure is. Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.” I crossed the room toward his chair. “Guess what! I baked your favorite dessert.” And hopefully said dessert would sweeten him up to the idea of becoming a surprise grandfather to a child unknown . . . even to the mother.