I feel my cheeks warm. “It’s only been a couple of months.”
“Sure.” Hazel sighs. “Truth is, things were bad long before their divorce. We all saw it, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.” She flashes a knowing smile. “Now, the boy’s acting like someone lit a candle in that cave of a heart.”
Claire gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow. “Also, the way he looks at you? Whew. Like you hung the moon. Or at least made the chowder.”
That shouldn’t make my eyes sting, but it does.
Claire’s posture eases. “Is it true you’re headed to New York soon?”
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “First of September.”
“Well, that gives you time,” Hazel says, handing me a wooden spoon and gesturing to the simmering pot. “To stir. And maybe figure out what you’rereallyhungry for,” she adds with a sly wink.
I take the spoon, blinking fast, heart suddenly a mess as if I’ve been handed a rite of passage.
Claire walks past me and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Just don’t overcook the potatoes. We’ve got a strict policy: mushy spuds, no soup privileges.”
Hazel elbows her. “Let the girl stir in peace. She’s clearly got enough on her plate.”
Knox re-enters with a grin, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Remote crisis averted. Turns out Grandpa just needed his glasses.”
Hazel chuckles. “That man’s had the same prescription since 1978.”
Knox leans over to peek into the pot, his arm brushing mine. “Smells incredible. Is it safe to say I missed the hard part?”
Claire crosses her arms with mock offense. “You missedmypart, which is the hardest.”
“Of course. Adding the crispy bacon.” He straightens and presses a hand to his chest. “And I’ll never forgive myself.”
Claire swats him with the dish towel, but she’s smiling.
Hazel gives the chowder a final stir. “Alright, moment of truth. Let’s taste.”
We each take a spoon and gather around as if it’s some sacred tradition. The broth is creamy and briny, the potatoes soft but intact, the clams perfectly tender. And the bacon addition—amazing.
Knox hums low in approval. “Not bad for a team effort,” he says, catching my eye with a look that makes my knees untrustworthy.
Hazel lifts her spoon like a toast. “To love, in all its forms. And to not screwing up a family recipe in front of company.”
Claire raises hers, too. “And to honorary seats at our table. Earned, not given.”
I lift my spoon, heart tight. “I feel pretty honored.”
Knox squeezes my waist. “You should.”
Hazel claps once. “Alright, let’s eat before it goes cold. Someone go fetch my husband before he gets too cozy in that recliner.”
“I heard that,” Sy calls from the den. “And Iamcozy, thank you very much.”
Knox laughs and grabs the wheelchair folded near the doorway. “Come on, old man. Time to feast.”
A few minutes later, we’re all gathered around a worn oak dining table. The overhead light casts a buttery glow on the mismatched place settings. Hazel ladles chowder into our bowls like a proud general serving up victory.
“This recipe’s been in the family since my great-grandmother made it during the Depression,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Back then, it was more potatoes than clams and no cream. Just broth and whatever milk hadn’t turned.”
Sy grumbles as Knox pushes his chair into place. “And every generation since has messed it up with their modern nonsense.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “Like bacon?”
