“We probably have time before breakfast to stop by and?—”
“No way. You already made enough food to feed an army. No presents. If you overdo it, she’ll be able to tell. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
Her fingers toyed idly with the waistband of my boxers, and I had to work hard to stay focused.
“Okay,” she murmured grudgingly.
“Okay,” I echoed. “Good.”
She smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Jack.”
I nodded. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”
Bonnie
Everythingwasfine. Just like Jack had promised.
But just to make sure, I’d blurted out, “I love your birdhouses!” as soon as the door had opened.
Lia’s shrewd gaze had slid from me to Jack and then back to me again before she’d ushered me inside—leaving Jack standing on the porch—and showed me even more of her collection.
The birdhouses lined the perimeter of the kitchen. They stood in all shapes and sizes at intervals above the scarred wooden cabinets.
It was a little surprising. This no-nonsense woman with her gray hair and stern features collecting something so delicate and charming. But maybe that was why I liked it so much. The habit had endeared her to me right away. Even if she hadn’t been Jack’s grandmother, I would have wanted to know the sharp-tongued widow who had a soft spot for birdhouses that looked like whimsical cottages and decorated her life with them.
Jack had reiterated that it wasn’t necessary to contribute to the meal, but instead of arguing with me, he’d suggested that I bring the batch of blueberry muffins to share. Everything else had gone into the fridge or the freezer.
That was probably smart. I’d definitely overdone it. I could see that now. But when I’d woken up early, anxious over the prospect of meeting someone so important to Jack, I’d wanted to do everything I could to make our first interaction a good one.
I’d nearly burnt the popcorn last night when he’d invited me, surprise and hope freezing me in place. Obviously, I was curious how many women Jack had introduced to his grandmother, but I wasn’t about to ask. It spoke of desperation and was, maybe, a little too honest. Not to mention, pretty telling about where my head was at.
But now our plates were scraped clean and we were sipping our second cups of coffee at the small round kitchen table while Lia asked me questions about teaching and my family and even Oreo.
Most of my nervousness had come to rest, settling into all the tiny cracks in my armor, but no longer overwhelming me. Jack was right. I did know how to talk to people. Maybe it was from spending over a decade as an educator. I’d been dealing with parents and administrators and peers for a long time. Plus, you never knew what ridiculous thing was going to come out of a kid’s mouth. Teachers had to be quick on their feet and able to do a lot with a little. Even if Lia had been tight-lipped and grouchy, I probably could have coaxed some conversation out of her.
As it was, she was curious about me and obviously cared a lot about Jack. I could see it in her sharp glances and her quicktongue, the teasing between them that spoke of history. Even the indulgent way he called her Lia instead of grandma. Their relationship was unique. Maybe not overly affectionate, but it was still love. Something timeworn and tethering. Loyalty, plain and simple. And that was something I could understand.
Jack and Lia had survived hardship. They’d experienced loss together, and sometimes there was nothing more binding than that.
Their relationship was different than the ones between my family members, but no less impactful. The Clarks were a demonstrative bunch who gathered often and burrowed into each other’s lives and business. But that wasn’t the only way to show someone you cared about them.
Family filled any shape you put it in, like the air we breathed. It fit itself into the mold it was given. Through time and circumstance, loss and love. There was no perfect configuration or the right arrangement.
Jack and Lia had made a family out of what they had left, and bonds like those were often the strongest of all.
“You know Jack made that one,” Lia said, drawing me out of my musings. She lifted one finger from the edge of her mug and pointed toward the top of the cabinet over the sink. “The one you were admiring just now.”
My gaze focused on the birdhouse she’d indicated. It was a little bigger than the others, nearly grazing the textured popcorn ceiling. It looked like the perfect stereotypical family home that every child has probably drawn at one point or another. There was a door in the center with windows on either side. The darkroof, an inverted vee. But where the birdhouse’s design was traditional and fairly basic, the details really shone.
The shutters on either side of the windows had been engraved, each line etched perfectly in a beautiful imitation of wood grain. There was a white picket fence that surrounded the house, obviously hand-painted with care and attention to detail.
“Jack made it?” I asked, eyes still soaking up every part of it.
“Yes, he built it,” Lia replied.
Finally, I turned to him. “Are you a secret carpenter?”
Jack said no at the same time his grandmother said yes, causing me to laugh and Jack to roll his eyes affectionately.
