I followed his gaze to see Ian jogging along the worn path between the orchard and the farmhouse. His shirt was bright in the fading twilight, a pale beacon as he ran.
But as he drew closer, I noticed his white crewneck sweatshirt was actually pale pink, with darker irregular splotches. It looked like a failed attempt to tie-dye something.
Or the result of a red sock sneaking into the wash.
My eyes narrowed as he approached. We’d had that weird conversation about laundry the other day, but surely?—
“Am I doing okay, Coach?” Ian called.
I felt my lips twitch. “Stop swinging your arms so much.”
Ian laughed, his smile standing out against the invading dusk. Without slowing, he hollered, “Hi, Mr. Judd.”
“Hi, Ian,” my dad replied. “See you for poker this week?”
“Yes, sir. Wouldn’t miss it. Y’all have a good night.”
And then he was gone, angling up the drive behind the house that would lead to the highway and back toward the Clarks’ land.
I gave my father a long look. “Poker?”
My dad had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “He’s so bad, Joanie. He has no idea what he’s doing. But Reggie and I are teaching him.”
Nick Judd avoided my incredulous stare. “Is this an adopt-a-celebrity situation? Is he here to make a movie or to learn life skills from the Judd family?”
“Your mother was the one who gave him her lasagna recipe. He said he wanted to try to make it himself.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
He pointed an accusatory finger at me, and then ruined it by sounding like a toddler. “You started it!”
“What?”
“Training him for a 5K. Pfft. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Dad,” I gasped, mortified.
My father laughed before patting me on the shoulder. He turned to make his way inside, muttering, “He’s a good boy. I like him, even if he can’t play poker.”
I stared after him until the screen door settled into place, wondering when our lives had taken such a strange turn.
Sophia texted me Tuesday afternoon and asked if George could stop by for a bit. She said he had something important to ask me, but he wouldn’t tell her what it was.
I’d already tilled a space for the tulips I’d picked up yesterday after talking to the florist, so I told Sophia to drop him off if he wanted to help me plant them.
An hour later, we were sorting through tulip bulbs. I had a new friendship bracelet dangling on my wrist, and George next to me on an overturned bucket.
His little feet dangled as he swung them back and forth. With pants too short, I could see his pink socks standing out beneath the hem.
I remembered my brother, Brady, at that age. He’d been a gangly, knobby-kneed little thing. His beanpole body would shoot up randomly, and, as a result, all his pants would be too short all of a sudden.
“How’d your socks end up pink?” I asked.
George rolled his eyes, and I thought his growth spurt must have skipped straight to adolescence. “Uncle Ian tried to do laundry and ruined all our socks and underwear. Miss Sophia said to be patient and not to be too hard on him. That he was obviously in the middle of a nervous breakdown, whatever that is.”
My laughter caught in my throat. Eventually, I managed, “And this is a new thing? Your uncle doing the laundry?”
“Yep,” George said. “And the dishes and cooking. We made brownies yesterday that were so gooey we had to eat them with a spoon. But I didn’t mind. They tasted good. Uncle Ian even let me put ice cream on top.”
