“Can Barbie take me fishing?Please pleasepuh-lease.” Lala lays it on thick, green eyes batting and hands clasped together in a plea.
I thought puppy-dog eyes ended at age five, but at eight, Lala’s got it down to a science. While Anson might be immune to her sad little petitions, she knowsthisbig brother is the world’s biggest sucker.
Gave up trying to fight it a few years ago and accepted my place, which is wrapped around her little finger.
I search the farm’s evening cookout forBarbie,and spot him chatting with some of the boys by the fire. There’s a water in his hands.
“Let’s ask. Can you go grab him for me?”
“Yay!”
“That’s not a yes,” I call after her, as her little body weaves through the campfire-lit crowd until she reaches Kenny. She tugs on his hand, and his head cranes to hear her. Then he makes the fatal mistake of looking into the heart-yanking hope that’s inevitably all over her face, and a second later, he’s following her.
Lala’s got her small hand wrapped around his big one, tugging him until he’s standing right in front of me. Some eight-year-olds are shy, or quiet, or hampered by the beginnings of self-consciousness. But my baby sister doesn’t know what any of those words mean.
“Barbie said he’d take me!” she declares.
“Barbie said this?” I ask, looking at Kenny.
He shrugs. “Barbie said he’d check with you, but sure.”
Him using her ridiculous nickname makes her smile even bigger.
It came around two years ago, when Kenny started working with us and Lala was still in her doll phase. I shortened his name to “Ken” one day, and Lala latched right on, connecting him to her favorite blonde-haired, blue-eyed, plastic surfer boy. Kenny instantly went with it, and that put him in my good graces faster than any amount of work on the farm could.
“You had any drinks?” I ask. Like all our monthly cookouts, this one’s BYOB, and it’s a Friday night, so there’s plenty of alcohol floating around. As good as Kenny is with Lala, he’s not about to take her near the water if he isn’t one-hundred-percent sober.
He waves the plastic bottle in his hands. “Just water so far. Promise I’m in excellent babysitting condition.”
“Babysitting?” Lala’s nose scrunches in disgust. “I’m eight. I’m not ababy.”
“No, you are not.” Kenny bops her head with his bottle. “You’re the best fisherman in Garnet Shores, and we’re gonna go see what big catch you can drum up tonight.” He glances at me, asking for permission.
It’s easy to give. “I’m expecting a tuna. Maybe a shark.”
Lala’s eyes widen. “What do I get if I bring you a shark?”Thatquestion is all Anson’s influence. He keepsher away from work conversations, but his business mind is part of everything he does. No doubt he’s equipping her to successfully wheel and deal her way through life.
People are going to need to watch out, myself included.
Thankfully, sharks don’t like to hang out in the pond, so I can safely promise, “Unlimited ice cream.”
That sends her bounding off, hand clutching Ken’s again, dragging him over to the warehouse where the fishing gear lives.
I owe him for this. He’s happy to hang with her, but it’s only so much fun entertaining an eight-year-old when your buddies are gathered around a fire, passing a bottle of Mark’s moonshine as they trade stories and strum a guitar. And Lala being Lala, she’ll leach Kenny of every minute he’s willing to give, especially because she’s been stuck by my side for a full Friday of work.
I do my best to make the hours entertaining when she’s around, and she’s at the age where doing an “adult” job feels special, but work’s still work at the end of the day.
Events like this, though, inject a little fun back into it.
There’s maybe thirty people here, some from my team, some farming buddies from a few towns over, some regulars from town. Laughter and conversation buzz through the air, and fresh oysters are laid on a table beside a platter of Italian grinders and Anson’s stuffed Quahogs, which are almost gone. No surprise, considering anything my brother whips up is Michelin-star worthy.
It also isn’t surprising that he prepped them for us, despite his inability to attend because of a business event. As much of a hard-ass as he is, he’s never once skipped a food delivery for the farm’s summer cookouts. He values our little community here just as much as I do.
The smell of campfire fills my lungs as I use Lala’s absence to take a deep breath and sit in the moment for what feels like the first time all week. That breath gets stuck on its way out when my gaze snags on the figure near the food table.
A gentle smile rounds Boston’s cheeks, her feminine face cast in a soft glow from the fire as she speaks to Amanda. Her hands are swallowed by the sleeves of the same Gold’s sweatshirt I spared last week, light jeans loose around her thighs, two cute braids dangling to her chest. Everything about her is casual. Sweet and soft and very unlike the snarky hellion she usually is.
Or maybe she just seems that way because I haven’t been on the receiving end of her snark since our basketball game last Saturday.
