thirty
After coffee the next morning, we head outside at exactly ten. Matteo and Slowski pull up soon after, but we have to wait on Paul.
“What the fuck? After calling us in on our day off, now, he’s late—” Danny starts.
But his grumbling is cut short when Paul speeds down my driveway, the back of his truck full of I don’t know what. He leans out of the window, almost giddy. “Let’s unload!”
As the guys move ahead, Paul all but jaunts my way.
“What in the hell is worth cutting into their time off?” I demand. “They’ve been busting their asses for both you and me. You couldn’t have given them what you promised?”
“Okay, I know. I look like a heartless bastard, but see?” He gestures behind him.
The guys are carrying an oversize farmhouse table my way, and I can see a second jutting out of the truck. And benches.
“I didn’t order these. Wait, Paul, what did you do?” I ask, now nearly teary.
“A friend of mine is a woodworker about a half hour from here. He made these. They’ll not only let you have a big group over for your brunches during warm months, but they’ll also withstand the winters with a heavy protective covering.”
When the first table is set down in front of my house, I have to take a few minutes to walk around it. This is so much more than a standard picnic table. It’s a farmhouse table that looks like weathered driftwood. I’ve never seen anything like this.
“It’s been sanded and stained,” Paul tells me. “Some other wood tones added into the original. Oak and maple. To warm up the gray.”
Danny and Matteo bring up the benches, and I can hardly breathe. These are pieces of art.
Danny is as in awe as I am, and he turns to Paul. “Nicely done, boss!”
Somewhat reluctantly, Paul shakes his hand. He’s definitely still lukewarm on the idea that Danny and I are together, but he’s trying. “Just get the other table and the benches out here. And there’s one more thing in my truck.”
Danny nods.
The “one more thing” turns out to be a rather extravagant piece. It’s a firepit but unlike any that I’ve seen before. Instead of the modern metal and stone ones that are popular in California, it’s a replica of a section of a huge tree. A round piece with what looks like bark on the outside, rich wood on the inside that matches the stain that Danny worked hard to achieve on my deck, and a place for fire in the center. It’s exquisite.
Right as they get to work, Paul shouts out, “Oh, and two more things! First, there’s now a reservation sign-up sheet for these brunches that’ll be posted at Finley’s Minis. Callie cannot be expected to routinely feed that same group of twenty-five people who showed up last week.” Before I can protest, he holds up a hand. “Yes, the usual crew is always in, but everyone else who lives in town has to sign up and go in rotation. Also? There’s now going to be a big, fat tip jar, and I expect you boys to spread the word on both of these things. Any money she doesn’t spend on food can be donated, but she’s paying too much out of her own pocket. You all hear me?”
“Yeah, boss,” they all shout back.
Everyone rushes to dig up a spot and install this cool feature because I think they know that we’ll have many nights together here. When I’m on my front porch, watching this magic happen, Paul shows up and stands next to me. Silent as ever at first.
“This is going to be such a treasured space. Thank you. I cannot wait to serve brunch outside on these tables. That tip stuff wasn’t necessary, but I do appreciate the crowd control.”
“It’s nothing.” Paul waves a hand, trying to downplay what he’s done, and then looks over the lake. “Consider the tables as gifts from your dad.”
“No. These are gifts from you. And they mean everything. Everything, Paul.”
“Then, inhonorof your dad.” Even though he ignores my thanks, I can tell that he hears me. That he feels it.
“And that firepit is going to be beautiful.”
“It is,” he agrees. “But that gift is not from me.”
“What?” I cannot fathom who else would have paid for this. Paul doesn’t flinch, but I finally tap his shoulder enough that he faces me. “Paul? Who made this happen?”
And he takes so long to answer, and his expression says so much that I know. He pretty much digs his heels into the ground before he begrudgingly says anything. “It’s from your mom.”
He might as well have pitched a softball against my chest.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
