Page 27 of Something About September

“No, I need to get this out. What I’m trying to say is that it’s fine. You saw what I haven’t been able to see, all these years I’ve known you.”

His eyes had darkened. They were brooding gray storm clouds now. “What is it you think you’ve missed?”

“We’re meant to be friends,” she said, but she felt a twinge as she did, so she repeated it, her voice even more firm the second time. “Just friends.”

Cort looked down and away from her, picked up his mug, and stared into it instead. He didn’t say anything, so Rebecca kept talking, hoping the more she did, the more right this might feel.

“You always got that. And…” She hesitated. “Right now, I need a friend.” She reached across the table to touch his hand with hers, and stopped. “I don’t ever want to mess things up between us again.”

He was looking down at his hand where she had almost touched him, and for a second she allowed herself to imagine that he had felt it, too. That longing. But no. He hadn’t ever, wasn’t going to, and that was fine.

He looked up from their hands. “Of course, Becca. I’m here. I’m your friend. Always. You don’t have to worry about that. I promise.” Then he looked away again, picked up the dessert menu. “Do you have any room for pie?” His tone was light and she felt so much relief that she was able to ignore the small part of her that felt disappointed, that wanted something more, as she told him that of course she did—she was Lenore McIntosh’s granddaughter, after all.

Chapter 18

The windows of the Calloway farmhouse cast a warm glow in the early-evening light, and lanterns flickered along the path toward the wraparound porch. The scent of applewood smoke tinged the air, and crickets sang their ode to dusk from the grasses and shrubs. “I love September,” Rebecca said happily as she walked alongside Cort toward the house. He glanced at her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You always have,” he said. “Even back in high school, you used to tell me there was something about September.”

She felt surprised warmth. “I told you that?”

“You told me once it was the season where everyone started paying attention.”

Her steps slowed a little. As she looked sideways at him, she felt that familiar uncertainty settling in. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Now he looked down at her and his smile deepened. “And I agreed with you,” he said. “I always tell everyone my favorite month is July, but secretly, I think it’s really September.”

They had arrived at the farmhouse door, which Marion Calloway opened before they could knock. She had been passing by the diner early, just as Rebecca and Cort were pulling up after returning from their afternoon of antiquing, checking to see if Rebecca still planned to come to dinner that evening. When she saw Cort, she invited him, too—and when he said yes, Rebecca had been happy to know their pleasant day wasn’t about to come to an end.

“Perfect timing,” Marion said, drawing first Rebecca, then Cort, into a warm hug. “So good to see you both. Cort, we got so used to having you around when you were doing our attic bedroom renovation project, we’ve missed you!”

The house was filled with the sounds and scents of family dinner: James’s laughter from the kitchen, then Sabrina’s. The savory smells of onions and herbs simmering on the stove, the smoky scent of brisket.

“Smells amazing in here,” Cort said.

“Come on into the kitchen, Cort,” James called out. “I’m just carving the brisket, and it tastes better when pilfered from the platter.”

Cort laughed and went ahead, while Rebecca stood in place, still taking it all in. Then Marion was behind her, saying softly, “You’re exactly like your mother.”

She turned, surprised. “In what way?”

“Evie always did that, too. She never entered a room too quickly, especially at parties. But it wasn’t shyness that held her back. It was like she just wanted to take it all in first, memorize how it looked and felt before she stepped into it.”

“That’s exactly what I was feeling,” Rebecca said with a smile. “I don’t think I could have put it into words like that.” She paused. “I know you and my mom were close, even though you were a grade ahead.”

A smile. “We were. She was always more mature than everyone else.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to say something more, but then realized there was no way to ask, How close was she with your husband? Who would say something like that? It would be the perfect way to ruin everything. This place, these people, they were so important to her. What if there was a buried secret that could ruin all that? She couldn’t risk it.

Marion was still watching her closely. “Are you all right, dear?”

Rebecca forced her smile to return, but now it was only on the surface. “I’m great,” she said. “I missed nights like this, so much.”

“It’s always like you never left, though. Always,” Marion said, squeezing her arm. “Now, come on through. I’ve got some baked Brie with apples for us to enjoy before the main event.”

Then Sabrina was calling out, “Rebecca? Is that you? About time you showed up. Dad’s been hovering over that smoker all day like it might run off on him. I just kept making more appetizers and sides. Things have gotten a little out of control. You and Cort need to get in here and start eating.”

It was true. The kitchen island was laden with food—not just the aforementioned baked Brie, but a colorful platter of crudités with an herbed yogurt dip, apple cheddar bundles, roasted and spiced pumpkin seeds, and a skillet of creamy beer cheese.

“This looks like dinner already,” Rebecca said with a laugh. James turned, raising his carving knife in greeting.