Page 48 of The Fae’s Treasure

“I know. It’s convenient, right?”

“But it’s tiny. I read the article in the Pine Ridge Gazette when all the seniors were doing that Team Paws thing, and the high school kids and the Lumberjacks hockey team were helping the residents get pets. I mean, I can tell that they allow dogs, but they only have a dozen residents. Earl will never get in.”

My friend is usually way more gutsy and gung-ho. She must be thrown for quite the loop, and I get it. If I didn’t like my brother-in-law much, and he was suddenly moving into my little town and bringing a truckload of tricky legal, financial, and medical problems with him, I’d probably be in a tailspin, too. “They must have a waiting list, or maybe they can recommend someplace. Maybe he can stay with Marlow just for a few months until a spot opens up,” I soothe. “Why don’t you figure out where Marlow is going to stay, and I’ll make some inquiries at Hilltop Home?”

There’s a long pause, and then Cindy says, “That’s super sweet, Cath, but I don’t feel like I can ask you to cold call a senior living place for me.”

“It wouldn’t be a cold call. My class is part of Team Paws Jr. They raise money for pet supplies with read-a-thons, bake sales, and stuff like that. Grace Sanderson-Cameron and her husband run the place, and they pitched the idea of ‘Adopt a Grandparent.’ My class will be there tomorrow to make paper turkeys and read their poems on thankfulness, and then in two weeks, they’ll be there to do a snowflake craft and story time. Then—”

“Cathy, stop. You’re amazing, but you’re making my biological clock ring like crazy, and I have to hit the snooze button.”

“Making crafts and reading stories is getting to you?” I admit I’m shocked. Cindy has always been the brash one of my friend group—the Three Cs, Cindy, Claire, and me, Cathy. Cindy was the wild child, and now she’s the wild wife, the one voted most likely to need bail money for public indecency. (Claire and I have a bet running on when and where it’ll happen.)

“A little. Doesn’t it ever get to you? I mean, out of the three of us, you’re the one I always thought would be playing house by now, probably in an apron and heels, hanging out in a natural wood and beige nursery.”

“Ew. Children need colors.”

“I’m teasing! But you radiate maternal energy—which is probably why you want to step in and help me solve everything, Mama Bear.”

I smile at the exhaustion and love in Cindy’s voice. “That’s what any friend would do, silly. Look, you go work on Marlow’s housing; I’ll work on Earl’s. Talk to you tomorrow afternoon after dismissal—but I’ll be later than normal. I have carline.”

“Got it. Thanks, Cath.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and rise, slowly gathering the stack of grading I need to do and the lesson plans I need to finalize. I wipe down desks. Straighten little chairs. Smile at all the artwork that decorates the wall behind my desk.

My classroom feels like home. This is my second year teaching, and I still like it. No burnout yet.

Actually—the opposite. This school goes through a fair amount of turnover, but I don’t know why. I love the kids here. I feel like they’re my babies, even though I know I’m just their teacher.

I stop and put away a couple of books left out on the beanbag chair in the Book Nook and have to stand still, suddenly crushed by the weight of the longing inside of me.

Being a daughter is great. A sister? Terrific. A teacher? Wonderful.

I’m twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. Words like wife and mom have been tossed around as being part of my life since I could understand words. With high school sweetheart parents and a big family, I always assumed that I’d have at least started on the path to having a family of my own.

I thought I’d at least have a serious boyfriend by now.

It’s been a long, long time—since before I transferred from Cape May County Community College to NYU Pine Ridge.

All the men I meet at school are the dads of my students or colleagues.

Off limits.

All the men I meet at my part-time waitressing job at the River House are on dates or family dinners. Off limits.

All the men I meet when I take my kids on their visits to Hilltop are in their seventies or eighties. Not off limits, per se, but not ideal, either.

Stop it. You’re being selfish and thinking of yourself when you need to help Cindy and Lennox.

I flip through my planner, find the number for Hilltop Home, and decide to put it in my phone since it seems like I’ll be coordinating a lot of Team Paws Jr. stuff for the elementary school.

Because I’m one of the young, single teachers with a lot of drive for my school and no one but a little black-and-gray kitty named Iggy waiting for me at home.

“Hilltop Home, how may I help you?” Grace’s sunshine-in-a-bottle voice chirps in my ear.

“Hi! This is Cathy Bainbridge from the elementary school.”