Page 8 of The Last Thing You Said

“I’ll bet. What time should I pick you up? The movie starts in, like, forty-five minutes. Are you ready or what?”

“I’m almost home. Give me fifteen minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you out front.”

I’m surprised to see Dad’s truck in the driveway. He’s been pulling a lot of weekend shifts at the plant. The driveway splits off to the right to our neighbors’ house, the Clarks’, and next to their old brown Buick is a car I’ve never seen before. A silver Volvo—sleek, urban, out of place.

“Dad?” I call as I open the front door, but there’s no answer. I run up the stairs and pull a fresh T-shirt and skirt from a laundry basket on the floor and take a quick shower, not bothering to wash my hair. There isn’t time to blow-dry it so it won’t frizz. I twist it into a messy bun and secure it with a clip.

As I sort through a porcelain dish of earrings to find a matching pair, I nearly tip over the framed photo next to it—a picture Ben took of Trixie and me at Canal Park in Duluth last summer, laughing and squinting into the sun, the Aerial Lift Bridge behind us.

I touch my fingers to the photo.

Both of those girls are gone.

Tucked into the corner of the frame is the memorial card from her funeral. I pick it up and open it to the George Bernard Shaw quote inside: Life is no “brief candle” for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible.

It was the first quote Trixie wrote in our Book of Quotes, followed by song lyrics and movie quotes and funny things we said—her handwriting large and loopy, mine small, careful.

I walk downstairs and step out onto the deck, looking for my dad. He’s in the backyard, down the hill at our lakeside patio with the Clarks and two people I don’t know—a tall woman in a flowing peasant skirt and a boy who’s even taller.

Dad sees me, waves, and starts up the hill, motioning for me to come down. I meet him halfway.

“Where’ve you been? Come meet the Stanfords.”

“Who are the Stanfords?”

“The renters.”

“The renters?”

“Yeah, Betty and Ron are spending the summer in Canada at their daughter’s, remember? And they’re renting out their house.”

“Oh, right.” I remember Betty mentioning something about that the last time she brought over a plate of cookies. Ron and Betty are like an extra set of grandparents. Betty loves her baked goods and we benefit from it.

“Her son’s about your age, I think,” Dad says as we walk toward the patio.

I squint as we get closer. The boy—the cute boy—stands at the fire pit. His shaggy blond hair sticks out in several directions. He’s wearing baggy black cargo shorts and a Dr Pepper T-shirt torn at the hem. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and raises it in a wave.

Betty pulls me into a hug. Her gray-haired head comes up to about my shoulders and she always smells like cinnamon rolls. “Hello, Luce,” she says, her Canadian ooo long and bottomless. “These are the Stanfords. They’re staying at our place this summer.”

The woman in the peasant skirt reaches out her hand. Her skin is soft, and her long fingers are covered with silver and black rings. She smells earthy.

“Lucy, such a pleasure. I’m Shay and this is my son, Simon.”

Dr Pepper—Simon—grins and raises his eyebrows.

“Hey,” he says.

“Mrs. Stanford is an artist,” Ron says.

“That’s Ms. Stanford,” the woman says, “but please call me Shay.”

“So,” my dad says in a big voice, “Shay asked if it would be okay if she could work down here at the patio since there’s only the dock next door. That’s okay with you, right, Luce? Let’s take a quick tour of the yard and the lakeshore before you folks get on the road.”

Excuse me? She wants to use our patio as an art studio? Our patio, with its starburst pavers and fire pit and comfy Adirondack chairs, is where I go to escape, where I can think about Trixie and cry without anyone bothering me.

I shake my head. “Wish I could join you,” I say in a false, cheerful voice. “Hannah’s picking me up in a few minutes.”

“Well, such a pleasure to meet you.” Shay puts her hand on my arm. “I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better this summer.”