Page 19 of Gold Rush

“He had a wonderful life,” I tell them, wishing I could come up with something more meaningful to say. Just like when Penn died, words feel woefully inadequate.

“Spoiled rotten was what he was,” Nora says. She laughs, but the sound rings more hollow than happy. “I’ve still got a big batch of his homemade dog food in the freezer. We’ve talked about visiting the animal shelter, but we’re not quite ready to move on yet. Anyway”—she tugs the strings of her apron, pulling it over her head—“I hope you’re hungry because I just baked some loaves. And we want to hear all about your new job!”

I follow her indoors, slipping off my sneakers by the bench that Byron hand-carved, along with most of the furniture in the cabin. I remember watching Byron inspect the joints of the extra-long twin bed frames when I entered my dorm room to meet my new roommate. He commented on the subpar craftsmanship while Penn rolled his eyes.

Ferdie’s bed still sits in the same spot next to the wood stove, where it was during my last visit. I pass it on the way to the kitchen table, where five steaming loaves sit. Nora sells her homemade bread at local farmers markets year-round. I’ve eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants around the world, and I would choose a slice of her miche, slathered with honey butter from a nearby dairy farm, as my last meal.

I take a seat at the sturdy table while Nora starts slicing one of the loaves. Byron ambles over to the farmhouse sink to wash his hands.

Some of the tension in my temples eases as I inhale the fragrant aromas filling the house. I’ve visited Penn’s parents every summer since starting college. The first year, I made the trip out of guilt and obligation. Since then, it’s become a safe haven. I can’t replace their son, but I’m a reminder he existed.

I glance at the framed photograph centered above the fireplace mantel. I took that picture—the last one they have with Penn. If I’d gone to that party with him, maybe I’d have driven here with him in the passenger seat. Penn always said that he’d wind up living in New York, that eighteen years in a small town was enough for a lifetime.

“Tell us what being a lawyer is like!” Nora says, approaching the table with a plate piled high with buttered bread.

“I’m not officially a lawyer until I pass the bar,” I say, grabbing a slice as soon as she sets the plate down. “Mostly, it’s been a lot of studying. Orientation for my new job starts Monday. Bar results are released in October. Assuming I passed, I’ll be licensed, and then I can do more than background research and document review.”

“My uncle was a lawyer,” Byron contributes, ambling over and taking another slice. “One town over from here actually, so very different⁠—”

“Oh, Byron, the boy didn’t drive all this way to discuss your uncle.”

“I’ll just eat my bread,” Byron says, reclining in his chair and winking at me.

“What else is new with you?” Nora takes the opposite chair, resting her chin on her hand. “How is Molly?”

“Uh … we broke up,” I admit.

“Oh, Flynn.” She’s immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I⁠—”

“It’s fine,” I say hastily. “We weren’t very compatible. It was sort of inevitable once I left Boston, I think.”

“Relationships require sacrifice, Flynn! I can’t be the only one making an effort.” Molly told me that after I drove three hours to see her, mind you. We broke up about an hour later.

“You’re a shallow playboy who’s incapable of love,” was the last thing she said to me.

Not compatible is probably an understatement.

“You’ll know when it’s the right person,” Byron tells me, which is incredibly similar to Kit’s refrain since he settled down with Collins.

In Kit’s case, I actually believe him since he’s basically pined after his now girlfriend from the second he saw her, but I don’t have much confidence in the same certainty ever happening to me.

I respect Byron too much to disagree outright, so I simply shrug. “We’ll see. I’ve got plenty on my plate with work and with starting the foundation.”

“We wanted to talk to you about that actually,” Nora says. “Are you sure taking this project on right now isn’t too much, Flynn?”

“I’m sure,” I say firmly, entirely abandoning my intention to tell them the opposite during this visit.

When I shared the idea for a foundation, honoring Penn’s memory, to his parents back in college, I hoped the project would be up and running by now. Then I did some research into what the process entailed—the paperwork, the board of directors, the cost—and realized the scope was something I’d severely underestimated. Plans were put on hold indefinitely after my dad delayed my trust for the first time. I’ll either figure out a way to get him to capitulate now, or I’ll fundraise if I have to. Whatever it takes to make The Penn Ashbury Foundation a reality.

“We just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” Byron tells me. “You just graduated from the top law school in the country and are beginning a demanding career. We don’t want you to get burned out. Penn wouldn’t want that either.”

An unexpected lump appears in my throat as I stare at the Ashburys’ kind, concerned expressions. I can’t tell them the funding might not come through—they don’t know how much I’m planning to invest. Nora and Byron loved their son as a person, not on the condition of certain accomplishments. They deserve to have him here, telling them about his job and his love life. The least I can do is try to ensure other families don’t suffer that same loss.

“I appreciate that,” I reply. “But I want to do this, and I want to make it happen as soon as possible. Once I have more details to share, you two will be the first to know.”

“Anything we can do to help, you let us know, all right?” Byron asks.

I nod, watching Nora discreetly wipe a tear before she jumps up to refill the plate with more bread.