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“He sees my in-laws regularly,” I tell her.
“Not the same. She was his mother. She deserves to have that place in his life. Be sure he knows who she was.”
I nod. It’s a good idea. And not one I’d ever thought of. “My mom has his baby books. I’ll see if I can get them so I can show him some pictures.”
“You really loved her, didn’t you? Melanie, I mean.”
“Yeah.” I reach for her hand. “I did.”
She stares silently out the window for a moment. “Do you know why I like the rain so much? Walking in it? Standing in it?”
I always just assumed there was no discernible reason for her to stand in the rain. “No. Why do you like the rain?”
“When I was a little girl, it’s one of the very few memories I have with my parents. One time they came up here for a weekend when I was about seven years old.” She sucks in a breath. “Anyway, we spent the whole weekend together, which was something we didn’t do very often. But it rained the whole weekend. I sat and stared out the front door, and it was absolutely pouring rain.” She grins. “My dad grabbed me and picked me up and we walked outside in the rain, and he spread his arms and said, ‘The rain’s not so bad, Abigail.’ And we stood there in the rain so long that my mom came to check on us, and she stood in the rain with us. We jumped in puddles and walked down to the dock, and we just sat there and got soaked.”
“And that’s why you like the rain?” I ask, not able to fully understand.
“No, not so much the rain, but I like the memory of that day. My parents were always busy, and they sent me to Gran’s every summer, every school holiday. Every day I wasn’t in school, they took me to Gran’s house. So I don’t have a lot of good memories of them, since I was never with them much. Even now our relat
ionship is strained because I never knew who they were. I didn’t know them. And they were my parents. All children deserve to know their parents, to be told they are desperately loved. And I’m pretty sure that your late wife desperately loved that boy.” She stops and sniffs. “Sorry, didn’t know I would get all emotional.”
“I’ll go get his photo albums and be sure he knows how much she loved him.” I swear it. I promise it. I will do it.
“Just so you know, I think I love him already,” she says, her voice loud and proud.
“Good.” I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it again. “Because he totally wants you to be his mom even though he didn’t come out of your hoo-ha.”
She laughs until she snorts. Then we get back to the cabin and she unloads all the stuff on the kitchen counter. She hides the condoms behind her back when her grandmother looks over, and then rushes to take them into the bedroom.
Rachel, Gran, and Mitchell have already cleaned the fish, so I set up the cooker outside and we all stand around and talk while the food cooks. Mrs. Marshall does, indeed, make some kick-ass slaw.
Mitchell notices the bracelets we’re wearing and asks about them. I take the one I got for him from my pocket and he slides it onto his wrist with a grin. “We all match,” he says proudly.
After we eat and enjoy a quick batch of s’mores, Mitchell falls asleep in a chair next to the fire and I let him stay there for a little while as I listen to Abigail joke around with her friends.
Mrs. Marshall suddenly stands up. “I’m going to bed.”
“You’re sleeping in my bed, Gran,” Abigail announces. “I changed my sheets.” She grins at her Gran.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asks. She glances toward me, but I stay silent and wait.
“On the couch,” she answers. “Camille and Rachel can have the spare room.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Marshall hums. “Abigail Marshall,” she says, pointing her finger toward the house, “you better get in there and get those boxes you thought you were hiding earlier and you take them with you when you sneak out to go have your sleepover with Ethan.”
Abigail jumps up and rushes toward the house, but she winks and grins at me as she walks by. She comes back a minute later, carrying her pajamas, a toothbrush, and the package that Shy gave me earlier.
“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,” Camille sings out.
“I’m going to sleep on Ethan’s couch,” Abigail announces loudly.
Camille snorts this time.
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” She stands up taller and stares at me.
I pick Mitchell up so I can carry him inside. She tells the others good night and follows me.
“I really can sleep on the couch,” she says.
