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“Thanks, Mom. Love you.” I set my phone down on the table with a heavy sigh, and then crack open my MacBook.
Chapter 9
Agnes’s driveway is as long as my father’s, giving me plenty of time to study the little white rectangular house ahead of me as I approach, my sweater pulled over my head to protect my hair from the gloomy drizzle that’s been falling all afternoon.
It’s a mirror image of my father’s house, save for the baby-blu
e siding and the front door, painted a deep crimson that delivers a much-needed punch of color. She doesn’t have the additional garage, but there is a small shed on the left, with a large green garbage can propped against the side. Agnes’s truck is parked in front of it.
Gripping the sad bouquet of daisies in one hand, I knock on the door. A moment later, I hear Agnes’s reedy voice holler, “Just come in!”
Warmth and the delicious scent of roasted chicken and herbs envelop me as soon as I step inside, and I steal a moment to marvel at how different this house feels from the cold, dark one across the road. For one thing, the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all open-concept, filling the length of the house. A short hallway divides two sides of the back, leading to the bedrooms, I presume.
For another, it feels like a family home. It’s simply furnished in beiges and grays, the furniture bland in style but clean and well maintained. But, where my dad’s place is void of character, Agnes has infused small touches of personality everywhere. Rich hues of red and burnt orange color the walls. The couch is adorned with cushions with birds hand-stitched into their fronts. Wooden masks and swirling artwork that must be tied to her Native roots hang on the wall, and the entire wall beside the hallway is filled with framed photographs of people, many wearing colorful beaded headdresses and animal-pelt coats. Her family members, I presume.
“So? You survived your first day in Alaska well enough?” Agnes asks, her back to me as she inspects a golden chicken sitting in a pan atop the stove, looking fresh from the oven.
“It was touch-and-go for a while there, but yes,” I joke. I spent most of the day updating links on the website and setting up draft posts for Diana so they’re ready for her to add her words. I floated from the duck-infested kitchen, to the painfully bland living room, to the screened-in porch—which could be comfortable enough if not for the piles of clutter and decrepit vintage-style aluminum lawn chairs—and then finally my bedroom, where I ended up drifting off for an hour.
All in all, it was a peaceful yet uneventful afternoon, after a difficult morning.
“I hope you brought your appetite. We’ll eat as soon as the guys get here.”
The guys? “Which guys?” I ask warily.
“Just Wren and Jonah. They should be here soon. Jonah got stuck up near Nome with the fog, but it was beginning to clear when I left. He figured he’d make it back in time.”
“Jonah’s coming, too?” I struggle to hide my displeasure.
Agnes smiles. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”
I sigh heavily. Yeah, I’m guessing everything “will be fine” in Agnes’s eyes.
Fucking hell. I can’t get away from this guy.
“Jonah has worked for your dad for over ten years now. He’s like his right-hand man. Does all the risky off-airport landings for the hunters and fishermen, sorts out most of the plane issues. And the customer issues, not that we have that many. Helps Wren make the tough decisions. He’s a good guy, once you see past that hard shell.” She glances over her shoulder at me, her eyebrows arching when she sees the daisies.
“Just something to say thanks. For dinner . . . and everything else you’ve done.”
She smiles wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time anyone brought me flowers. It’s been a while.”
I damn well know Jonah hasn’t. But has my father, ever? Is he the kind of man who would? Have they ever had the kind of relationship where he should?
“Do you have a vase that I can put them?”
“I think I have a tall jar. I’ll have to dig it up. Just leave them on the counter for now.”
Setting the bouquet down, I yank my sleeves up and head for the sink to wash my hands. “What can I help with?” I note that the table has already been set.
Agnes peers at the tall pot that sits on a trivet, and then at me, as if considering. “The potatoes need mashing, if you don’t mind?”
“No problem.” I can’t remember the last time I mashed potatoes. Mom has all but eliminated them from our house, the carbohydrates “devastating” to her waistline. But every once in a while, I come into the kitchen late at night after she’s gone to bed, to find Simon at the table with a bowl of instant mashed and a sheepish look on his face. Where he’s ferretted those packets away, I haven’t figured out yet.
“The masher is over there.” She juts her chin toward a drawer. “And there’s milk and butter in the fridge. Wait, can you have that? Because we can make it without.”
I smile, appreciating her concern and the fact that she remembered. “It’s fine. I’ll skip the potatoes.” I push up my sleeves and set to work. “So, did my dad say anything about bringing my luggage home today?”
“No, but I expect him to. The plane should have arrived an hour ago.”
