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Garrett
Iwalk into Mom’s door, and the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon hits me.
There is nothing in the world like Sara-Beth Tuttle’s homemade cinnamon rolls, fresh out of the oven.
Following my nose to the kitchen, I find her in an apron, placing a pan on a copper trivet.
I reach out and snatch a piping hot roll and take a big bite.
Mom smacks at my hand. “You’re going to ruin your appetite. Those are for after breakfast,” she scolds.
“Trust me, I’ve still got plenty of room,” I assure her around a mouthful of delicious dough. “How did you know I was coming by this morning?” I ask.
The cinnamon rolls gave it away. They’re my favorite, so she must have expected me.
She shrugs. “I didn’t. I just hoped,” she says.
I take a seat at the island, and she slides a plate of fried livermush, scrambled eggs with cheese, and crispy hash browns in front of me.
“What’s on your agenda today?” she asks.
“Langford and I are going to look at the property he has for sale this evening, but I wanted to talk to Pop first. Is he around?” I ask as I dig in.
“He’ll be down any minute.”
She doesn’t even get the words out of her mouth before we hear his boots coming down the back stairs. I smile at the sound of the creaky step two down from the landing. More than once, that step gave me away when I was sneaking in or out of my room in the middle of the night. It annoyed Pop, but he never made a move to replace it. With six boys in the house, it was his own personal tattletale.
When he gets to the kitchen, he looks at Mom and then at me, and then he turns and walks straight out the back door.
“He’s really mad at me, isn’t he?” I ask as the sound of the door slamming rumbles through the kitchen.
Mom’s worried eyes follow the vibration.
“He’s just a little disappointed,” she says.
Shit.
“A little? I’ve been in town a week and a half, and he hasn’t spoken a single word to me.”
She brings her gaze back to me. “Perhaps you should go talk to him.”
I debate on skipping breakfast and hightailing it back to the Man Caves, but I know that’s the cowardly thing to do. I have too much respect for my father to let anything fester between us, so I push my plate forward.
“Can you keep this warm for me?” I ask.
She smiles, and I can read the relief that crosses her face.
“Of course.”
I stand and make my way to the back door. I feel like a little boy headed out to take his licks for misbehaving.
I find him and Graham out by his workshop with a piece of lumber atop his sawhorse. When he sees me coming, he stops the blade.
“Graham, Pop,” I greet.
I slap my brother on the back when I make it to them. Pop just grunts, steps on the pedal, and continues to slice the wood. I stand patiently and wait for him to finish. When he does, he tosses the two-by-four to the side and removes his safety glasses.
“What are you two working on?” I ask.
“We’re framing out the new built-ins Mom wants in the master bedroom. She decided the fireplace was a waste of space, being as they always use the one in the living room. So, we are capping off the chimney and pulling it out. We’re adding these shelves in the space and a nook above it for the television,” Graham explains.
“Sounds cool,” I tell them.
