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Sutton is seated in the very first row, next to her father. She’s changed from earlier, into a dark blue dress with a ruffled hem and capped sleeves. Her blonde hair is down and loose in curls hanging halfway to her elbow. A slight breeze picks up the occasional strand, lifting and playing with it before dropping it back into place.
I scrub a palm across my face, forcing myself not to look at her by removing the sight entirely.
Fifteen minutes later, the service ends. People rise gradually. Slowly. Filter back toward the farmhouse in small groups. Despite living in Brookfield for most of his life, Joe Everett didn’t have much in the way of roots here. He kept to himself and his cows for as long as I knew him. Maybe it had been different before his wife died. His shiny headstone is located right next to her weathered one.
“My middle name is June. After my grandmother.”
I can’t get her out of my head.
“Should we head over to the farmhouse?” Tanya’s question is tentative. Quiet.
I nod an agreement, and we follow the trail of other mourners across the grass and inside the white farmhouse. Tanya is silent the whole walk. She feels out of place here, and I don’t blame her. She’s lived in Brookfield for less than a year. And she moved here from Phoenix, which has many more substantial differences than just the weather.
When Sutton’s father, David, told me the date for the service and said anyone was welcome to attend, I didn’t hesitate to take Tanya up on her offer to come with me. My plan was to show up, pay my respects to the man who had overpaid me to shovel cow manure, and spend the rest of the day grading tests or doing the yardwork I’d been putting off.
Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated.
But thensheshowed up, and none of those adjectives apply anymore.
An array of food has been spread out on the rectangular table in the dining room. I pick up a plate and fill it with a random assortment—including Tanya’s banana bread—because that’s what everyone else is doing.
Tanya falls into conversation with Leslie Timmons, who has taught English at Brookfield High School for the better part of four decades. She’s good friends with Lily Everett—Ellie’s mother, Sutton’s stepmother. Mabel Joseph hobbles over to join them as well, never one to turn down a chat.
I end up in the living room, talking to Eloise Midler, who lives across the street. Her husband, Larry, is in a wheelchair, so I mow their lawn in the summer and shovel the driveway in the winter. Every time I see her, she tries to pay me, and every time, I refuse. I’m no longer the teenager working two jobs to make ends meet. Teaching isn’t lucrative, but I make more than enough to cover my expenses. I’m not going to take money from an elderly woman who happened to be my grandmother’s best friend. I can still clearly picture the two of them hurrying back and forth between Grams’s cottage—now mine—located on the right edge of the Everetts’ farm, and the Midlers’ split-level on the opposite side of the pavement.
This time, when I refuse any money, she has another offer ready. “How about you come over for dinner next week? Bring that pretty girl of yours too, if you’d like.”
I’ve been stealing glances toward the front door, visible through the long hallway, waiting for Sutton to come in. But it turns out, they were unnecessary. My back is to the entry, but Ifeelwhen she walks in. Without looking around, I can sense her approaching. Eloise is watching me closely, and I don’t think it’s because she’s waiting for an answer to her question.
I give her one anyway. “I’d love to.”
She pats my arm. “It’s never too late to leap.”
I inhale, pulling those words in with oxygen. It’s been a long time since anyone said them to me. Mostly, I repeat them in my own head. And they’re what make me look over my shoulder at the blonde steadily headed this way. Sutton has paused, pulled into a conversation with James Percy, Brookfield’s mailman. But then she’s in motion again, blue dress swinging and light hair swishing.
Heading straight toward me.
I should react. Say something to Eloise and pretend like I’m having an actual conversation, not entirely focused on her. Instead, I just stare.
I could look at her forever and never get sick of the sight.
“Eloise. How are you?” Sutton says the words while looking at me.
Her gaze shifts to Eloise when the old woman replies, “I’m wonderful, dear. My condolences about Joe. He was a good man.”
“He was,” Sutton agrees.
“You were missed around here. Isn’t that right, Theodore?”
Sutton smiles when Eloise says my full name. Eloise pins me with a look that clearly reads what my answer to her question is supposed to be. My answer comes easily, though. Truthfully and without prompting from an elderly neighbor.
“You were missed,” I confirm.
I missed you.I think it; I don’t say it. Holding back words is second nature when it comes to Sutton.
The only time I didn’t, it ended poorly.
“I’d better grab a refill,” Eloise says. “Might take a minute.”
