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Stepping outside, I take a moment to look over the stretch of grass leading out to the lake. It’s almost six in the afternoon, and there are streaks of gold and pink starting to pass through the sky, reflected back onto the water in pretty, pale hues.
My niece and her mother live only a few houses down. It’s not a long walk, and I like being outside this time of the night. The mosquitoes haven’t come out yet, and the heat of the day has largely passed us by. It’s the perfect setting where I’m able to just enjoy myself.
As I draw closer to Brooke’s house, I can hear her voice lilting through the air. She’s in the backyard. I let myself in through the gate, and into the yard. There’s a large wooden playhouse on one side with a connected swing set and a sand pit at the center of it. Brooke lights up when she sees me.
She’s the spitting image of my older brother, right down to the upturned button nose and the messy mop of dark brown hair. “Uncle Grant! What did you bring me?”
I laugh, rustling her hair when she gets close enough. “That’s some way to greet me. Are you out here alone, sweety?” I know her mom is working from home this evening. Some important conference call. I told her I’d help out by bringing over dinner and spending some time with Brooke in the backyard.
“No, I’m with her.” Ashley Lange is hanging over the wooden fence between properties. Her long, blonde hair hangs loose over her shoulders, though a crystal butterfly clip has been slipped in at the bangs. It’s hard not to notice that when she leans forward like this, her blouse billows out and shows off her lacy, pink bra. “What did you bringus?”
“Oh, it’s an us now, is it? Have you two unionized against me?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Ashley.
Brooke asks, “What does that mean?”
“It means that we demand dinner rights,” says Ashley.
“Oh.” Brooke turns back to face me. She plants pudgy hands on her hips. “Then yes!”
“Fine, fine, I can see that I’m outnumbered. Are you coming over to this side, or am I going to have to hand-feed you over the fence?” I ask Ashley, holding up the picnic basket.
Before I know it, Ashley’s coming around, letting herself into the backyard, and we’re all seated at the old wooden picnic table under the oak tree. I like Ashley. She’s a fun person to be around and even better, she’s good with my niece.
I think that kids who have lost a parent need all the support that they can get. Ashley isn’t part of our family, but she’s been our neighbor for the entire time that I’ve lived here. Though I didn’t really know her back then, she was living next door when my older brother, Thomas, came home with Brooke in a bundle of blankets, and she was there when Brooke’s mother, Sasha, had to put her husband in the ground.
During those early months, Ashley always seemed to be over here, doing whatever she could to help Sasha—and to distract Brooke. She had just graduated from high school and was supposed to enjoy a carefree summer, but she chose not to. I think that's a sign of someone with a good heart—putting so much effort into helping other people the way that Ashley does.
“Oh wow,” says Ashley, stabbing another tortellini with a fork. “This? This is insane.”
“It’s box pasta,” I tell her, amused. “But thanks.”
“Sure, it’s boxed pasta.” Ashley makes a point of swirling the next tortellini around the container, gathering as much sauce up on the pasta as she can. “But you look me in the eyes and tell me that this sauce came out of a jar. I dare you.”
I relent, “Alright, alright, that didn’t come out of a jar. But it’s not that difficult to make. A white rue, some singed garlic, and a lot of butter. I can show you sometime.”
“No,” squeals Brooke. “Don’t let her in your kitchen!”
My brows raise.
Ashley looks away, a little sheepish. She takes another bite of pasta and then admits, “I might not be that great in the kitchen.”
“They were poison cookies,” says Brooke, with the kind of conviction that you can only get from a five-year-old. “I think she was trying to kill Momo!”
Momo is Brooke’s dog, an old, yellow lab that mostly sits around in the kitchen hoping for scraps.
I hum. “Trying to kill Momo. You know, that sounds like an awful thing to do.”
“He wouldn’t eat them,” admits Ashley. “I don’t really blame him. I wouldn’t want to eat them either. They were a little black. Okay, maybe a lot. And kind of raw. And they didn’t… They didn’t smell great.”
“It sounds like you need a lot of lessons,” I say, trying not to smile at the idea too much. “Or else you’re going to find yourself eating frozen pizza and salads for every meal.”
Ashley laughs and gives me the sweetest smile. She spears another tortellini with her fork, using it to gesture at me. “Or I just need to find a husband that can handle all of the cooking for me. I think that might end up being the safest bet.”
Brooke gives an assured nod. “Yeah. Definitely the safest. Don’t let her cook you anything, Uncle Grant. She won’t do it good.”
“Alright,” I promise Brooke. “I’ll find someone else to give Ashley cooking lessons. How about that?”
