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RAE
There wasa low hum coming from the small speaker in the corner of the kitchen. When I was growing up, it used to be a massive boom box that my father would drop a million large batteries in, so he could take it outside with him. He’d play the classic rock station, and it would always be a low hum in our house, smothering any silence that dared creep into our quieter home. Now he had these speakers all over the place, and it was odd getting used to it.
“Honey, did you bake the cherry rhubarb?” My mom craned her neck, directing her question at my father.
Dad was the baker in the family. My mother was a decent cook, a kick-ass host, and a killer business manager, but the baking was all my dad.
He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yep, it’s ready for delivery.”
Wiping the crumbs from my hands, I cleared my throat and asked, “A delivery order?”
It was Thursday night, and while I had planned to help by the weekend, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get started sooner, especially considering I had literally nothing going on. I’d completed a puzzle with my mom and sat in the garage, hearing my dad talk about the boat he was still restoring. He’d been working on that boat for years, but he was confident this was the year he would finish. I’d tried sitting on the back porch with my laptop to fulfill the fantasy I’d had while in New York, but I just sat there staring at the screen. I had to get out in the community and talk to the struggling businesses. I had to figure out who needed the marketing help, and where the greatest weaknesses existed.
“Yeah, this one is a part of the few orders that had been scheduled for this weekend, but I was actually thinking of having this one picked up…” My mom’s eyes narrowed on the chicken in front of her.
My dad furrowed his brows as if he was considering a problem of some kind.
“Hey”—I waved my hands at them—“I’m right here, no need to have him pick up. Remember, this was sort of the entire reason I came home?”
“Oh honey, that’s okay, this particular order is delicate, and it might just be better to have him pick it up from the diner.”
Delicate? What the hell did that mean?
“Who is it for?” I stood, moving around the kitchen and tugging open the fridge.
No one answered.
Abandoning my quest for food, I turned around. My parents were silently communicating with one another, using their eyes.
“Seriously, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, honey. Thomas is just cautious about who knows about him, and we try to be respectful about his wishes.”
I perked up at the name. “Thomas, as in the guy you’re always talking about?”
I pictured the strange old recluse they must be referring to, remembering all the stories my parents had shared about this man who had become close to them over the past few years.
“I can meet him; I mean, I don’t mind or anything.”
Suddenly my dad’s eyebrows hit his receding hairline. “That’s actually a wonderful idea.”
My mom gave him a long look before returning her gaze to the chicken in front of her.
“He’ll come…I know he will.” My dad softened his tone and reclaimed his seat.
My mom shook her head, staying reserved.
I felt uncomfortable, like maybe I was intruding on a private moment, and then my gut shuddered the slightest bit at the idea that maybe they weren’t comfortable with me being here.
“Mom, if you’re unsure of him meeting me then I don’t have to—”
“No, honey,” she interrupted, shaking her head, “it’s not you. I think it would be wonderful for you to finally meet him. I know you’ve heard us talk about him quite a bit over the years.”
“If you’re sure?” I snagged a can of Sprite before slinking back into a chair.
“Of course I am. We’ll plan to have him over for dinner tomorrow evening.”
“That’s sort of short notice, isn’t it?” I asked, gauging the reactions from my parents. Most people wouldn’t be able to just drop everything and attend an impromptu dinner.
