“They’re going to drown,” Judge Beck commented, the amusement in his voice making it quite clear that although he did believe that his two children were going to wind up in the river, they were hardly going to drown.
We were sitting outside under the gazebo, iced tea in hand as we watched Madison, Henry, Sean, and Chelsea work on their entry for this year’s Locust Point Regatta. My boss, J.T., had originally declined to enter, claiming that between business and his YouTube channel reality show, he didn’t have the time to build a boat. There was a lot of publicity in having an entry, though, so when I suggested that the kids might be willing to do all the work if he footed the bill, he’d jumped at the offer. ‘Boats’ could be created using scrap parts taken from actual boats, but couldn’t have more than three hundred dollars’ worth of materials in them. This made the race one huge comedy show complete with the frantic bailing of water and contestants swimming for shore as their vessels sank. It was part of our town’s Fourth of July weekend celebration and had always been a much-anticipated annual event along with the parade, the concert in the park, and fireworks. Local businesses sponsored most of the activities, and town residents took note of those who did, rewarding those companies with their hard-earned dollars throughout the year.
“Dad,” Henry called out. “We’re going to need more glue.”
They were going to need a heck of a lot more glue. I got the idea that most of J.T.’s three hundred dollars was going toward the marine glue and sealant that coated the giant raft. For pontoons, the kids were using huge PVC pipes and chunks of Styrofoam. There was to be a test run tomorrow morning on Suzette Hostenfelder’s pond, and I had a bad feeling we’d be dragging a sunken raft out of the water with Suzette’s truck.
Judge Beck got up to fetch another container of glue from the garage while I leaned back and enjoyed the view. My hot tub bubbled away at the end of the yard, ready for the kids once they were done with their raft. The herb garden was neat and verdant, little copper signs labeling the different varieties. My roses were just starting to bloom, the flowers actually visible this year now that I’d torn all the weeds and rogue maple seedlings from around them. Taco sulked in the enclosed ‘cat run’ that the kids had made for him. I felt guilty that he wasn’t free to dart around the yard, chasing insects and birds and rolling in my patch of mint, but after Mr. Peter’s death nearly two months ago, I hadn’t wanted to risk him getting killed himself—either by a sword-wielding murderer, or a car. I felt the cat run was a good compromise to keeping him in the house all of the time, but Taco didn’t agree.
Madison and Chelsea came to join me in the gazebo, both girls splattered with paint. They’d been in charge of beautifying the raft and announcing J.T.’s sponsorship, thus the whole thing was a DayGlo shade of pink, with Pierson Investigative & Recovery Services in black on the sides. Thankfully the sponsor’s name was long enough that it cut down the eye-watering amount of bright pink.
“Did you hear Holt Dupree is coming back in town for the holiday weekend?” Chelsea asked me, her face flushed with excitement. “He’s gonna be in the parade and help MC the regatta.”
“Wasn’t he signed on to the Falcons?” I asked. “I thought he’d be at training camp or something already.”
Holt Dupree was our very own home-grown celebrity. He’d propelled our local high school football team to state four years in a row, starting varsity his freshman year. As impressive as his playing was, no one was surprised when the scholarship offers came pouring in. Of course, a small-town football star didn’t always bring in the big names, so everyone had been surprised when he turned all of the free-ride scholarships at the b-level schools down to accept a tiny one at LSU. I remember thinking that he was a fool. There were thousands of high school athletes with dreams of a pro career, but few of them ever saw those dreams realized. The odds were good that by his second year in college, he’d be on the bench, taking out a ton of loans to pay for his classes, and desperately trying to figure out what kind of back-up career to choose. The wiser choice, in my opinion, would have been to take the full-ride at a smaller school where he’d be guaranteed play time and could graduate with a degree in accounting and his CPA license.
Holt Dupree proved all of us naysayers wrong. We all followed his games, cheering at each tackle and fumble recovery. By his senior year at LSU, the whole town was buzzing about how he was a real contender on the draft pick lists, and was looking at a big fat contract.
I still think an accounting degree and a CPA would have been a good idea, since athletes can see their careers crash around them with one catastrophic injury, and this year’s coveted draft pick can often end up traded away in the spring.
“Yeah, the Falcons,” Madison told me. “Third round draft pick. Can you imagine? Right out of Locust Point High School!”
Did I mention that Holt Dupree was a celebrity? Our July Fourth festivities were going to completely revolve around him. The town might as well call the holiday Holt Dupree Day instead.
“He’s riding on the high school football float,” Chelsea added. “I wish I was a cheerleader so I could be up there with him.”
Madison rolled her eyes. “He’s twenty-two and has a NFL contract. He’s not going to want anything to do with high school cheerleaders.”
“Like that’s gonna stop any of them from trying.” Chelsea flipped her hair back from her shoulder, sticking her chest out. “Oooo, Holt. You’re soooooo amazing. Tell me all about that football stuff you do, even though I don’t know a wide receiver from a full back. Let me show you my new cheer where I do the splits at the end.”
Both girls giggled.
“I don’t like jocks anyway,” Madison confessed. “Give me a cute nerdy boy any day.”
There was a hint of ‘the girl protests too much’ about her dismissive tone that I recognized. The high school football stars never gave Madison a second look. It was easier to feign disinterest than look like that desperate girl who didn’t have a chance.
“Isn’t Austin Meadows on the cross country team?” I asked with a smile. He’d taken Madison on a date to a movie a few weeks back. I knew this because her father had nearly had a heart attack over the whole thing.
Madison turned bright red. “That’s not the same. Track, cross country, and soccer guys are cool. They’re not jerks like the football or basketball guys.”
“How about baseball guys? Wrestling team? Or golf?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “We have a golf team?”
The poor golf team. Those guys, and gals, never got any respect. “Yes, you have a golf team. I highly recommend dating a golf-guy.”
“I highly recommend she wait until she’s at least twenty before dating anyone, even a golf-guy.” Judge Beck rounded the corner, a container of glue in hand. “And there’s no way you’re getting on a float with Holt Dupree even if you suddenly make the cheerleading team.”
Madison sniffed. “Dad, he’s twenty-two. He’s not even going to look at me. And when are you going to stop being so weird about me wanting to go on dates? Are you going to do the same thing with Henry, or is it just because I’m a girl? I’ll bet you don’t have any problems with him dating girls at fifteen. Not that Dork Face will ever work up the nerve to ask a girl out,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“I held hands with Heidi French in third grade,” he shouted back. “And asked her to dance at the Teen Mingle last month. By fifteen, I’ll be Mister Smooth.”
I bit back a smile. The few times I’d seen him in conversation with female classmates, Henry had seemed unaffected by the paralyzing anxiety that struck so many teenage boys. I wouldn’t exactly call him Mister Smooth, but he had a relaxed, friendly style that I knew put girls at ease.
Which meant he’d probably wind up in the Friend Zone, as Madison called it.
“Trust me, I will have lots of problems with Henry dating at fifteen. I don’t, however, have a problem with him dancing with Heidi French at the heavily chaperoned Teen Mingle. That’s very different than being unchaperoned in a dark movie theater. You both are growing up too fast,” he complained. “I’m going to put a book on top of your heads to slow you down a bit. Perhaps one of my big, heavy law books.”
Madison wrinkled her nose, taking the glue from her father. “I wish you would. I’m taller than almost every boy in my school. I’m even taller than Mom. I hope I stop growing before I reach giant status.”
“Well if you see a cake that says ‘eat me’, don’t,” I teased. “Clearly you’ve had too many of those already.”
She shot me a puzzled look. Did no one read Alice in Wonderland anymore? It was a sad state of affairs when one couldn’t make an Alice in Wonderland reference and expect at least three-quarters of an audience to ‘get it’.
“There won’t be any boys for me to date if I keep growing,” she complained ignoring my cake comment. “They’ll all be shorter than me. And if I wear heels, they’ll be a whole lot shorter than me.”
“Don’t judge a man based on size—” Oops. “I mean, based on how tall they are. Date the shorter guys who don’t care that you’re tall. Those are the ones you want. Those are the guys who aren’t intimidated by a statuesque, smart, successful woman.”
“Some tall men aren’t intimidated by statuesque, smart, successful women,” Judge Beck countered. “Or even by average height, smart, successful women.”
Was that a compliment? Did he add to his statement reminding me that he was tall and liked assertive women, to add me, a not-very-statuesque woman, into that liked category?
I didn’t reply, a bit flustered, and turned to busy myself with the plants I wanted to repot. Madison and Chelsea skipped off with the glue, and Judge Beck turned to me, a wicked glint in his eyes.
“Did you almost give my fifteen-year-old daughter the ‘size doesn’t matter’ speech?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” There was no denying it, although when I’d been talking about size, I hadn’t been referring to…that.
He laughed and looked over toward his kids, his expression softening. “They really are growing up too fast. Madison will be sixteen next month, graduating high school and off to college in two years. Then Henry three years after that. I’ve got only five years left with them.”
I made a pffft noise. “You’ve got a lifetime with them. Instead of children, you’ll have a very different, but equally rewarding relationship with them as adults. And eventually you’ll have grandkids to spoil and dote on.”
“Yes, but only five years of this.” He gestured toward the kids squealing and laughing as they waved paintbrushes at each other like they were sabers.
I knew how he felt. It was like a knife in my heart each time I thought of it. Judge Beck would have a lifetime with these two. I only hoped they’d remember that lady they lived with for a few years, and occasionally call or send a Christmas card.
“Cherish this,” I said, more to me than to him. “Cherish it and what comes after. All you can do is love how they are today and have faith that there are more good times to come than you’ll ever imagine.”
“Kay, you are the very definition of an optimist.” Judge Beck turned to me with a quick smile, then headed over to assist with the waterproofing efforts on the regatta raft.
A shadow formed over near the hydrangeas, edging closer until it was just off my left shoulder. Eli. At least, what I’d come to think of as my husband’s ghost. His presence reminded me of a time when I’d thought all was lost, when I’d gotten that call before dawn and frantically raced to the hospital, still in my pajamas, terrified that I wouldn’t get there in time to say ‘goodbye’. I hadn’t always been an optimist. But sometimes, when life throws a giant curve ball, all a person can do is to hope for better. So that’s what I did. Then as well as now.
I set my plants aside, and dusted the dirt from my hands. Today was a glorious day, and I intended to savor every moment of it, as well as have faith that there would be more to come.
“Who’s ready for frozen strawberry smoothies?” I called.
There was a chorus of ‘me’. Even the judge chimed in. Eli had always loved frozen strawberry smoothies in late June, when it was just starting to get hot and we could sit out on the back porch and sip our drinks in silence, our hands entwined just like Henry and Heidi French in third grade.
“Coming right up,” I called out, a contented smile on my lips as I climbed the stairs to the kitchen door.
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