She sighed, but I saw the spark of a grin back there. I had her number and she knew it.
At the beginning of the school year, Randa had joined a brand-new program for gifted teens who went to the Chiqetaw Middle School. Within two weeks, my brilliant daughter had promptly nosedived in English, receiving a high D on the first two quizzes. Given her past performance, stellar except for English and P.E., where she’d always managed at least a C, her advisor called me. Mrs. García de Lopez suggested either letting her work it out on her own, or requesting a tutor before the problem got any worse.
Much to Randa’s dismay, I’d chosen the latter. When she whined, I firmly reminded her that she’d gotten what she hoped for—more challenging schoolwork—and now that she belonged to an advanced group of students, she’d better get used to the extra effort. In all subjects, not just her favorites.
“How’s Gunner working out, by the way? Is he any good?”
A flush raced up her cheeks and she ducked her head. “Yeah, though he could lighten up a bit,” she mumbled. “He doesn’t think anything matters except English. He’s really talented. The teacher thinks he can make it as a writer.”
Um hmm . . . the red face, the mumbling. My little girl was getting her first crush, though I wasn’t about to say anything. Fourteen is a volatile age and I didn’t want to embarrass her, especially in front of her brother, who would use juicy information like that to his best advantage.
I turned my attention to Kip, who launched into an explanation of the Trojan horse—he was learning Greek and Roman history this year. Half-listening, I pulled the steaks out of the fridge. Joe had placed them in a Ziploc bag, added port, ground black pepper, basil olive oil, and a little Worcestershire sauce earlier in the day, and set them to marinate. They smelled heavenly. A quick rummage through the cupboard uncovered a platter on which to arrange them after they finished grilling.
“Would you please start on the potatoes?” I asked Randa.
“How many?” she asked, without complaint. Randa had recently learned how to cook and had developed an unexpected liking for simpler tasks, especially considering how she’d kicked and screamed her way through home economics the first year.
“Enough to fill the red bowl. If you’ll peel and dice them, I’ll boil and mash. And then, if you would fix a salad, I’d appreciate it.”
With a nod, she headed into the pantry as Joe popped into the kitchen. I winked at him. “Hurry up, Files. We’re doing your work for you!”
Kip and Randa waved a friendly hello. Miranda accepted our relationship in stride. She liked Joe, and never complained about him hanging around. And Kip . . . Kip was overjoyed, what with having another man around the house to listen to him, throw a few balls, help with model cars. Joe won his heart when he’d challenged him at a few video games.
Joe managed to walk a fine line, never interfering with my parenting, but neither would he allow himself to be a doormat, for which I was grateful. I might have the last word with the kids, but they always treated him with respect.
While Joe and Kip grilled up the steaks, I mashed the potatoes and Randa put the finishing touches on the salad. The French bread was ready to go in the oven, and Joe would make a gravy out of the marinade. Horvald had promised to bring an apple pie from Davida’s Choco-hol Bakery, so dessert was taken care of.
Promptly at seven, the doorbell rang and Horvald wandered in, pie in one hand, bouquet of mums in the other.
“The last from my garden,” he said, holding out the flowers. The retired security guard had a thumb as green as my name, and kept me in freshly cut flowers all summer long. Horvald also kept an eye on us, which was comforting considering some of the mishaps we’d gone through. He was more like a grandpa than a neighbor.
Randa swept by, gracefully scooping the pie from his hands, and scurried into the kitchen. I snagged an empty vase from the living room and we followed her. As I arranged the flowers in the vase, Horvald sat back, watching.
“The four of you make quite the team, don’t you?” He wasn’t joking.
I glanced at Joe and Kip, who were carrying in the platter of steaks. The smell wafted ahead of them, convincing my stomach that, yes, food was on the way and the danger of starvation would be staved off for yet another day.
With a gentle nod, I returned Horvald’s gaze and smiled. “Yeah, I guess we do.” We gathered around the big old kitchen table where, for a moment, the only sound was that of stainless on china and the busy cutting of meat.
After we were all settled into our meal, I turned to Horvald. “How long are you going to be gone?” I asked. He and Ida—my babysitter extraordinaire and a fine retired schoolteacher—had become an item earlier in the year.
“Just for a few days. We’ll be back in time for your birthday, though. Ida and I are driving down to the Salish Lodge & Spa at Snoqualmie Falls. We leave tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Cool, we’ll keep an eye on your houses for you,” I said.
Joe suddenly set down his fork and turned to Horvald. “You’ve lived around here a long time, haven’t you? You must have seen the changes that have gone on in this neighborhood.”
“I’ve lived in Chiqetaw all my life,” Horvald said. “Why?”
I immediately caught Joe’s drift. “I suppose you’ve noticed that we’re clearing out the lot next door. We haven’t told many people yet, but Joe put money down on it a couple months ago and the owner said we could start in on it whenever we wanted. We’re tearing out all the brambles so we can see what we have to work with.”
“You thinking of putting a house there?” Horvald asked. I could sense he was brimming with questions.
Joe shrugged. “Maybe. The thing is, today we cleared out a patch in the middle of the lot and found what looks to be an old foundation. A basement of some sorts. And we found what looks like it might have been a driveway at one time. Do you know if there was ever a house on that lot?”
“Way cool!” Kip jumped up and started for the back door.
I caught him by the arm. “Just where do you think you’re going, kiddo?”