Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“It’s so bucolic, isn’t it?” River quips, stretching out an inked arm to show off the white farmhouse with the wraparound porch.
“Rustic is more like it,” Owen says from inside the house.
I glance at Grant and mouth, “Such flirts.”
“I know, right? I tell them that all the time,” Grant remarks.
“Hello! I heard you.” River parks his hands on his hips, his floppy hair falling across his forehead.
“It isn’t a secret,” I point out.
“And who is dishing, now?” Owen pops into the doorway. “I love a good secret.”
River points his thumb at his college friend. “Don’t tell him any. He can’t keep them.”
Owen shoots a dirty stare at River. “My job is literally to keep things confidential, and I am excellent at my job.” Shaking his head, he turns to Grant and me as we walk up the steps. “Lies. He tells lies.”
I wrap my free arm around my guy and say with private humor, “Someday . . .”
Grant nods and agrees. “Yup.”
“Someday what?” River glances between us in suspicion.
I pat his shoulder. “You’ll see.”
“And to think I helped the two of you way back when,” River grumbles as he swings open the door for us.
“For which I am eternally grateful,” I say as we head inside, then I lift the bag from the organic market. “We picked up some salads on the way. Tofu and kale and stuff. Want me to do anything with them?”
River snatches the food from me. “Nope. I’m just going to hide it all.”
Laughing, I ask, “Why would you do that?”
“Because Owen’s niece is obsessed with tofu, and I’m trying to introduce her to the joy of ice cream,” River explains matter-of-factly.
“You’re such a troublemaker,” Owen says. “My sister is going to kill me.”
“Fortunately, she’s not here yet.”
River winks. It includes all of us, but it feels like it’s meant just for Owen.
Pearl, Owen’s seven-year-old niece, isn’t just obsessed with tofu and kale. She has a thing for the outdoors too. That afternoon, as I’m standing on the back porch while the sun travels across the sky, the busy blonde kid stops at the top of the stairs, looks at me very seriously, and asks if I know how to build a dam.
I roll with the non-sequitur and answer in the same tone, “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Oh, good. You can be my assistant, then,” she announces and scampers down the porch steps. When she realizes I’m not following, she turns back, hands on her hips, expectant.
I glance behind me. Grant is inside catching up with River on bar business, while Reese, Holden, Owen, and Pearl’s parents are gathered in Adirondack chairs at the end of the porch, having fallen down the rabbit hole of one of those what-color-is-this-shirt Internet optical illusion debates.
There’s only me, and when I turn back to Pearl, she is still waiting.
Oh.
I literally point at myself. “You want me to help you build a dam? Why?”
The kid says, “Because I’m not allowed to go to the stream without a grown-up and everyone else is busy.”
I cannot argue with that logic.
After a moment’s hesitation to see if an alternative will appear, I gulp down my nerves and follow her to the stream that rings the property.
How hard can it be? I can do this.
The little blonde forewoman tells me to find some good sticks while she picks the best spot to build. I gather supplies and watch out of the corner of my eye as she judges where to dam up the stream. When she decides, she plonks onto her knees in the wet grass, and I cringe.
“Aren’t you going to get dirty?” I ask and get a look like I inquired if the water was wet. “I’ll rephrase. Are your parents going to be upset when you come back to the house all muddy?”
“You can’t build anything without getting dirty.”
I’m not going to argue with a seven-year-old philosopher when she has a good point. I focus on my task then show her my collection of sticks. “Will this be enough?”
Pearl shakes her blonde pigtails. “A few more. We want to see how much the dam can hold and then we’re going to sneak up, like double agents, and yank up all the sticks and watch the water pour down.”
“You’ve clearly thought this through,” I say, kneeling by the stream with my latest load of supplies.
“Well, it’s not my first dam,” she says with a shrug.
“Be careful,” I say as she leans over the water to sink a stick pylon upright in the mud. Fine, the stream is only a foot deep. Still, something could happen.
As the kid chatters, occasionally giving me instructions, suddenly I’m debating the merits of various tree branches for dam construction, and oddly invested when Pearl places a few last sticks, stopping the water. “There.”
“Well done, engineer,” I say.
Pearl lifts her head to grin at me, but something makes her eyes widen, and she points. “Ooh! I see a hawk.”