We’d been eating on the front deck, with Eddie up on the roof keeping an eye on everything. Once upon a time I’d been worried when he’d jumped up there, but I’d laid those worries to rest long ago. He was fine up there. I even joined him, every once in a while, just to get a different view.
I smiled at Kate. “We,” I said, “are going over to visit Barb and Russ McCade tonight. They’re great people and they’re looking forward to meeting you.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
“Because they’re friends of mine and . . .” I stopped, because I didn’t have an answer for her. Not one that would make sense to a seventeen-year-old. Because how many high school kids could understand how rare true friendship was? And that the opportunity to grow that circle of friendship was a chance to grab on to? I was mixing metaphors in my head, which was never a good sign for comprehensible conversation, so I simply repeated myself. “They’re friends of mine and they want to meet you.”
Kate grumbled a bit, but after enticing Eddie off the roof by rattling the treat can, she got into my car without further complaint. And when I turned down the long and twisty driveway, she started to look interested in her surroundings.
“This goes to their house?” she asked.
“All the way down to the lake,” I said. “Did it in the bookmobile once.”
“Yeah?” Kate, for once, sounded impressed with her aunt. And when we stopped in front of the McCades’ lovely home, her eyes went wide. “Wow,” she said softly, staring at the fieldstone, the massive timbers, and the wooden front door with the rounded top. “This place is—”
The front door opened. “Minnie Hamilton!” Cade bellowed. “Get over here this minute!”
“Let me guess,” I said as Kate and I approached. “You and your lovely wife are fighting over whether or not a word is appropriate and you need me to referee. No, don’t tell me whose side is whose. Just give me the setup and the word.”
Despite the twenty-some-year differences in our ages, the McCades and I had bonded for life in a hospital room when I entered wholeheartedly into their word game. Rules had shifted over time, but it went something like this: The game started organically (part of the game) through each of them accidentally saying a word starting with the same letter. The winner was the last one to use a word that fit the situation and the loser had to acknowledge this gracefully.
“The letter is G,” Cade pronounced. “The word under consideration is ‘gracious,’ which was preceded by ‘go gargle,’ ‘great galoots,’ and ‘good gravy.’”
“Well,” I said. “Those are all double G words, so ‘gracious’ would have to be paired with another G word, but you can’t use anything that’s already been used. So unless someone comes up with something fast to go in front of ‘gracious,’ I’d say ‘good gravy’ is the winner.”
Cade gave me a smacking kiss on the forehead. “Hah! Did you hear that, Barb?”
“Of course I heard. Everyone within half a mile heard you. You were right and I was wrong. Now let me get a look at the niece.” Barb elbowed her way past her husband and smiled as she pulled her shoulder-length brownish-gray hair into a ponytail. “Kate, it’s nice to meet you.”
The two of them beamed at us. Well, Barb beamed. Cade did what he did, which was inspect the face of any new person he met as if he were selecting paint colors. He peered at Kate, his craggy features and cleft chin deepening in thought and his bushy eyebrows bushing. His hair was now more gray than brown and he was in dire need of a haircut, which usually meant one thing: He was painting, and Barb hadn’t been able to tear him away from his studio long enough to take a pair of scissors to him.
“Kate,” I said, “these are my friends Barb and Russell McCade.”
“Call me Cade, my dear.” He bowed, then took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Any niece of Minerva’s,” he said, bestowing a gentle kiss on her knuckles, “is a Godsend to the world.”
Kate’s wide eyes stared at him and she snatched her hand back as soon as he let go. “But . . . you’re . . .” she stammered. “You’re that painter.”
“Ah, yes, the price of fame.” Cade smiled. “Yes, I’m that painter.”
“My art teacher?” Kate crossed her arms. “He says you sold out years ago.” I stepped close to her, whispering to mind her manners, but she sidestepped me and kept going. “He says there’s nothing you wouldn’t paint to make a buck.”
“Is that so?” Cade tipped his head back and half closed his eyes. “He could be right. Barb, my darling, shall we go through? We have dessert to serve, yes?”
He moved into the oak-floored foyer. After a moment Kate followed, but I held Barb back.
“I am so sorry,” I said. “This was supposed to be a nice surprise for her. I didn’t know . . .” But what could I say that would make up for hurtful words from someone who should have been a friend?
Barb patted my arm. “He’s heard worse, don’t worry about him.”
“‘Sentimental schlock’?” I quoted a famous art critic.
“‘But quality schlock,’” Barb quoted back, citing another famous critic.
We laughed and went inside. But I made a vow to have a firm chat with Kate on the way home.
* * *
The chat, of course, didn’t go well. As soon as we got back to the marina, Kate hurled herself out of my car and stormed off.
“Where are you going?” I called. It was getting dark and I didn’t want her wandering around by herself.
“Someplace where people don’t think I’m a complete screwup,” she yelled.
I watched as she stomped down the sidewalk and up to the railing of the Axfords’ boat. “Works for me,” I muttered, and immediately felt like the worst aunt, and possibly the worst person, in the world. Sighing, I pulled out my phone. Louisa and I exchanged a short flurry of text messages, during which she indicated that Kate was always welcome and that she (Kate) would be sent home to the houseboat no later than ten thirty, which was the time that my brother and sister-in-law had laid down as Kate’s weekday curfew.
“Well.” I stood in the middle of the marina parking lot and surveyed my options. Go for a walk? Too hot. Go back to the houseboat? Possible, but the undone dinner dishes would be there waiting for me and I was very disinclined to put my hands in hot soapy water until it cooled down a bit. I sent up a short prayer that my mother never learn of my lapse in housekeeping, and walked over to the house, which was where I’d wanted to go all along.
Rafe, sitting on the porch with a sweating can of what I recognized as Keweenaw Brewing Company’s Widow Maker, saw me approach on the sidewalk. “Hey there, honey bunch. How did your night go?”
I climbed the steps and flopped into the chair next to him. “Don’t want to talk about it. But . . . really? ‘Honey bunch’? Where did that come from?”
“No idea.” He leaned over to give me a kiss and, simultaneously, opened the small cooler behind my chair. “Would you like an adult beverage?”
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but every once in a while it was just the ticket. “Do you have a tiny bottle of white wine in there?” Because something cool and light sounded perfect.
“Your wish is my command.” He flourished a small plastic bottle and wrenched the screw top off. “And look, I even have a glass.” Grinning, he poured the pale liquid into a plastic cup of questionable origin. When he handed it over, however, I didn’t see anything floating, and the rim looked clean.
“Did you bring this out here for me?” I asked.
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
I gave him a look, which he ignored. This meant I could either pursue the issue and learn how the cup had really ended up on the porch, or I could let it go and, for the rest of my life, wonder about the possibilities.