The Widow Darling

By Suzanne Hadfield Semsch

In this sequel to Turn on No-Bridge Road, Claire Darling, a spunky redheaded mother and grandmother struggling with grief over the death of her beloved Nick, discovers his secret gambling addiction has left her virtually penniless. Shock morphs into panic—she could lose Woodbine, her ancestral home. While visiting a retirement home for seniors to console her mother-in-law, Claire has an inspiration. She could build and operate such a place on Woodbine’s forested acres! Convinced this enterprise can save her from bankruptcy, Claire sets out to persuade family and friends of the need for such a service in Devon County. Trouble begins when she seeks financial help from Steven Steeples, the wealthy D.C. developer who lives in a small subdivision on what was once part of the Woodbine estate. Can she convince this man she has successfully avoided for twelve years to partner with her? What might he expect in return?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483545370

Book preview

2012

A Little History

Virginia’s Northern Neck is a long peninsula bordered by the Potomac and the Rappahannock Rivers, both of which flow to the Chesapeake Bay. The jagged coastline of this narrow strip of land is formed by the many creeks and small bays that permeate its length. Virtually surrounded by water, these hundreds of coves, creeks, and bays draw weekenders and summer folks, as well as retirees. But the Neck remains well populated by the descendants of original settlers. Whether they were wealthy landowners, indentured servants, or slaves brought in to tend the rich tobacco fields, many of today’s family names can be traced back to the early 18th or even the 17th century. They are a proud people and intensely loyal to their heritage.

Due to the remoteness of the Neck, and before roads were more than cart paths, and long before the Kings Highway was built and the bridge across the Rappahannock River connected the Northern Neck to mainland Virginia—for over two hundred years—the way on and off this fertile strip of land was by water

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Preface

The Widow Darling is a sequel to Turn on No-Bridge Road. The reader is asked to imagine that the fictional Woodbine Farm had been the home of one of those early settlers, passed down in the same family since the early 1800s. It is located about halfway down the Neck in the fictitious town of Holly Grove in the equally fictitious Devon County.

It’s no wonder that families like the Suttons and the Brandons, isolated as they were by water, admitted to some intermarriage. A birth out of wedlock would, of course, be whispered about. Thus, Claire Darling was a grown woman with children before she discovered her father had been the country carpenter, Miller Dawson, bastard son of Gabe Brandon. Her father was not Paul Sutton, the son of D. Brandon Sutton, who Claire grew up thinking was her paternal grandfather—the very grandfather who willed 400 acres and the old house known as Woodbine to Claire, whom he had dearly loved, accepting her always as his own granddaughter. To complicate things a bit further, Claire married Nicholas Darling, a stranger to the area, who eventually proved his own connection to the Suttons through the Conrad line, four generations back.

Once this is understood, it becomes clear that Claire’s deep attachment for Woodbine Farm had its roots back about 1805 when the widow of Edgar Conrad sold the land and a tumbledown four-room house to Neal and Caroline Sutton.

The story picks up several years following the close of Turn on No-Bridge Road; Claire and Nick’s son Timothy is mourning the loss of his father on the morning of the day he will be laid to rest.

Chapter One

The dog got him started every morning. Neptune. A big black Labrador. Nep would wake him up, they’d head downstairs, and he’d open the door to let him out. No matter what else was on his mind, he’d be caught up in the wonder of the ever changing scene right there in his own backyard—the scents and sounds of the wide tidal river, the early spring chirping of residential robins and wrens, the sparkle of dew on summer’s grass, the honk of geese and rustle of leaves in the fall, or the fresh fallen snow where only a rabbit or a couple of deer had ventured. It was always a thrill. So it became a daily ritual for Tim to step outside, breathe deeply and appreciate his surroundings.

But not this day.

On this bleak, frigid morning Timothy Darling stood on his porch with tears running down his cheeks. The ache in his gut that had taken hold during the night was holding fast. Would it he feel differently if the sun were shining and the birds singing? He didn’t think so. This overcast January morning seemed a reflection of his mood. The grief that had overwhelmed him at the end continued to seep into his every thought. He could not get beyond the sadness because nothing had prepared him for the death of his father.

He dreaded today and the days to come. In a few hours, the family would gather as Nicholas Darling was laid to rest. His father’s brief but painful battle with pancreatic cancer was over. Tim had, foolishly perhaps, held out hope till the bitter end, that he would beat the odds. The only comfort he could take from his death was that he had suffered less. Tim hoped he could control his emotions long enough to explain this in the eulogy he’d soon be giving. If it brought solace to others, then perhaps by saying it aloud he might even help himself accept that his father’s death was in a way a blessing.

Those who knew him would say that Timothy Darling was not a complicated man. Far from it. He was easy to please and seldom moody. He’d tell you he had a wonderful family, that he was a lucky man in that respect. Most of the time he felt satisfied with his God-given thirty-year-old body, and grateful for his very comfortable life on the land his mother’s family had owned for generations. He had designed and built his own house above the river where he lived very happily with his dear wife, Molly. They’d placed it over a rise and not far from the old house, Woodbine, where his parents Claire and Nick lived. His twin sister Kate, her husband Ben Baer, and their three children lived beyond another slope in River’s Edge Estates, a small subdivision built on what had been part of Woodbine Farm when he and Kate were children.

Tim had understood the concept of family, of belonging, almost before he’d learned to walk. Almost before he’d understood anything. He and Kate were raised to depend on themselves and on each other, but to turn to their parents when in trouble, always knowing they would be supported and forgiven if having done wrong. He wasn’t sure when he’d realized that this dependency within the family unit worked only because his father and mother truly loved each other. It was this love that made everything possible. He’d come to recognize the love of family as the reason he was able to find pleasure in each new morning. Because when you belonged somewhere and to someone, surely each morning had something special to offer.

But these comforting thoughts were far from his conscious mind as he watched the dog Nep race in circles around the lawn, excited by the light snow that had begun to fall. But Tim took little joy in the snowfall today. If it stuck, it could be difficult to drive to the cemetery, where the private burial would follow the service at St. Mark’s. It wouldn’t matter to him if they put off the interment of the cremated remains, but Tim suspected it would matter a great deal to his mother. The burial would be in Claire’s family cemetery over the hill from Woodbine House, his parents’ home for more than thirty years. Nick, an architect and a good one, had always been proud of his restoration of the place and the addition of a second wing. He’d done a remarkable job, Tim often told people.

He glanced in the direction of Woodbine House. He could see the roofline and the second story windows, and wondered if she was awake. Or had she slept at all? What must she be feeling alone in that old house, facing the stressful day ahead? After his father’s life was commemorated, his mother would be left only with memories and the silence of her empty house. This day would bring no closure for her. But perhaps it would cshelp all of them turn a corner of sorts. As things stood now, no one inNick’s family was prepared to look forward. His mother least of all.

Although his parents’ marriage had suffered its ups and downs, Tim didn’t know any two people more suited to each other—his father easy going, loving, enthusiastic, a born spendthrift; his beautiful mother serious, caring, careful about decisions, and eventually ready to forgive any misdeed. He wondered how much his mother knew about the state of their finances. Was she even aware of the gambling habit? How it had sucked Nick in, day after day, with the all too easy opportunity to place bets online?

Shaking his head, he whistled for the dog and they went inside. The scent of coffee brewing was comforting. He poured himself a cup and picked up the dog’s bowl to fill it with kibble.

Hi, Timmy, Molly announced from the doorway. You should have gotten me up. Crossing the room, she hugged him before reaching for a mug. How cold is it? Is the snow sticking?

He shrugged. Can’t tell yet, but looks like it might. I was just thinking about Mom and Dad. They were really happy together, weren’t they? Depended on each other. I hope we’ll be like that when we get older, Mol. You know ... needing each other.

There had been few disappointments in Tim Darling’s life other than the crushing blow he’d suffered when Molly had announced her plans to marry someone else. During the three years of what turned out to be her unhappy marriage, Tim had waited for her. He’d finished grad school, received his architectural degree and a teaching certificate, then gone to work in his father’s architectural business and begun teaching part-time at the local community college. Through it all he’d clung to the hope Molly would wake up one morning and realize she’d made a terrible mistake. Which is exactly what eventually happened. Molly had now been his wife for two nearly perfect years. Knowing he’d open his eyes at daybreak and she’d be there beside him was another thing that made early morning special.

Your mother’s going to need support, she said quietly. I have no idea how she’ll manage without Nick. You’re right, they certainly depended on each other, didn’t they?

He nodded. She hadn’t answered his question about how it would be as they got older. Maybe she hadn’t understood what he meant. But he wasn’t capable of any further explanation this morning. Want some cereal? I’m not very hungry.

As they sat, silent for the most part, Tim let his mind wander back to the night Molly had returned to him. Almost three years to the day after her very formal and elaborate wedding to George Crispin, Molly had appeared tear streaked and frightened. He’d barely opened the door when she fell into his arms. It was the night his life did a one-eighty—it was the night the door that had closed between them reopened. Every time he thought of it, he marveled that he’d accepted her back without question or condemnation. It could only mean one thing: he’d waited all that time because he had known all along that she’d come back. That she was the only one for him. And in the end he’d been right.

She’d stayed with him that night. He remembered warming some soup for her, tossing her a pair of PJ pants and a T-shirt, and tucking her into his bed. I’ll sleep on the couch, he’d told her, and we can talk in the morning. It was like Molly to have her own agenda, so he hadn’t been surprised when he awoke to find her curled at his feet on the other end of the long sofa. She was looking at him across the tangle of their legs. Molly’s eyes were hazel if you believed what it said on her driver’s license. But in morning sunlight they appeared golden, while by lamplight you’d swear they were green. That’s how they’d looked to Tim in the light cast by the small lamp behind his head. Wide open and emerald green, begging for forgiveness, and deep enough to drown in. I love you, he’d told her. Don’t break my heart again, Moll. She hadn’t. The week after her divorce was final, and for the second time, Father John Macomber joined Molly Zawicke in holy wedlock—this time to someone he loved like a son, Timothy Matthew Darling. The party that followed, hosted by Sara and Anton Zawicke to celebrate their daughter’s second marriage, was lively. Other than the bride and groom, no one was happier than Claire and Sara, the mothers, who had always known these two belonged together. This memory always made Tim smile.

He became aware of his silence when he looked up to find Molly leaning over him, coffee pot in hand. Where have you been, Timmy? I’ve asked you twice if you’d like more coffee.

Sorry, he said. Just thinking how lucky I’ve always been ... and trying to forget about today. I did a pretty good job of it for a few minutes.

Good job of what?

Forgetting how much I dread today. How lost I feel ....

Molly set the coffee pot down and wrapped her arms around his neck. It’s going to be all right, Timmy. Today, I mean. We’ll get through it and we’ll help Claire get through it. We’ll take care of her.

Eyes filled with tears, he nodded but said nothing. Molly’s words were comforting, but they didn’t change things. My dad will be buried today. I’ll never see him again. Why does it have to be so final? So damned suddenly final.

Chapter Two

At Woodbine Claire lay quietly in the bed she had shared with Nick until the moment he died, his pain eased by morphine. She had lain beside him even then, the nurse coming and going, checking his heartbeat, asking how he was. It had only been a matter of time. The doctor suggested she might like to lie down in the other room, but she’d insisted on staying with Nick. She held his hand and from time to time rubbed her fingers over his forehead pushing back the thinning hair. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes sunken. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, how his hair, such a lovely shade of burnished red not unlike her own, had curled in damp ringlets on his forehead. He’d peered through the kitchen window on that long ago rainy day when she and Miller had been arguing over what color to paint the brick wall. He’d been brazen enough to suggest he might be descended from the builder of Woodbine House. Of course his hair had faded, was no longer the vivid color of his youth, but it had remained reddish and curly, while the stubble on his cheeks and chin was graying.

She turned now to look at the empty pillow. With very little effort she could imagine he was still there, the IV bottle beside the bed, the needle taped just above his wrist, his breathing so shallow it barely moved his chest. Nick, she’d asked every so often, Nick, darling, can you hear me? He’d never responded until the very end when she felt his fingers tighten slightly on her own. Sitting up, she’d looked at him. His eyes had flickered. Nick, I love you, she whispered.

I know .... Heart beating wildly, she’d waited. It seemed a long time before he continued but what he finally said was troubling. Woodbine. Don’t let them take it. Fight. Find ... find a way, Claire. The slight movement of his chest stopped completely, his hand dropped away and she knew he was gone.

Those words still made no sense. They continued to distress her. She remembered them vividly, had gone over them in her head a hundred times, but still didn’t understand what he’d meant. Who might try to take Woodbine? And why? What were you trying to tell me, Nick?

Now, glancing past the empty pillow to the window she saw the snow coming down, swirling thick and white like it sometimes did in this remote corner of tidewater Virginia along the Rappahannock River. It’s snowing, Nick darling, she said and got up to take one of the pills the doctor had given her, so she wouldn’t have to think about it any more. At least not today.

John Macomber conducted the service with grace, managing to blink away tears when reading the Twenty-Third Psalm as Claire had requested. Tim, who loved his father without question, without doubt, eulogized him with simplicity drawn from this unquestioned love. His tribute was beautiful. He called Nick a man of the ages, one quick to seize on opportunity, to roll with the changing times. The snow had ceased around noon and the road to the graveyard remained passable. Nick was laid to rest next to baby Andrew, Claire and Nick’s third child who lived less than twenty-four hours.

That night the family gathered in Woodbine’s center hall. Tim lit the fire and was setting up the bar. Kate, Molly, and Sara Zawicke each brought covered dishes which were warming in the oven. Claire sat in her favorite wing chair thinking she should bring in chairs from the dining room. With John and Beverly Macomber and Anton and Sara, in addition to family, there weren’t enough places to sit. But she didn’t move, knowing eventually someone else would get the chairs.

Kate and Ben’s children Jason and Laura, six and four, had been sent upstairs to play. Claire heard them running back and forth in the upstairs hall. Ben was bouncing baby Clarisse on his shoulders while he sipped a bourbon and soda. It didn’t take long for Ben to find the booze, she thought, but he never seemed visibly affected by it. She watched Sara and Bev as they each accepted a glass of wine from Tim. They stood a little away from the others and seemed to be having a serious conversation. She wondered if they were talking about her. Everyone seemed worried about her being left alone in the big house. She wasn’t sure how she herself felt, but one thing was certain—she had no intention of going anywhere. With or without Nick, this was her house and she intended to stay right where she was on the two hundred acres she had left. A thought struck her. In Tim’s tribute to his father this afternoon, the part about Nick being able to recognize and seize an opportunity. Could Tim have been referring to the time Nick had sold half of the acreage she’d inherited, the half he’d sold to Steven Steeples in the early 1990s? When they had no money and more debt than could be imagined? He’d sold that land without her permission, seeking her consent only after the fact, and only after the deal merely lacked her signature. The upscale subdivision Steeples had named River’s Edge Estates, with its steel and glass modern houses, seemed an eyesore to Claire even all these years later. Simply the fact that it was there, spoiling the wilderness, continued to annoy her, but she had long since ceased to dwell on it. As Nick reminded her many times, the Steeples Corporation and his being hired as chief architect of those very modern homes was exactly what saved them from bankruptcy. True. That was true.

Want some wine, Mom? Or maybe something a little stronger? Kate asked, perching on the arm of her chair.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have any since I’m taking that sedative the doctor left for me. I was thinking I might go upstairs and see what Jason and Laura are up to.

They’re fine, Mom. But I’ll check on them if you’re worried about your desk or something they could get into.

Claire patted her daughter’s hand. Oh, don’t worry. I’m just being silly. There’s lots of toys to keep them occupied. Kate, how’s everything at your house? I’ve hardly seen you in the last couple of weeks except for when you came to see Nick. When Steven Steeples had hired Ben Baer as River’s Edge property manager, he had offered them the model home, rent free, so Kate and Ben lived within walking distance of Tim and Molly’s house. And Woodbine, her house, was over the hill from that. Kate had dropped in to see her father every day after he was bedridden.

I never wanted to bother you by staying too long. I knew you were stressed out over Dad and didn’t have the energy to think about anything else. She paused. Well, about us ... we’re doing okay except Ben’s been away an awful lot this month. Steven’s got him going back and forth between here and the D.C. office.

Are you okay about that?

Well ... yes ... sort of. But it’s a bummer, especially with three kids. It means more money but I don’t think Ben understands how much it puts on me.

Don’t be afraid to spell it out for him, dear. I understand exactly what you mean because your father spent the first fifteen years of our marriage going back and forth to Northern Virginia each week. We only saw him on weekends. Remember?

Kate nodded. You’re sure you don’t want a little wine?

Well, maybe. But not very much, Kate. Do you think it’s time to check on the casseroles?

That’s not your worry tonight. Bev is going to be putting her salad together. She’ll watch the oven.

Claire smiled. The chat with Kate made her happy that everyone was here. Nick always liked it when they were all together. She walked to the bar where Tim handed her a glass of Chardonnay and then she joined her friends Sara and Bev.

Are you two talking about me? When they both shook their heads, she added, Come on, ’fess up.

Oh, Claire, we’ve only been trying to figure out how we can help you, Bev said quietly.

We wondered if you might like to spend a few days in town. With one of us. We both have plenty of room. You could bring the dog or let Tim look after him.

Claire looked from one to the other of her best friends. You know, Sara, this is my place. It’s where I belong ... where I’ll spend the rest of my life. It will always feel like Nick is still here with me. Like he’s been from the beginning. I also feel Miller’s still here, as I’ve said before ... I have a chat with him every time I pass through the dining room.

A long lost letter from her mother, Margot Sutton, had appeared many years after her death. It revealed that Paul Sutton, a man Claire had never felt close to, had not been her biological father. During a summer spent at Woodbine, Margot confessed, Claire was conceived during a secret love affair. Miller Dawson, the kind country carpenter, who himself bore an obscure connection to Woodbine, was her father. Strangely enough, the news had brought happiness to Claire, a sense of closure. Shocking as it was, this fact had made everything all right. Nick had understood immediately. He’d watched how she’d grown fond of Miller, how there seemed a natural affinity between them during the few months before he died, when they’d all three worked together on restoring Woodbine House.

As the wife of an Episcopal priest, Beverly Macomber had always felt uncomfortable with Claire’s casual references to spirits of the deceased returning to talk to the living. She tried to laugh it off and often made a joke of it, as now. Miller left you a legacy, didn’t he, when he restored the paneling? But he probably doesn’t hang around waiting for you to walk through the room every few days and compliment him on it!

Claire chuckled. She’d long been aware of Bev’s discomfort with her references to the spirit world. You know I love you both, and I very much appreciate your concern. But I intend to stay right here. Our children are close by and I’d rather stay at home. If I went into town for a few days, I’d feel as though I’d left Nick all alone. And no matter what you think, although I may not see him, he is here nonetheless.

Chapter Three

During the night, heavy snow began falling again. Claire lay for a long time thinking how it must be weighing down the branches of the evergreens and pines. She looked out in the morning through a frosty window, but managed to see the wind had piled snow deep against the side of the house. It must be a nor’easter for sure. It appeared to have slowed down but there was already a good six or eight inches on the ground. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Nick was safely in his resting place. It was strangely comforting that he lay next to little Andrew, the beautiful child they had lost before they even knew him. She wanted to believe Nick and Andrew were together in the next world. Or wherever people went when they ceased to exist on earth. This hope for a future meeting was how she’d finally come to accept the loss of the tiny newborn.

Sara had insisted on staying over and, as it turned out, Claire was more than happy for her company. They’d talked until well after midnight. She wondered if Sara was awake, not having heard a sound from the guest room upstairs. The phone rang as she came out of the bathroom.

It was Anton. Morning, Claire. I hope Sara didn’t keep you up all night with her chatter. Did you sleep all right?

As well as can be expected I guess. I’m awfully glad the funeral and everything is over. I’m so proud of Tim. He did a great job with the eulogy. And it was nice having Sara here last night. Just what the doctor ordered. Let me see if she’s awake yet ....

Well, if not, better get her up. We’re supposed to go to Richmond to meet some friends. Depends on the roads, I guess.

Reaching for her robe, Claire promised to call him back. She let Seltzer out as she passed through the hall. The Lab did what he’d done for over a year, ever since Chipper’d died. He turned, looked at her as though still waiting for his friend to join him. It’s okay, Seltz, go on old boy. We just have to get used to it, she told him. She knew he’d soon jump off the porch to go in search for Tim and Molly’s dog, Neptune. At age twelve, Nick had predicted Seltzer might die of grief at any moment after Chipper’s death. Yet here he was, still grieving, but hanging on. I guess I should find that somehow comforting, Claire thought, thinking of herself.

Claire found Sara in the kitchen stirring up eggs to scramble. Hi, sleepyhead. Sorry I kept you up so late talking last night, her friend greeted her.

Don’t worry. It was good for me. Anton wants you to call and let him know when he can pick you up. Says you have to go to Richmond.

Sara nodded. We’re supposed to meet with some lawyer buddies of his at Virginia Museum, going to lunch and then to the play. I hope No-Bridge Road is passable. Here, you do the eggs and I’ll call him. Coffee’s done and rolls are warming in the oven.

You are the best, Sara. You’re so efficient it makes me want to throw up sometimes.

Sara laughed and picked up her cell phone. Claire was putting up a good front when she must be dying inside. Well, it was better than not being able to stop crying. There would be plenty of that over the next few weeks, she thought. Right now she suspected it didn’t even feel real yet. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to know her Anton was gone forever.

Claire stood at the riverside door of the center hall. The snow and overcast sky made it impossible to see the river. The new-fallen snow on this side of the house remained pristine, unspoiled by man or beast. Even Seltzer’s early morning footprints were gone, yet Anton had made it through in his jeep. Now that they had left she knew there were things she should be doing. Not so much the physical things around the house that begged her attention, but other things, things that required conscious thought. Decisions she had to make. Not today perhaps, but soon. Topping her mental list was Dorothy, Nick’s mother. In her heart, Claire knew she should soon plan a trip to see her mother-in-law in San Antonio soon.

James and Dorothy Darling had retired to San Antonio not long after Claire and Nick married, and eventually moved into an Army retirement home there. Colonel James, as Claire had called him, passed away soon thereafter, leaving Dorothy in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She was now in the memory care wing, her disease much advanced, and had not been properly informed of her son’s death. Both Claire and Kate had tried to contact her by phone but neither thought she knew who was calling or the purpose of the call. Claire asked the caretaker to explain but it wasn’t the same as being there herself to answer questions and comfort someone with no other family, Nick having been her only child.

Thus, with the exhausting sorrow and all the fuss and many demands of the past week behind her, Claire’s thoughts returned to Dorothy. She thought, it doesn’t really matter if she even knows who I am or if she understands what has happened to Nick. I have to go there, to spend time with her. If I don’t do this I won’t be able to live with myself. She’s a dear sweet woman, her only son, whom she adored, is dead. As the only person in the world who loved him as much as she did, I owe her this. At the very least, I owe her a visit. It’s not really about her, it’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about doing the right thing. This is what Nick would want me to do. I owe this to him as well as to her.

The intrusive sound of her cell phone interrupted these reflections. It was Molly.

Hi Claire, good morning. Tim and I are on our way over to Kate’s to get the kids and take them sledding. The snow’s so beautiful we can’t stay inside. Timmy thought you might like to come with us.

Claire only paused a minute. Oh, I don’t think so, Mol. I have a lot of loose ends around here that need tending.

Well, after that we’re all meeting at Kate and Ben’s for lunch. Kate wants you to come, too. About noon, I guess. How about it? The snow’s not too deep and the walk over will do you good.

Sounds as if my children don’t think I should be left alone ... okay, that sounds fine. I’ll get dressed and maybe I can help Kate with lunch.

I think Ben’s doing hotdogs on the grill. I’ll tell her you’ll be over.

Thanks, dear, have fun sledding. Jason and Laura will love it!

It was still overcast although most of the storm had moved on. Occasional flakes of snow fluttered around them as Tim and Molly hiked across the winter plowed field into River’s Edge Estates where Kate and Ben lived. They’d found the sled in Nick’s barn where Molly remembered she’d last seen it. Jason and Laura danced up and down with excitement as Kate fastened jackets, tucked in scarfs, and pulled on mittens. Molly took charge of the boots while Tim waited, his mind still on his father’s funeral. He wasn’t in the mood to go sledding, but had decided to put the best face on it.

I hate this hat, Jason announced, pulling off the colorful Norwegian ski cap his mother had pulled over his ears. I don’t want to wear it!

Molly gave you that for Christmas. You’ll hurt her feelings if you don’t wear it, Kate told him.

Jason looked up, brown eyes questioning. Aunt Molly, did you really give me this?

I did. I knitted it for you. I hoped we’d have a big snowstorm one day and you’d need it so we could go sledding down the hill behind Gram and Grampa’s.

A smile spread across the six-year-old’s face. He loved Molly because she read him stories about giants and lizards and people with funny names, and sometimes took him for long walks in the woods and down to the river. Okay, he announced, picking the hat up from the floor.

Tim was feeling warm in his jacket. I’ll be outside. Come on, Jason, want to wait outside with me? Pull that ski cap down around your ears. Let’s see if that snow is going to pack down so we can make a good trail for sledding. He’d stopped at Woodbine to get Seltzer. Now the two Labs, Neptune and Seltzer, raced in circles around them sending snow flying. Still thinking about what it was going to be like without his father around, he wondered how long it would take before he could walk into the cabin where they shared an office without expecting to see Nick hunched over his drawing table. Or sit at his mother’s dinner table without noticing the empty chair. He glanced down to find his nephew staring at him.

What’s wrong, Uncle Tim?

Tim picked him up, swung him in a circle, and set him back down. Not a thing. Nothing’s wrong. Just thinking is all. Come on, let’s see what kind of snowballs we can make with this white stuff.

Good ones. I tried it while you were thinking! Jason picked up a packed snowball and sent it flying at Molly who was on her way across the yard with Laura close behind. He laughed when she ducked and tossed one back. You missed me, Aunt Molly!

It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? Molly exclaimed. Just so doggone beautiful I can hardly stand it. Don’t you love it, sweetheart? she asked, squeezing Laura’s hand. Isn’t it the best thing ever?

Yeah. Can we go sledding now, Aunt Molly?

You don’t even know what sledding is! Jason yelled.

That’s okay, honey, don’t worry about him, Molly told her. Come on. Sit down here on the sled. Uncle Tim’s going to pull you all the way over to Grampa’s hill, aren’t you, Timmy?

Sure thing,

Molly took off running, followed by Jason, the dogs close behind with Neptune in the lead. Tim showed Laura how to grip the sides so she wouldn’t fall off, and grabbed the rope on the sled. Hang on, Laura. The little girl’s delighted squeals calmed him, a reminder that here, even without his father, things were normal and life was good on this lovely wintry day at Woodbine. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up, sweetheart!

When they reached the hill, Jason ran to Tim. Did Grampa Nick make this hill for us, Uncle Tim?

Tim thought a minute. "No, no he didn’t make it. But he mowed it so we could see the river in summertime and so we could sled on it in the winter."

That’s good, isn’t it?

"Your grampa was a good