Page 36 of The Voice We Find

“Your shift. I owe you a favor, and I have some inventory that needs doing, so I don’t mind keeping an eye on the counter if we get busy. Fridays can be hit or miss when there are no private events going on.”

I open my mouth twice before I finally get a word out. “Thank you, Natalie. I ... I really appreciate that.”

“No problem. And next time, you can bypass your brother and call me directly. He hates messing with scheduling details. I’ll send you my phone number.”

Not quite trusting my strike of good fortune, I thank her again and hang up.

August eyes me. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I slip my phone into my back pocket. “You’re right, but I wanted to.”

The inside of August’s house is not at all what I expect. There is nothing about it that says “bachelor raising his younger sister.” Instead, the white brick rancher is cozy and well loved, furnished in soft neutrals with eye-catching pops of color and patterns in throw pillows, rugs, and wall art. It’s homey and comfortable, and I can’t help but feel a distinct family vibe as soon as I cross over the threshold. And that’s when it hits me.

“Was this your—” I swallow as he takes my backpack from me and sets it on the long wooden bench across the wall of the entryway—“your parents’ house?”

He dips his chin. “My parents purchased it when I was in third grade. It was an eyesore back then; worst house in the neighborhood by far. But my mom had vision and patience, and since my dad had worked in construction since high school, he did all the renovations on the weekends.” He looks around. “They spent the better part of two decades taking on projects little by little as they had money and time. They never planned to live anywhere

else.”

“They did a beautiful job.” It’s an impossible thing to say without the bittersweet aftertaste that follows, but it’s true. The open floor plan is bright and airy, and I’m certain there were several walls torn down to make it so. From the wide-plank flooring to the unique lighting fixtures in every room to the gorgeous fireplace with the exposed wood mantel, it’s easy to imagine their vision for this home. It’s also easy to see why August’s studio was so well executed. He obviously inherited his father’s construction skills. “It’s a lovely home.”

August clears his throat and hitches a thumb to the left side of the house toward a hallway. “I should probably let our chef know she’ll be cooking for three after all. Feel free to wander.”

“That’s a pretty brave offer,” I tease. “What if I’m a snoop?”

“If you are, would you mind keeping an eye out for two missing hairbrushes, a handful of spoons, and about a dozen single socks looking for their mate?”

I laugh. “Will do.”

August starts toward the hallway but then stops and turns back. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your exploration clear of the door at the end of the hallway, I’d appreciate it.” I can tell he’s trying to keep his tone light, and yet, the ache in my belly grows at the possibilities that lay beyond that doorway. And the grief attached to them all.

“Of course.”

When he disappears around the corner, I take the opportunity to study the pictures on the mantel. There are five in total. One of a beautiful couple wearing early nineties wedding attire gazing at each other over a three-tiered cake with white lattice icing. The next is a young picture of August—gap-toothed grin, sitting on a stool with a guitar that looks twice the size of him. There’s no denying he was an adorable kid. The next is a picture of his high school graduation. Gabby’s in this one. She’s holding her mom’s hand, but she’s looking up to her big brother with so much admiration I can almost feel the warmth of it through the glass. There’s a picture of Gabby dressed up as Snow White, standing on a tiny stage with her mouth and arms open wide. She’s definitely younger here—maybe eleven or twelve? It’s hard to say, but it’s clear by her expression how much she loves this moment in time. I wonder how her hearing loss has affected her love of theater, and more importantly, how much her life has changed because of it. Not only has Gabby lost her parents, but she’s also lost a critical part of herself, as well.

When I move to peer into the frame of the last picture, my breath stills. It’s August and Gabby on a sandy beach with their father between them. All three are dressed in wet suits, and all three arehugging a surfboard. Their hair is windblown, and their smiles are huge. I wonder if their mom is the one behind the camera.

I also wonder how soon after this image was taken that their world changed forever.

“You’re back!” Gabby’s voice announces into the room.

I spin around. I wasn’t being polite earlier when I said Gabby was beautiful—if anything, beautiful is an understatement. Her rich, Colombian skin tone is honeyed in color, and her eyes are a striking molten chocolate. But it’s her hair that must be the envy of all her girlfriends. Thick, dark waves hang down to the center of her back.

I make sure to face her directly when I ask if I can help with dinner preparation.

“Do you like to cook, too?” she asks.

“A little. But I like to plate food even more,” I admit. “Does that count?”

August follows her into the room and laughs at my admission, but it’s clear by Gabby’s expression that my answer didn’t fully compute. “Do you mean you like to set the table?”

“No.” I shake my head and try again. “I’ve worked in a few restaurants over the years. I love the art of plating the food before serving it to customers.” I do a poor job of demonstrating the motions and wish I had taken ASL in school instead of the second language I chose that I haven’t used once in my adult life.

“Oh,” Gabby says, understanding this time. “Then you can plate our food when dinner is ready. Maybe you can teach me, too?” She turns to August and asks him to cut some fresh oregano and basil from the garden.

“You have an herb garden?” I wonder aloud.

“We have a greenhouse,” Gabby replies. “Ifit’s still standing after August’s fall, that is.”

---