Page 81 of Summer Romance

“We’re just having dinner at Ali’s,” he says. “Tomorrow we’re taking the fence down.”

“Oh, just marry her already,” his dad says in the background. Mrs. Hogan shushes him. Greer and Iris exchange looks. Cliffy smiles the smile of a six-year-old boy who thinks this is the best idea in the world.

“I’m sorry to interrupt dinner,” she says. “But I wanted to let you know we’re coming up for Thanksgiving.”

“That’s great,” Ethan says. “We’re going to cook here. Frannie and fam are coming. Ali’s dad and Libby. You can stay with me.”

“That sounds so lovely, sweetie,” his mother says.

“Just tell them,” Mr. Hogan says. We see nothing but a ceiling fan for a few seconds, and when they’re back, it’s Mr. Hogan. “We’re coming for Thanksgiving and staying. Wecan’t live here all year. I’m sunburned as hell and we feel too far away.”

“Theo walked,” Mrs. Hogan says, taking the phone back. “And we missed it. By the time they get down here to visit, he’ll be running. I can’t take it. Our whole life is there.”

“Wow, that’s great,” Ethan says. “But you know the house isn’t ours anymore, right?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “We’re moving into the inn. Your grandparents’ apartment. It’s perfect for us. And they can cook all our meals when we’re old.”

Ethan looks at me for a reaction. I have none to give except that I’m excited there will be two more people at the table, all the time.

“When we called Harold this morning to tell him we were coming back, he asked for his old job back and we agreed. But the truth is we don’t want to manage that place. Frannie’s frantic to find someone new, because she doesn’t want it to fall on her.”

“I want the job,” I say. It comes out a little aggressively, which I’m not going to apologize for because my tone matches just how badly I want this job.

“Let me talk to her,” Mr. Hogan says, and Ethan hands me the phone.

“Hi,” I say. “I want that job. I’ve been sort of coaching Harold about things for a while, but major changes need to be made. The billing should be automated, the garbage contract should be totally renegotiated. The winter menu is too broad, and the linens should be dealt with on Mondays, not Fridays. I can totally do this.”

He smiles. “Well that’s…that’s an idea.”

Mrs. Hogan grabs the phone. “It’s the perfect idea. But please promise me the stress won’t make you dump Scooter.”

Ethan just shakes his head. They really do talk about him like he’s still in middle school. “I don’t think that’s something you should be worried about,” I say, and he takes my hand.

“You can work out of your house if you want,” Mrs. Hogan says.

“I’d like to go to the office.” I surprise myself by saying it. I am also surprised by the way my heart races a little at the thought of an office of my own, seven pencils in a cup, and a whole mess to set right. I know exactly what I’m going to wear.

“Okay, done,” Mr. Hogan says like he’s just won the lottery. “I’ll send a salary number over in the morning, as well as a full job description.”

“Thank you,” I say. “This is wonderful.” Ethan puts his arm around me and kisses me on the forehead.

“Enough business,” Mrs. Hogan says. “Frannie tells me she’s bringing all the pies to Thanksgiving dinner. Can I bring mashed potatoes and a salad?”

“Salad?” Iris and Greer say at the same time. Ethan hands them the phone and wraps his arms around me while his parents argue the merits of salad at Thanksgiving dinner.

“Ali Morris, running my family’s business,” he says.

“It’s sort of my dream job,” I say. I feel a jolt of adrenaline from the leap I just took. And for a second I understand what it would feel like to race up the half-pipe, turn in the air, and land exactly where you want to.

“Just wait till I negotiate your salary,” he says, and laughs.

He pulls me close and we watch my kids laugh with his parents. I feel all of it. The love for my kids that sometimes feels like it could engulf me in flames. The burning love I can still feel coming from my mom, like it’s something alive inside of me. And the way Ethan feels like a thing I have been waiting for my entire life.

“What do youthink Pete’s going to say about you running the inn? I’m guessing Cliffy will tell him immediately when he comes for them tomorrow.” The kids have gone to bed and we’re sitting in the backyard listening to the water rush through the creek. The forsythias that line the path to the creek have turned their dark fall yellow. The hydrangea blooms are long gone, as are most of their leaves, leaving bunches of lifeless sticks all over my yard. A younger me would have thought those plants were dead, but Phyllis taught me otherwise.

I cover his legs with mine, and he covers us both with a blanket, as is our habit.

I am so happy that tomorrow is Saturday that I almost miss Ethan’s question. “I don’t think it really matters. Pete can think whatever he wants.”

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