Page 17 of The Edge of Summer
I want to press more, but our conversation is interrupted by the sound of shoes slapping on the sidewalk. “Clary!” a little girl shouts.
A blur of motion streaks past me, and then Clara is hauling the little girl into her arms. Her features are somewhat similar to my new boss’s, but where Clara is fair-skinned and blonde-haired, the girl’s skin is a light olive and her hair hangs in tight brunette curls.
“Abbs, this is my new friend, Delilah,” Clara says. “Delilah, this is my niece, Abbie. She’s my brother Gabe’s daughter.”
I smile down at her. “Hi, Abbie.” Unlike Sophia, she doesn’t seem shy at all. “This is my sister, Sophia.”
At the mention of her name, my sister looks up from where she is still busy with Riot, her fingers buried in the tan fur around his collar.
“Hi!” Abbie smiles at Sophia. “How old are you?” She holds her palm up, fingers splayed, along with the thumb on her other hand. “I’m this many!”
Sophia glances at me, and when I give her an encouraging nod, she mumbles, “Five.”
“I was five, but then I had my birthday in—” She turns to her aunt. “When did I have my birthday, Clary?”
Clara shakes her head with a chuckle. “Your birthday was in April.”
Abbie’s head bobs. “And now I’m six!”
A woman—the spitting image of Clara, though about thirty years older—pushes outside from the restaurant. When she spots Abbie standing with us, her taut frame relaxes. “That girl is going to give me a heart attack one of these days,” the woman mutters.
Clara wraps an arm around her. “She keeps you young, Ma.”
She shakes her head, and then her gaze latches onto mine. She straightens. “Oh!” she exclaims. “You must be Delilah. I’m Maggie.” She jerks a thumb toward Clara. “I’m this one’s mother.”
“That’s me,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too! Clara has told us so much about you. You should really come by the house for brunch on Sunday,” Maggie says. “You can meet the rest of the family, and then you’ll know a few more friendly faces around town.”
Both she and Clara look at me expectantly. The depth of their kindness is a touch overwhelming.
“Oh, that’s okay.” I offer her a polite smile. “Thank you, though.”
“Just think about it,” Maggie says. Then she places a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. “C’mon, Miss Abigail. Let’s get you home.”
The pair say goodbye and then start heading down the street. Clara follows not long after. Sophia is sad to watch Riot walk away, but Clara assures her that she’ll see himagain. Then Sophia and I head into Dockside for our promised lunch.
Despite my best efforts, neither Maggie nor Clara would accept no for an answer. So on Sunday morning, my siblings and I climb into my car with Clara to drive to her parents’ house for the Bowman family’s weekly brunch.
“I feel like we’re intruding,” I say to Clara as my car rolls through a set of open gates.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can just make out the unimpressed look she’s giving me. “My parents turned my childhood home into a bed and breakfast. They literally invite strangers into their space every day,” she reasons. “Trust me, you’re not intruding.”
I want to protest more, but the words die right on the tip of my tongue when the bed and breakfast in question comes into view. Affectionately known as Haven House, according to Clara, the Bowmans’ home is a sprawling red-brick farmhouse with a large wraparound porch. It looks straight out of someone’s aesthetic Pinterest board with its cobblestone walkway and the flower pots lining the front steps.
“You grew up here?” I ask.
It’s not the size of the house that stuns me—the one we lived in back in Victoria was more than big enough—but the way that it so obviously looks like it has been lived in. It may be a bed and breakfast now, but it was a family home first, and it shows.
“Haven House has been in my dad’s family for a fewgenerations now. When my parents got married, my great-grandparents gifted it to them.”
I’m still busy admiring the house as Clara, Parker and Sophia exit the car. I haven’t put much thought into what my dream home would be, but I think this might be it.
The house is set back from the road which, if not for the guests staying here, would afford the Bowmans some privacy. And privacy is something that, up until recently, I hadn’t realized had become a commodity. When my dad became premier, our family was thrust into the public eye. We certainly weren’t on the level of the Kardashians or anything, but there was an element of anonymity that had been taken away from us. When Mitchell released my pictures, it felt like the shreds of privacy I had managed to hang on to were suddenly stripped away. Now the allure of a quiet life is too tempting to ignore.
I shake myself from my stupor and hurry to catch up to the group.
“Have no fear, your favourite child is here!” Clara calls once she pushes through the front door.
