Page 97 of The Pretenders of Copper County
REED
One year later
Some days,I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be Reed Sunday.
“More pasta, Watt?” Chris asked, topping up Derry’s cherry soda. He trailed a hand over my shoulder as he moved around the picnic table—a teak A-frame table that he and I had built with our own four hands in front of the caretaker cabin last November—before taking his seat next to me.
It turned out Chris and I really liked building things together, so much so that after we’d finished renovating the cabins last autumn, we’d decided we wanted more projects to work on together in our spare time. The picnic table had been the first. The new chairs arranged around the nearby fire pit had been our second. Fixing up the kitchen and the bathroom in the caretaker cabin had been the third.
We’d put a temporary pause on all renovation work around Memorial Day when the campers began arriving, and eventhough the last campers of the season had left three weeks ago, we hadn’t started anything else yet. Life had simply gotten too busy. Too full of good things. And more were on the horizon.
“I think three helpings is probably enough.” Watt pushed his plate away with a groan. “You’re a damn good cook, Chris Sun—er, Winowski.” He rolled his eyes. “That’snevergonna sound right.”
Chris’s cheeks went pink. We’d come clean about the truth of our relationship—a certain version of the truth, anyway—last year, a few days after Danny had left town. We’d omitted the part about Chris’s uncle, naturally, but after the O’Leary police had come to take Nicky away, other details about the incident had leaked out, and folks in Copper County had wasted no time embellishing the tale, so we’d felt compelled to get our own version of events out there. “Before they start saying you know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried,” I’d told Chris wryly.
The one part of the truth that people refused to believe—or, at least, to remember—was that Chris and I weren’t married. Watching Chris’s adorable blush under the cafe lights he’d hung over the table, though, I decided I didn’t mind that one bit.
“Thank you, Watt,” Chris said. “It’s my uncle Danny’s recipe. He’s an excellent cook.”
“Sure is,” Derry mumbled around a bite of his ownfourthpasta helping. “This is good shit, Chris.”
Watt cuffed his son gently on the back of the head. “Don’t use fresh language. Especially in front of Chris.”
“Sorry,” Derry mumbled. He gave Chris a hopeful smile. “But I might have another helping if you’re still offering?”
Laughing, Chris leaped up torefill his plate. “I love cooking for you, Derry. You have a real appreciation for food.”
“It’s been nice, having these pasta-and-charcuterie nights,” Watt said. He gave his empty pasta bowl a forlorn look. “We’re gonna miss this after you move.”
This time next month, Chris and I would be knee-deep in renovations again, this time on our own place. A rustic, three-bedroom Adirondack—with a fieldstone fireplace that had brought tears to Chris’s eyes and a three-car garage perfect for doing restorations that may or may not have brought tears to mine—had come up for sale a few weeks ago. This was a pretty rare event since we’d learned that most people who lived on Copper Lake stayed from cradle to grave, so Chris and I hadn’t hesitated to put in an offer.
In a little over three weeks, I’d be an official Coppertian, a permanent resident of the tiniest town on God’s green earth. And I couldn’t be happier about it.
As my beloved would say, what were the hecking chances?
I rolled my eyes across the table at Watt. “You do remember we’re only moving to the house on the other side of yours and not to the dark side of the moon, don’t you? Take aleftwhen you go out your back door instead of aright.We’ll be the ones covered in orange shag carpet dust, picking popcorn ceiling bits out of our hair. You can’t miss us.”
Watt laughed. “True enough. And it’ll be fun to help you out once the autumn rush at the orchard dies down, won’t it, Der?”
Derry muttered something around another enormous bite of pasta, and Watt shook his head. “Christ alive, where do you put it?” he demanded. “There’s a teenage appetite, and then there’s… that.”
Derry scraped the tines of his fork against his plate, which was empty once again, and shrugged. “Hockey practice, Dad. I’m training like crazy.” He wrinkled his nose. “Really hoping we actually get to play.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” I asked, automatically lifting my arm as Chris sat back down, then wrapping it around him when he leaned into me.
“Our coach is out for the whole season. They’re trying to find a replacement but haven’t had any luck yet.” Derry ran one big hand through a crop of messy curls that were dark, like his father’s. “Worst news ever. Whole team’s bummed. Jesse Wise nearly cried.”
“Oh, no,” Chris said. “Is the coach sick? Is it serious?”
Derry shook his head. “Worse,” he said solemnly. “She’s pregnant.”
Watt huffed out a laugh. “What Derrymeansto say is that Tamsen Monroe and her husband are having a daughter in November, and she’s starting her maternity leave next week. None of the other teachers have volunteered to take over coaching yet. But her replacement might,” he told his son.
“That’ll be better than nothing,” Derry agreed. “But they won’t be like Coach Monroe. She played for Northeastern. That’s a Division I school. And she has brothers who also play. You know Wells Monroe, the right wing for the?—”
“Bruins,” I finished right along with him. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Derry agreed. “It’s senior year, and I was really hoping for a scholarship.”
