Rowan huffs. “The summer Pops made me chopallthe wood for the upcoming winter. How could I forget?”
I grab a granola bar from the pantry, close the door. The page flips again.
“What were you, seventeen here?” Tess asks.
His chair creaks. “Eighteen. That was the last summer before I left for basic.”
I toss the bar into my bag and grab a banana off the counter. Tess turns the page.
“Wait,” Rowan interrupts. “Why is Nana in scrubs?”
“What do you mean? She was a nurse, she was always in scrubs.”
My movements slow as I slide the zipper closed and throw my purse over my shoulder.
“I thought she retired after Dad died.”
I give them my back to retrieve my mug from across the kitchen, feet quiet as I listen in.
“She did,” Tess confirms. “But she never stopped volunteering.”
My head angles slightly toward the table, breath seized in my lungs as I wait for Rowan’s response.
After long seconds, he finally says, “I never knew that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t. She took the summers off when you were visiting.”
Nonchalantly, I spin back to the table, my heart beating against my rib cage. Neither of them notice my approach. I step up behind Rowan, squeezing his arm as I get a look at the photo.
His hand comes up to caress mine, but he doesn’t pause the conversation with his mom. “Where?”
Tess shrugs. “Anywhere that would have her. You know that woman loved being around people. Never met a stranger.”
Time seems to pause, my gaze locked on the image of Margaret Shaw in a pair of navy-blue scrubs sitting next to her husband on the porch swing of their Boulder home. This is the aged version of Norm I came to know—white hair, bifocals, skin aged by a lifetime of sun and manual labor—and his wife of many decades by his side.
Rowan and Tess carry on, album pages shuffling through months and years of memories, yet I’m stuck looping only one in my mind.
I paste on a smile that betrays the nerves in my belly. “Gotta go. See you guys later.”
My phone is already to my ear by the time I get in my car. I crank the engine. Staring back at my front door, I lean against the seat, knee bouncing as I wait for the call to connect.
“Pick up, pick up,” I mumble through the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Whitley, it’s Hannah James.”
“Good morning, Ms. James. Tomorrow’s the big day, we’re all very excited.”
“Yes, sir. Me too. Listen, I have another favor to ask.”
“Okay, I’ll do the best I can. Shoot.”
My stomach is a wreck and my pulse races.
“Hannah, are you there?”
I shake my head, attention still glued to my house. “Yes, sorry. I’m here. Um…that name I gave you earlier this week…” The end of my sentence gets caught in my throat, unsure how to go on.