He had delivered pizza himself when he was in college, after he had refused to let his father pay his way when William Morgan had declared no son of his would waste his money earning a worthless English degree.
The next few minutes were busy setting out plates, finding drinks, grabbing some precut veggies and fruit out of the refrigerator for the kids so that he didn’t feel like a complete failure of a parent.
No, he corrected. He would never be a complete failure. He loved both of his children and tried hard to make sure they knew it. He certainly made plenty of mistakes but he would never let his children spend one moment feeling as if they would never be enough.
When they finished devouring nearly all of the pizza, the kids asked if they could stream a new episode of their current favorite cartoon.
“After you load your dishes into the dishwasher.”
They both sighed as if he had asked them to reshingle the entire roof of Stormhaven in the middle of a heavy rain but hurried to comply so they could enjoy their limited screen time to the fullest.
“How’s the book coming?” his mother asked when the children left the small kitchen.
Andrew couldn’t quite manage to get across to his mother how much he disliked talking about his work in progress.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m climbing a mountain that keeps growing taller as I go. Hopefully I will feel more in control once the kids start their day camps next week.”
“I’m so glad they have that to look forward to this summer,” Nancy said. “Remember how much you and Will enjoyed summer camp?”
His older brother had been in his element at the sleepaway camp in upstate New York the Morgans had always been sent to. Popular and vivacious, William Jr. had never struggled to make friends. He had invariably been right in the middle of the action, planning mischief, devising fun games, having swim races.
Andrew, on the other hand, had hated every moment of it. He had silently cried himself to sleep every night, missing his bed, his room, his books.
But he had only been eight the one and only year he had endured sleepaway camp. Later that year when they had returned to their lake house for the final few weeks of summer, his brother had gone out in the early morning for a swim and never made it back.
He pushed away the difficult memories and realized his mother had continued speaking.
“The children have art camp first, don’t they?” she asked.
“That’s right. Art camp for a week then nature camp, drama camp and sports camp.”
“How delightful for them. They should make plenty of new friends, plus it will give you some time during the day to write.”
He sincerely hoped so since he was trying hard not to panic about his deadline.
“Have you thought more about hiring someone to help you with them?”
“I’m planning to start looking, but I probably won’t hire anyone until the house is done.”
“That makes sense. I hope you know I’m here to help you as much as I can, though. I can pick them up after camp and even take them back to my place for a few hours to give you more time, if you would find that useful.”
Impulsively, he hugged his mother. While his father had disdained his writing aspirations, Nancy had been invariably supportive.
She stayed long enough to help him put away the rest of the pizza and wipe down the kitchen, then left amid a flurry of kisses and hugs.
Nancy truly did seem to be thriving here in Wood Briar. He wasn’t sure how much of that was from her surroundings and how much stemmed from her finding her own way out of his father’s shadow after his death.
He sincerely hoped he and his children would find a similar peace here eventually.
He was gearing up for a long night of work at the kitchen table when he went into Finn’s room to tuck him in. He found his son sitting up in his bed, gazing at the fragile sand dollar he had found.
“Are you planning to sleep with that thing?” Andrew asked gently. “Maybe you ought to set it on your bedside table so you don’t crush it in the night.”
“Did Mom like going to the ocean?”
He caught his breath at the quiet question. Finn had been so very young when his mother had first been diagnosed, a sweet, chubby preschooler with energy that could power an entire city block.
He had been four when she died. Finn hardly remembered the bright, laughing, joyous woman Tracy had been before her diagnosis. Andrew hated that Finn’s memories were mostly hospital rooms, oxygen masks, and a mother too frail and fragile to play much with him.