getting octopus for lunch,” Debbie proclaimed with a ridiculous air of authority.
Both Gabe and Avery looked up at Marlene for an explanation. Preschoolers didn’t eat octopus. She certainly didn’t, either.
Evidently Gabe did. “You’re feeding the girls calamari?” Avery was glad to hear the same shock in his voice that currently iced her stomach.
That made Marlene laugh. “Of course not. I’d never think of such a thing.”
“Hot dogs,” Dinah said, looking as if she couldn’t fathom why the grown-ups weren’t catching on. A “box of sanity” was starting to look like a very good thing indeed.
Marlene planted her hands on her hips. “Land sakes, child, didn’t your mama ever make you hot-dog octopuses growing up?”
The prickly ball of “I didn’t have that kind of childhood” that usually stayed sleeping deep under Avery’s ribs woke itself up. Foster homes weren’t full of warm fuzzy childhood memories. The urge to mutter “I didn’t have a mama like that—I didn’t have a mama at all” crawled to the surface with startling strength. Avery took a breath, swallowed hard and answered with a simple “No.”
“Me, neither.” Gabe didn’t sound eager for the new experience, either, despite the girls’ delighted faces.
“Well, then, lunch ought to be a barrel of fun.” Marlene clapped her hands together and headed back into the house for whatever preparations hot-dog octopuses required. Avery couldn’t imagine what those might be.
“Watcha got?” Dinah said to Gabe, her eyes on the big boxes under the tree.
“A surprise for you and your sister,” Gabe said. He started up the ranch porch stairs, clearly thinking that would settle the matter until after lunch, but he had no idea how wrong he was. At the mention of the word surprise, both girls launched on him with pokes and grabs and questions. Debbie grabbed his hand and practically dragged him over to the boxes.
At the mention of the word swings, the girls were all over him with squeals and hugs and even one squishy kiss on his elbow. It would have been totally charming if Gabe hadn’t been turning shades of red and looking as if he’d contracted the adult version of “cooties.”
Trying not to laugh at Gabriel Everett draped in tiny pinkness, Avery said, “What do you say, girls?”
A chorus of thank-yous erupted, complete with one girl clutching each of Gabe’s pant legs so tightly he couldn’t even walk. He stood there, enduring the outburst, with a face that was mostly long-suffering but not without a tiny sliver of amusement. “I hope it’s nice to be appreciated,” she offered.
He opened his mouth to say something, then simply shut it again, adjusting his hat, which had come askew in the assault of happiness.
“How about we go help Mrs. Frank with lunch and let Mr. Everett get some peace and quiet to settle in before we eat? I want to see these octopuses before I let you eat them.”
Dinah giggled. “They’re really hot dogs,” she whispered.
“I sure hope so,” Gabe said as he tenderly, but firmly, peeled each girl from his legs.
“Swings, Mama,” Debbie said with wide eyes as she gleefully peered into the box.
“I like swings,” Dinah agreed.
The happiness on the two girls’ faces caused a giant lump to form in Avery’s throat. Danny had always said he would put up swings but never did. Now, someone she barely knew was erecting swings just for Debbie and Dinah. Yes, it might be to gain her cooperation, but the weight of the gesture still touched her. I’ll buy the swings from him when we leave, she promised herself. I’ll pay someone to put them up in our backyard. Little girls ought to have swings.
Saturday morning, Avery stared at the group of boys who had gathered on Gabe’s front lawn to help put up the swings.
It was hard enough to see all those people gathered to do something just for her girls, but the boys themselves tugged at her heart in exactly the way she feared. It bothered her how she could see right into their hearts. That “I’m unwanted” look that lurked behind the eyes of every child in foster care, even on their happiest of days. Could other people see it? Or just those who, like her, had lived it?
“Morning, ma’am,” they said in coached tones, as if boys ranch foreman Flint Rawlings had rehearsed them to greet her with good manners.
“Good morning, boys. These are my daughters, Debbie and Dinah.” The girls waved, and the boys waved back, sort of. With a collection of boys between twelve and seventeen—near as she could guess—just a shuffle and a grunt was almost too much to hope for.
“Are you building our swings?” Dinah said, squinting up at one tall, lanky teen.
“They are,” Flint said, placing a large tool kit down with a thud beside the boxes Gabe had purchased yesterday. “We figured it was the least we could do seeing as to how you’ve agreed to stay until the celebration.”
She hadn’t actually agreed. She’d only agreed not to leave yet. No one seemed to recognize the distinction. The assumption—and now the swings—made her feel cornered, but she could never quite voice her growing concern. Maybe you could try just being grateful, she told herself as she forced a smile in the direction of the makeshift construction crew. Maybe it won’t be so bad to stay and find out what Grandpa Cyrus is up to.
“I’ll be back in two hours to pick ’em up,” Flint said as he peered at his watch. “That’ll be enough time?”
“I expect so,” Gabe replied as he pulled the assembly instructions from the larger of the two boxes. “Five sets of hands ought to be able to get it done in half the time.”
Avery settled down on the porch with the girls to watch the spectacle of the slowly rising swing set. She had two sets of paint colors and four other website addresses to send to another client to view products, as well as two estimates to send to potential customers, but it felt wrong not to at least watch since she couldn’t hope to help.
Not that the girls didn’t want to try. Avery was grateful for the porch rail to keep them corralled away from the sawing of beams and hammering of nails.
One of the older boys stopped and stared at her as he came back from using the ranch house washroom. “So you’re her? The r-real her?”
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