Wild Flower by Abbie Williams

supplied cheerily, from where she stood at the counter shaking salt into a bowl of noodles. Her ruby-tinted hair hung in a braid down her back. The house was chaotic in the wake of the granddaughters, running from the kitchen to the patio and back again; between Mathias’s three sisters, there were eight girls.
    As though reading my mind, Diana added, “I’m counting on grandsons, you know. I’ve got you two pegged for that.”
    â€œSix or seven, that’s what I’m thinking,” Mathias said.
    â€œYou guys,” I groaned, and Glenna poked my side, everyone laughing at me. It seemed that every other thing I said amused them.
    â€œYou’re just so darn sweet,” Diana said, kissing my cheek before heading for the stove, where an enormous stockpot was boiling, full of corn on the cob.
    I made my way to the beautiful old curio cabinet in the corner of the dining room, where Diana had framed and arranged numerous pictures of the family. I sought my favorite one and lifted it lovingly into my hands. I smiled at Mathias over my shoulder and teased softly, “I could handle having a little boy just like this.”
    He grinned, saying, “I know I was adorable.”
    In the picture he was standing near Flickertail, eight years old, knobby-skinny and brown from the sun, his dark hair cut into bangs that hung in his eyes. Even so, the incredible indigo-blue of them shown in the picture. Summertime, and he was smiling widely to showcase two missing teeth, proudly holding up a stringer of bluegills. I set this one back, gently, and then lifted his senior picture from the bunch, feeling the familiar weightless sensation in my stomach at the sight of his beaming smile. He was posing with his hockey stick, leaning over it, clad in his blue and white Landon Rebels jersey, number ten.
    â€œDo I hear Camille and my boy?” Bull called from outside. I loved my future father-in-law and had no trouble at all imagining him as someone from an earlier century. It was partially his gruff voice and partially the tendency to speak like he was in a Clint Eastwood-era western. He came rumbling into the house for hugs all around, then caught me by the shoulders and gave me a quick, speculative perusal with one eye squinted. He concluded, looking at Mathias, “Son, I remember Jackie Gordon well. I feel I oughta give you a punch in the nose on his behalf.”
    I giggled and Mathias lifted both hands in surrender, laughing too. He justified again, “We’re in love .”
    â€œAs even a blind man could see,” Bull agreed.
    We headed out to the porch, where the view of the lake was stunning. Even having lived on its shores for the past three years, Flickertail never ceased to amaze me with its sheer beauty; I could live here forever (and planned to) and never take the sight of it for granted. Now, as evening cast its low-lying, apricot-tinted beams over the surface, the water lay smooth, unmarred by the whitecaps stirred up in the day, when the wind was usually stronger and motor boats flew back and forth, creating crisscrossing and unceasing wake-patterns. The Carters’ house was just a stone’s throw from the water, their wide dock stretching straight out before turning two corners; Bull’s sleek outboard and a pair of bright yellow jet-skis were tethered to its length.
    â€œHi, guys!” Elaine said, from where she was seated at the glass-topped patio table. Tina and I joined her while Mathias descended the wooden steps to the lower-level deck where the menfolk were drinking beer at the grill. Elaine poured Tina and I each a frothy margarita and I felt a splash of guilt as I considered how exacting I was of Noah’s behavior.
    But you don’t have a drinking problem, I reminded myself.
    â€œThanks,” I told Elaine.
    â€œEnjoy,” she replied cheerily. “You two are going to have such a great time on your trip.” She was on my right, feet bare,