Page 34 of When We Were More

I walk over and hug Jay, then Tommy. “And for not peeing on my floors,” I tease. They both laugh.

Jay teases back. “Boss told us we better not before we ever stepped foot in here.”

I glance over my shoulder at Henry and notice him gesturing to Tommy.

“Hey, squirt. Do you want to look at pictures of the new puppy we got? Maybe your dad will let you come meet her one of these days.”

“Yes!” That’s all it takes—the mention of puppies—and Layla is trailing after Tommy and Jay out of the kitchen.

Henry clears his throat. “Would you come over here and kneel next to me so I can show you something cool about the trim?”

I don’t argue, I’m too emotional to come up with any witty comments. Instead, I go to where he is, and we both kneel. Henry points out a line in the trim I hadn’t seen before—my great-grandfather’s decorative addition, he tells me.

“I was able to get the paint out of this carving here. It brings out the detail your great-grandfather added. He must’ve been a good woodworker to pull off this quality without modern tools.”

I’m speechless. It’s a piece of my family history he must have painstakingly worked to reveal when he could have easily sanded away this portion. I run my fingers along the wood. It’s soft and smooth.

“You okay?”

I glance at him. He looks as nervous about my response as I was to see the final result. There’s no room for a smart-ass comment because I’m in love with how he refinished this woodwork and cabinets.

“It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you were able to do this.”

His eyes light up. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I have one more thing to show you. Be prepared. This one might make you cry.”

“What more could you possibly have to show me?” I laugh. “And why would I cry?”

“Come a little closer,” he says.

I raise a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“For God’s sake, trust me. I’m not trying to do anything inappropriate. I only want to show you something I think you’ll love.”

I scoot closer.

“Close your eyes. I’m going to take your hand and have you touch something.”

My head whips toward him. “Excuse me? Touch something? What exactly is thissomething?”

I inadvertently glance down at his groin, and my cheeks are immediately hot with embarrassment. He notices and grins.

“Give me your hand. I promise I’m not trying to be gross.”

I make a show of offering my hand. He reminds me to close my eyes. When I do, he takes it and guides my finger over a spot on the wood. It’s uneven, textured.

He releases my hand, and I take that as the cue to open my eyes. He’s pointing at a spot in the trim where my great-grandparents—one of them, perhaps both—had carved their initials. I reach out and gently rub my fingers over it, lost in the motion and the weight of how personal it feels.

“If you don’t like it, I can buff it out,” he says. “But I thought it was a cool thing to find under all that paint.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I appreciate that you left it for me to decide, rather than sanding it out.”

He clears his throat. “That’s my job.”

He stands and extends a hand to help me up. We’re close when I rise, but I don’t pull back. “I love it. It’s wonderful, more than I could have imagined.”

Before he can respond, the moment ends when his little bundle of energy comes barreling into the kitchen. I step back.