CHAPTER FIVE

HARPER POLSEN

“Starting to really shape up out here,” Bev says, stepping out onto the porch. Mom and I are setting up tables, while Zane is dealing with lights along the roof. We’ve been at it for maybe twenty minutes while Bev got started on the food.

“It’ll look even better with the tablecloths and candles and stuff laid out,” Mom says. “When are the flowers supposed to be coming in, Bev?”

I grab one of the ends of a table, and Mom grabs the other. We pull together, until the legs straighten and it looks more or less level. Mom and Bev apparently designed an entire layout for the tables outside and the decorations inside the house, with flower arrangements and candles and all kinds of other stuff. It would probably come out looking great, but for the moment I found myself thinking it was kind of ambitious for four people to tackle.

“The florist called about five minutes ago and said the delivery van was on the way,” Bev replies. “Make sure you get the staples down good, Zane,” she adds.

“I’m doing it,” Zane says. “I’ve assembled and disassembled guns in one minute, I think I can tack down some lights.”

“Totally different skill set,” I call out. Mom and I settle the table on the ground, making sure to sit it firmly in the grass, so it won’t wobble. There’s a pile of tablecloths ready, a bottom layer that’s a pale, dusky pink, and a top layer that’s some kind of lace, and boxes of candles on the porch where Bev stands.

“I think there’s one more,” Mom says, counting the number of tables we’ve already put together.

I look around the backyard and picture it the way I think it will be that evening, with the sun going down, the candles and flowers, the way it would look kind of dreamy. It was going to be beautiful.

“Yep,” I agree. “One more table and then we can get to work on decorating them.”

Zane tacks down the lights he’s handling with a few more cracks from the staple gun in his hand. I look in his direction. I’ve been doing that all morning. I can’t seem to make myself stop.

I’d thought I’d gotten a good idea of his newfound gorgeousness the night before, but in the daylight it’s even more obvious. In jeans and T-shirt — both of them fitting him perfectly — I can see how much muscle he put on. His face lost most of the boyish look too and it really suits him.

“Don’t work too hard,” Bev says, sitting on the patio. “I want you both to be able to actually enjoy the party tonight.”

“Maybe I’ll take a nap,” I suggest.

“You are far too young to need to take an afternoon nap before a party,” Mom tells me.

Zane snickers from where he’s almost finished hanging up the strings of lights.

“It’s just good sense,” I point out. “I used to do it in college too. Take a nap, that way you can stay up until four in the morning.”

“Just admit it, you’ve turned into an old woman already,” Bev says, grinning at me.

I roll my eyes. “Not at all!” I can feel my cheeks heating up.

“Harper was always an old woman,” Zane chimes in.

“Hush, you!” I scowl at him playfully. “You don’t get to have an opinion about me, considering you spent an entire year after high school doing little more than partying.”

“I’d rather have been a party-boy in my younger years than old before my time,” Zane says, sticking out his tongue at me. Something about the way he does it, in spite of the fact that he’s done that to me hundreds of times from childhood through when we parted ways after high school, sends a little jolt of heat through me.

“I’m not old before my time, I just believe in balance,” I say primly. “Besides which, I highly doubt this party is going to keep going until four in the morning.”

“You never know,” Bev says. “Before we became mothers, we could have partied until dawn and then gone to work.”

“Yeah, but that was before you had us,” Zane said. “You’re out of practice.”

Mom and I grab the last table and pull it open, settling it onto the grass and making sure it’s not going to wobble, and we head for the patio, where Zane is finishing the lights.

“Tables down, lights done,” Zane says, jumping from the last rung of the ladder. “What else have we got to do, Mom?”

“Your dad and I have the living room cleared, so as soon as the flowers get here, we’ll be ready to finish everything up,” Bev says.

“Do you want any help with the food before people start arriving?” Mom starts sorting through the candles, putting them into the groups that they should be in for the tables, and I help her.

“I think I’ve got it under control,” Bev replies. “Besides, aren’t you bringing something too?”

“We’re going to make a couple of things,” I say. “That yogurt dip everyone likes and Mom talked me into making pasta salad.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” Zane says, giving me a little look that I might have thought was flirty coming from anyone else. “Five years out of high school and you’ve become the perfect woman.”

“She works too much for that,” Mom counters. “Never goes out, always staying up late on some project.”

“That’s because she hasn’t found a guy to sweep her off her feet yet,” Bev says. “Besides, nothing wrong with a woman who isn’t afraid of a little hard work. Most men are hard work.” She gives Zane a nudge. “If this one ever finds someone willing to put up with his crap, I will get down on my knees and worship her as a saint.”

“I thought you army types got married young,” I tell Zane.

“Some do,” he admits. “The rest of us enjoy being footloose and fancy free for a while.”

“Neither of our children is ever going to give us grandkids,” Bev tells my mom with a sigh. “Maybe we should pool money and adopt a grandchild.”

I roll my eyes and Zane does too. “Haven’t you heard? Our generation in general is having kids later,” I point out. “It isn’t that you won’t get grandkids, it’s that it’s not financially feasible for us to give them to you until we’re over thirty.”

“You tell ‘em,” Zane says.

“All right, all right,” Bev says. “I can wait a few more years to have grandkids. But if neither of you are married in five years, we’re going to get you both green card spouses.”

“Besides, how do either of you expect to get to twenty-five years of marriage if you don’t get started until you’re over thirty?” My mom asks.

“As proud of you as I’m sure both of us are,” I say, “I don’t know if I can even imagine being married for twenty-five years.”