“I thought these were gone.”
She sat in that diner and cried.
In the parking lot afterward, Claire looked at Noah.
“After Mom died, I stopped doing Christmas breakfast.”
Noah leaned against the car.
“Why?”
Claire looked down at the recipe card.
“The house didn’t smell right.”
She gave an embarrassed little laugh.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
Claire wiped her eyes.
“Dad knew.”
The second Saturday was harder.
The next envelope read:
Take Aaron to Franklin Field. Bring the glove.
An old baseball glove had been included among Mr. Vance’s belongings for Aaron.
The second Aaron saw it, his jaw tightened.
“No.”
Claire sighed.
“Aaron.”
“No. I’m not doing some sentimental scavenger hunt.”
Noah stayed quiet.
Aaron pointed at the glove.
“Do you know what makes this ridiculous?”
“No,” Noah said.
Aaron looked across the street toward his father’s empty house.
“My son, Ben, played Little League at Franklin Field for five years.”
His voice became sharper.
“I invited Dad constantly.”
Claire lowered her eyes.
“I know.”
“He always had an excuse.”
Aaron laughed bitterly.
“Too tired. Too hot. Bad knees. Didn’t feel like crowds.”
Then he looked at Noah.
“Dad could sit on that porch every Saturday watching you mow, but he couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Noah flinched.
Aaron immediately looked guilty.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I know.”
“It’s just…”
Aaron rubbed his hands over his face.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care.”
Noah held out the glove.
“Then maybe you should come.”
Aaron stared at him.
Finally, he took it.
