Save the Date(125)

I popped up from behind the truck, and Mike and Sarah did too. “Hey, Don?” He froze, our paper in his hand, looking at me, his eyes wide. “Whatcha got there?”

“Oh.” He looked down at our Stanwich Sentinel, then up at me, and I could practically hear the gears of his mind frantically working as he tried to come up with an explanation. “Um . . .”

“Better think fast,” Mike said.

“You were stealing the Grants’ paper,” Sarah said, stalking out from behind the truck, arms folded across her chest. “I saw it. And as a paper carrier, it offends me.”

Don blinked at her. “Who are you?”

“She’s our papergirl,” I said, coming out to join her. “And we’ve been blaming her this whole time for not delivering it—but you’ve been stealing our paper every day? Since February?”

Don glanced back at our house, then at me. “You don’t have any proof of that,” he said weakly.

Sarah and I scoffed in unison, and Mike let out a short laugh. “Come off it, Don,” I said. I pointed to the paper. “Are you really going to deny it?”

Don looked at me for another second, then dropped our paper on the ground. “You don’t have any proof,” he said, brushing his hands off. “Perhaps I was just coming to deliver it to you in person. But I will just say that I did not appreciate being in your mother’s comic strip.”

“You weren’t in the—” Mike and I started automatically, but he talked over us.

“And I for one am thrilled you all are finally leaving. Your father’s a mediocre gardener at best and didn’t deserve half the praise that was heaped on him.”

It was Mike who spoke, surprising me. “My father is twice the gardener you’ll ever be,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” Don muttered, turning around and starting to walk away.

“I will be contacting the Sentinel about you!” Sarah yelled after him. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this!”

Don hunched his shoulders, but he didn’t turn around as he continued walking back toward his house, and I waited until he was gone before I let out a breath. “Jeez,” I said, shaking my head.

“Your lives are really interesting,” Sarah said, picking up her bike and wheeling it down to the end of the driveway. “My parents don’t have feuds with anyone.”

“I’m sorry we doubted you,” I said to Sarah, thinking of all the times she’d insisted she was delivering our paper and I’d basically called her a liar to her face.

“It’s okay,” she said stoically, straightening her helmet. She reached down and picked up our Sunday paper—the one that, I realized with a start, contained the very last Grant Central Station ever—and held it out to me. “Here.”

I took it from her. “Thanks.”

She nodded and got back on her bike, already reaching into her bag for the next paper as she started to pick up speed. “See you tomorrow!” she called as she headed down the street, the paper for the house across from ours already sailing through the air.

Mike turned to me. “Can you believe that?”

I smiled. “Never a dull moment.” I watched Sarah bike up the street, papers arcing out and landing on stoops and driveways. “Thanks for sticking up for Dad.”

“You mess with one Grant, you mess with us all.” I smiled at him, and after a second, he gave me a tiny smile in return. We started walking up the driveway together, just as Bill came out of the house.

He was heading to the truck, with two huge canvas bags—WHERE THERE’S A WILL was printed on them—over each shoulder. He was back in his jeans and his fleece, and despite that it was just a little after seven, he looked as cheerful as ever. Halfway down the driveway, he must have seen me, and he smiled.

“Hey,” he called to me.

“Hi,” I said, walking a few steps closer, trying to balance the donut boxes and the paper. “Morning.”

“I’ll take these,” Mike said, reaching for the donut boxes. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Hungry people are waiting.”

“Save me a strawberry frosted!” I yelled after him as he walked up to the house.

“You’re up early,” Bill said as Mike passed him with a nod. He reached the truck and dropped the canvas bags into the truck bed.

“Donut run.”

He smiled. “Got it. Worth getting up for.”

“Are you leaving?” I asked. A second later, I realized this was a stupid question—of course he was leaving. The wedding was over, so there wasn’t much of a job for the wedding coordinator’s assistant. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to just keep hanging around our house.

“Afraid so,” he said. “My uncle’s organizing an anniversary brunch this morning in Hartfield. So he needs me there.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Right.”

“He’s going to send some people to take down the tent later,” he said. “I told him you have that TV thing this morning, so to maybe wait until after it’s done.”

“Thanks,” I said, giving him a quick smile. “That’s great.”

“Well,” he said, leaning back against the truck, “I know you’re staying around here, but if you’re ever in Chicago, you should look me up. Or Mystic. Or Albuquerque.”