The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(58)

“I like her so much,” I say. “She and Avery were the first to make me feel welcome.”

“I bet you miss your family.”

I tell her about my mom—including her similar move to the States after marrying a military man—and about Anna’s adventures in the Caribbean, until Mason’s dad notices it’s time to head to Carpenter Point for the fireworks. I go to the house to wake up Maisie and carry her out to where Mason is waiting with the pickup truck. His siblings, nieces, and nephews are all riding in the back, and when Maisie sees, she begs to join them.

“I’ll hold her,” Didie offers.

“It’s a short drive and I’ll take it slow,” Mason assures me. “Promise.”

I hoist Maisie over the side of the truck into Didie’s lap and climb up into the cab. With two golf carts behind us, we form a small parade as we move through downtown and out West Lakeshore Drive. The Roses’ house has an unobstructed view of the lake and it looks as if half the island has turned out for the show. They’re spread out on blankets and seated in folding lawn chairs across the sprawling front yard.

Mason leads Maisie and me across the road, where we sit on a large rock beside the water, all nestled together like a set of spoons.

“This has always been my favorite spot. From here you can see the fireworks from Lakeside and Put-in-Bay.” He gestures toward dark landmasses to the west. “And on clear nights you can see the show at Cedar Point, too.”

Seconds later a rocket whizzes up into the night sky from Lakeside and explodes into a huge red burst. The whole crowd reacts with a collective ooooooh!

Maisie draws in a gasp of wonder. “Mama, did you see?”

“I did,” I say as the next burst blossoms into shimmering green. Then, to Mason: “Thank you for sharing your favorite spot with us.”

He answers with a kiss that walks a thin line between PG and PG-13. And leaves me a little breathless.

“Hey,” Daniel says from the next rock over. “You two are supposed to be watching the fireworks.”

Mason grins at me. “Who says we’re not?”





CHAPTER 20



Natsukashii

Japanese

“a feeling that warms the heart because it brings back memories”



It’s a blistering-hot day in mid-July when I drive my car onto the deck of the ferry. Air-conditioning on full blast. Four more cabins are finished, so I take the day off to go look through old photos with Mason’s mom in Cleveland.

The Browns live on the east side of the city, in an affluent suburb with expansive lawns and big, shady trees. Their neighborhood is made up of McMansions, American ranch houses, and century homes. The Browns’ house is a redbrick colonial on a huge wooded lot that reminds me of the property on Kelleys Island, and I can imagine Mason playing in the yard as a little boy.

By the time I reach the end of the long driveway, Mason’s mom is waiting on the front steps. She’s wearing a beige tunic dress with black leggings, and the combination makes me feel like I left my A game at home. If she’s this beautiful as a senior citizen, I can guess how breathtaking she must have been as a young woman. Probably as breathtaking as her son.

“I’m so glad you found us okay,” she says. “Come on in.”

Inside, the house is elegant, with a lot of floral patterns and curvy-legged furniture. There are photos of their children and grandchildren everywhere, and the side of the refrigerator is covered with children’s artwork. Yōko pauses at the stove, picks up a pair of extra-long wooden chopsticks, and gives the contents of a pot a quick stir before leading me to a sunroom. Through the windows, the backyard stretches into the distance, ending at a river.

“I had David bring the boxes down here where it’s not so hot and dusty,” she says. “We can look for a bit and then have lunch. I’m making ramen.”

“It smells delicious,” I say. “I’ve only ever eaten the kind that comes in a packet.”

“Those are fine, but homemade is so much better. I made chashu and shoyu tamago last night—”

“What does that mean?”

She laughs. “I forget that you’re new here. Chashu is pork belly and shoyu tamago is a medium-boiled egg that’s been marinating in soy sauce overnight.”

“I’ve definitely never tried that.”

“I’ll tell you what I told my kids,” she says with a laugh. “If you don’t like it, we have peanut butter and jelly.”

We sit in a pair of wicker armchairs with yellow floral cushions, and she opens the lid of the first box. “These are the oldest photos of David’s family on Kelleys Island. Likely we’ll find a nice picture of the winery in here. Most of the people will be very stiff and posed, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Yōko plops a thick stack of photos in my lap. “If you have any questions, David may know the answers, but I think we’re looking for aesthetics rather than history.”

“Right. The history is relevant to the extent that it’s Mason’s history,” I say. “But I’m more interested in a sense of playfulness, I guess. Evidence that these people had lives outside formal family portraits.”

Many of the early photos are sepia-toned professional portraits mixed in with slightly blurred home photos of people lined up in rows. Some of them have names written in cursive along the bottom. Some have identifiers on the back. Yōko sets aside a picture of the winery, but neither of our first two stacks yield anything else.