It’s peak color season here in the U.P., so the roads are still crowded even though the temperature clearly says it’s not summer anymore. Truman and I went up Brockway Mountain a couple days ago so he could show off the view, and I was glad he drove, both because of how steep and twisty the road was, and how many other cars there were. After a summer at Loon Lake, I’m suddenly traffic shy.
We officially closed everything yesterday. That wasn’t part of my original contract, but since I wasn’t going very far, and since Jonathan considers Truman and me a package deal now, I helped make sure the water was shut off, and the linens taken to the van for winter storage, and the mattresses zipped up in plastic covers, and the windows shuttered. All these little things mean that, next May, we shouldn’t have to do too much to get things ready for the June residents. I didn’t have much of my own stuff to pack up, since I’d only come with the single car and for the season, anyway, but now the rest is arriving.
Truman’s inside, installing the shelves I helped him measure and cut and assemble and varnish. He’s dealing with it by keeping busy. I’m dealing with it by hovering out here, in the circular drive that covers more than just a single A-frame house. He winterized the one, but he owns them all. It’s a sort of Loon Lake in miniature, which at this point means that one’s his studio and slightly more survivable in the winter than the remaining two, which are good for storage, as long as what we’re storing doesn’t care about being below freezing. At least it means I don’t need to keep paying for the storage space downstate.
The U-Haul truck pulls in slowly and carefully, and I stand up from the outdoor bench, even though I’m already clearly visible. Dina waves from the passenger seat. She’s been keeping me updated with texts on their progress, but Dad’s concentrating too hard on driving for me to really get a first glimpse. She told me this was his suggestion, but the only time he reached out to me directly was a text to double-check the combination for the lock on the storage stall.
The way he pulled in means he’s on the far side of the truck, anyway, so she’s the one who pops out first and comes up to hug me, rocking me back and forth but not saying anything. Maybe she’s not entirely clear on Dad’s motivations, either, but I make sure to catch her left hand and raise my eyebrows at the ring. I knew it would be there, since she emailed me a photo and Truman and I already told Jonathan we need that weekend off next June, but it’s especially sparkly in person.
That’s what Dad catches: my expression, and her laugh, and then he’s here, too, hugging both of us. It might suck, because it’s not like I get my own hug, but it’s also the first Dad hug I’ve had in months.
The real test is when he squeezes us to tell us to let go and Truman’s here, too, in his carpenter jeans with the hammer actually stuck through the hammer loop. Dad holds out a hand for a shake, which Truman accepts, and I try not to cross my arms, but Dina’s already noticed. She’s having trouble controlling her eyebrows, which might be good, because at least it’s a sign I didn’t tell her about it. Maybe that’s what Dad notices first, because he frowns a little, and tries to follow her gaze and ends up reaching for my hand. My left hand.
Dad looks at my wedding ring and then my face, raising an eyebrow. “Alyssa Truman?”
I nod. I mean, I guess it’s big news, but come on. The man’s only asked for my lock combination in months, and the last time he left it wasn’t exactly on the best of terms.
“Couldn’t wait until May?” Dina teases, taking my hand from Dad so she can examine it, too. We got matching bands from a local—well, she’s still in the U.P., so that’s close enough to local—jeweler: a silver base with a horizon line and two conifer trees in copper.
“Actually, it was more based on when Edgar could come and be a witness,” Truman tells her. “But yeah, it was at Loon Lake.”
Dad blinks. “Wait, you actually have his autograph on a marriage license?”
“Pretty sure when it’s official it’s called a signature, but yeah.” I shrug. Edgar—seriously it’s hard for me to think of him any other way—and Truman have stayed in touch, and the three of us have even Facetimed.
Dad nods and slips an arm around my shoulders to give me a half-hug. “So, I don’t need to lecture you on having no legal standing on this property?”
“That’s the sole reason,” Truman agrees. I think he meant to make Dina laugh, but Dad surprises both of us.
“All right, come on,” he mock-orders, heading for the back of the truck. “All you young whippersnappers can do the unloading.”
Dina rolls her eyes and sighs like she’s supposed to, and Truman looks at me quickly for reassurance. Yes, Dad’s letting it go because we didn’t make a big deal of it and not because he wants to dismiss it. Then Truman raises his eyebrows and whistles once Dad rolls up the back of the truck. “This is, uh, really organized for you.” I don’t have a ton of larger items, since I was renting a partially furnished apartment, but the rest of my stuff is in neatly labeled, identically sized Rubbermaid bins.
“Yeah, you’ll notice the handwriting is Dina’s,” I point out, because she’s the one who insisted on organizing my packing. It didn’t really matter how the bins went into the storage space, since we figured all of it would come out in one go at the end of the season, but she made sure to be specific on the side of each one, to the point where any bins topped off with yarn have the weight and dyer listed on the side, too.
“I see I don’t get any credit for the tubs,” Dad pouts, climbing up into the truck despite his comments and starting to unstrap the ones on top.
“You didn’t sign the tubs,” Dina consoles him, reaching up for the first one. “You guys have beer waiting, right?”
“On ice,” Truman agrees.
Dad and Dina bicker, sort of, and make a game of it: how many bins unloaded equals how many beers. Whether Dina’s short tour of our house—short, because there’s really not much too it—counts as a break or not, because breaks can only be taken after a certain number of bins, too. But beer breaks don’t count as breaks, because that’s Dad stacking the deck in his favor. He’s counting every bin he hands out, but we only get to count the ones we individually carry inside.
The place I was renting had a bed frame but no mattress, so the mattress is the biggest item we have to get through the door. And Dad was smart about the size of the bins, which have built-in handles, so even the ones that are mostly books aren’t too bad to carry. Some things get stacked up inside the winter house, which makes it feel crowded, and others in the next A-frame over, but luckily I don’t have a ton of stuff. We don’t even double up on all that much. It’s mostly kitchen supplies, but that’s fine, because then we won’t have to wash plates that often. I wasn’t tiny house-ing it, but I was definitely internshipping it.
We’ve got the sliding door open for some air and Dad’s declared it time for a celebratory beer so the four of us are in the house, the two of them standing because they spent all day driving and the two of us standing because it would feel weird to sit when they’re not. Dad drinks most of his beer in a single pull and then starts admiring the new shelves. Dina gives me a boys will be boys look when he compliments them, and Truman says they just went in and they start discussing the finer points of carpentry as they apply to bookshelves.
It’s a little overenthusiastic on Dad’s part, maybe, but Tru’s not going to call him on it. They’re both negotiating how things stand when we’ve only known Dad was willing to do this for a little over a week, and Dad had no idea about the status of our relationship aside from me moving in.
Dina leans against the kitchen counter next to me. “So tell me more about the wedding.”
I snort and look down at my finger again. “There’s not much to tell. Edgar joked he could make it back, Jonathan said he knew a guy …” I had my birth certificate because I wasn’t just going to leave that in storage, so we went to the courthouse to make sure we’d have the license when Edgar could swing by, and bingo. “Edgar and Lydia witnessed.”
“And you had it where, exactly?” she wants to know.
“Okay, you realize legally you only need like two minutes, right?” I laugh. “We just stood by the water and said ‘I do’ when he told us to.”
“And exchanged rings,” she reminds me.
I nod at her engagement ring. “You picked yours out already?”
“Oh, you know your dad.” She fiddles with her stone. “He just wants something plain.”
Except his and Mom’s rings were yellow gold, and Dina’s engagement ring is white gold. Or maybe platinum. “And you?”
She moves her hand to watch the myriad little diamonds sparkle around the giant emerald. Neither she nor my dad was born in May, but it’s her favorite gem. “Probably plain. You’re not supposed to out-bling the engagement ring, are you?”
I shrug, because I don’t have an engagement ring. “Pretty sure you get to pick for yourself.” That is, of course, the reason I don’t have an engagement ring.
Dina nods slowly, still looking at it.
“Oh, on that subject.” Dad turns to Truman. “We’d like you to be an usher.”
Truman blinks, but I’m not entirely sure what’s going on in his head. “That’s going to involve a tux, isn’t it?”
“You have to dress up,” Dina argues, grinning and nudging my shoulder with her own. “Because you’re going to be a bridesmaid. I insist.”
“You know Truman wore shorts to his own wedding, right?” I point out, but I nod.
“Wait, do you have photos?” Dad asks. “I mean, Loon Lake?”
Truman nods. “Jonathan took them himself. Here.” He points them to the correct wall, since Jonathan used a film camera, and developed them in his own darkroom, just to make sure he wasn’t breaking any of his own rules.
There are a grand total of five. In the middle, as the biggest, is one of the wedding kiss. It’s the real one, nothing staged after. I didn’t realize Jonathan took it, but I’m glad he did. Then there’s one of Truman and Edgar, one of me and Lydia, one of all of us—including Jonathan, taken by the officiant—and a posed shot of Truman and me, so you can see our faces better.
Dina taps her chin. “I don’t know, Aaron.”
He sighs. “We’ve already put money down on the venue, the flowers, the food, and your dress. We can’t switch now.”
Truman slips his arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple. “I thought it was perfect.”
I smile and kiss him, then turn back to my dad. “You two probably want to get to the hotel and shower before dinner, hey?”
“Shower sounds good,” he agrees, finishing his beer and trading me the U-Haul keys for my own, since they’re just leaving that here and will take my car back into Calumet. “Hey, honey.” Dad pulls me into a hug, one just for me with both arms this time. “Congratulations, kiddo.”
I close my eyes and squeeze back. “Thanks, Dad.”
When he lets go, Truman’s arm slips around me again. This time when they drive off, it’s only for a few hours.
My husband kisses my temple. “Looks like we should start unpacking.”
I grin up at him. “Option B?”
He laughs and agrees: “Option B.”
THE END
Rebecca Frost 