Nekomah Creek

by Linda Crew

  Now she really looked puzzled. “Well, of course they do.”

  Dad hustled in from the kitchen. “So.” He clapped his hands together and looked from Mrs. Van Gent to her husband. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” they both said.

  “Fine,” Dad said.

  “I’m just getting ready to pour the wine,” I told him. “This is the glass with cork gunkies.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll take care of that.” Dad picked up the glass and drank. “Say, I’ve tasted some cork gunkies in my time, but these are truly outstanding!”

  “Da-ad!” I poured wine in the other two glasses. “You’re supposed to sniff it,” I told Dr. Van Gent.

  “Whatever you say.” He sniffed. “Smells okay to me.”

  Pretty clear this guy didn’t take his wine too seriously. I glanced at Dad. That was fine with him.

  He passed his own glass under his nose and breathed deep. “Ah! Such a wonderful bouquet. Playful, yet dignified. Unself-conscious and yet somehow … silly.”

  “You’re silly!” I said. “Mo-om? Dad’s getting goofy again!”

  Mrs. Van Gent’s elbow was on the table, her hand covering her face. When she took it away I could see she was grinning. She looked at Dad.

  “Wouldn’t you just like to forget this romantic-dinner-for-two business and join us?”

  Dad put his hand on his chest. “Who, me?” He looked around like maybe she was talking to somebody else.

  “Yes, all of you. We’d like it, really.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose we could. We’ve got plenty of food. Beth?”

  “Why not?” Mom said from the kitchen. “Robby can have a hot dog instead of salmon.”

  “Sure, why not?” Then Dad leaned over to Mrs. Van Gent and added real confidentially, “It might surprise you to hear this, but formal’s not really our style anyway.”

  “No!” Mrs. Van Gent said. Then she burst out laughing.

  I knew she was laughing about last week. It was like the same thought—Dad in the shredded T-shirt—popped into everyone’s head at the same time. We all looked at each other and cracked up.

  Finally Mrs. Van Gent got herself under control. “What I’m really dying to know is”—and now her blue eyes twinkled—“what kind of games are we playing after dinner?”

  Well, they didn’t actually play games, but Mom and Dad sat around talking with Steve and “Heidi” long after dinner was over. From my loft I could hear them down below, stretches of talk and little bursts of laughter.

  I like books with happy endings, don’t you? But real life’s never quite like that. It always keeps going on to the next thing—happy, sad, or whatever. But at least I’d reached the end of this bunch of worries. Nobody was going to take me away from my family. Nobody was going to take me away from Nekomah Creek.

  For the first time in weeks, I felt safe. And tired, too, in a good sort of way. I wouldn’t be able to read more than two chapters tonight. Not after all that running around on the soccer field.

  I was already dozing, in fact, when I remembered: tomorrow was—ta da—Powell’s Books! I lay there, my eyes drooping again, watching the fire’s shadows flickering on the ceiling, thinking about that City of Books. How would I ever choose which ones to buy? And what a fun problem to have.

  I looked forward to a long, wet winter. Lots of dark, rainy nights to sit by the wood stove and read.

  Yup, I love books. But you know what? Real life’s not bad either.

  For my son Miles,

  with love and special thanks

  for the inspiration

  of his own book, Son of a Nut.