Free Fixing Delilah by Sarah Ockler

it.”
    “Nope. And when she died and I knew you’d be coming back, I asked him again. He told me that Liz never talked about it. Maybe the whole thing was all her fault. Who knows?”
    I look out over Red Falls Lake below. From here, it’s just a giant blue hole, still and peaceful and immune to the constant flux of sailboats and people and babies below.
    “I was thinking about the time the bird got trapped in there.” I nod toward the windows of the sunroom. “Remember?”
    “Yeah. My dad built that tunnel out of sheets to get him out—I totally remember! It was a cardinal, right? I haven’t seen one in forever. Sometimes I see blue jays, but never cardinals.”
    “Same.” I stand to brush the grass from my shorts.
    Patrick turns his backside to me. “Get mine, too, all right?”
    “That costs extra.”
    “How much?” he asks.
    “I’ll have to get back to you on that. My rates went up since eight years ago.”
    Patrick shakes his head, looking at me in his just-a-second-too-long way. “I think you’re okay now, Hannaford,” he says. “My work here is done.”

Chapter ten

    “All right, girls, where do we start?” Emily stands in the middle of the kitchen in her overalls, a red bandanna tied loose around her head. After a week of figuring out the house stuff and managing the constant stream of droppers-in, it’s finally time to plan the estate sales. Mom had to run errands in town, so Em and Megan, self-proclaimed garage-sale queens, offered to help us with the first wave.
    Rachel and Megan head for the basement, leaving me and Emily to sort the contents of the kitchen cupboards and drawers into piles: use while we’re here, sell, donate, or trash. So far, trash is winning. Tupperware with no lids. Mugs with missing handles. Torn old picnic tablecloths that haven’t seen the outdoors in years.
    “Check this out.” Emily holds up a pair of beige ceramic mugs printed with tic-tac-toe boards. “They’re from Chances, the café before it became Luna’s. Your grandma must’ve swiped ’em. Saucy old gal, huh?”
    I shrug. “I don’t really remember that much about her.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry, Delilah.”
    I take the mugs from her and set them in the sell pile. “This is actually the first time I’ve been back here since I was a kid.”
    “Yeah, Patrick told me. Hey, I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but he really missed you. Don’t tell him I said that.”
    That butterfly keeps banging around inside at the mention of his name. Stupid insect. “He did?”
    “You should’ve seen his face when he first told me about you last week. Man, you guys must’ve been really close.”
    “We were,” I say. “But it’s been a long time. It feels so strange to be back here. I’m still trying to sort out some of the memories.” I don’t know why I’m so comfortable talking to Em. Maybe it’s her smile, or the way she says everything so straight. No buildup or fanfare. No awkward pauses. Maybe it’s her eyes, full and honest. Or maybe it’s the three-act puppet show she performs with the oven mitts and pantry boxes.
    “Oreo, Oreo, wherefore art thou Oreo?”
    We spend hours sorting through the kitchen, chatting about life and books and movies, about all the things that matter and all the things that don’t. My sides hurt from laughing, and when Rachel and Megan finally emerge from the basement with their bags of trash, ready to call it a day, I look at the clock on the oven and wish we had a few more hours.
    “You’re going to Patrick’s show tomorrow night, right?” Em asks.
    “Yes.” If I can’t convince Mom to let me go out, there’s always the window.
    “Awesome. I finish work at six. See you there.” She hugs me good-bye, and it’s been so long since a girlfriend hugged me that it takes me a second to figure out what’s happening and to remember how to do it back.
    “You two seemed to hit it off,” Rachel says when they’re gone. “I’m glad. She’s a sweet