I nod, although I’m pretty sure that Mitchell isn’t going home on Sunday night. He’s going to stay, at least until he gets tired of me, which I hope is never.
Jake walks away with his two kids, giving us a quick wave and a smirk in my direction. Kind of an I told you so look.
Jake has been doing this dad thing a lot longer than I have.
We walk toward the campground, and Mitchell stops and looks at me, his brow furrowed. “Where’s the tent?”
“I packed it up,” I inform him.
He hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder, so I reach over and take it from him. He must have brought everything he owns.
“Where are we going to sleep?” he asks. He doesn’t look too pleased.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” I say. I start toward the cabin the Jacobsons are letting me use.
“There’s Abigail,” Mitchell says. Then he looks confused. “And an old Abigail.” He looks at me. “Who’s that?”
Abigail and her grandmother do look a lot alike. They both have that same curly hair, although Mrs. Marshall’s hair is shorter and more salt than pepper at this point. But they have very similar features, and they’re built the same, both tall and willowy, although Mrs. Marshall has a noticeable stoop to her shoulders.
“That’s Mrs. Marshall,” I explain. “Abigail’s grandmother.”
“She’s really old,” he says, the way only a child can get away with.
Abigail and her grandmother must have been outside watering flowers because Mrs. Marshall is holding a garden hose, soaking the bushes in front of the cabin. Mrs. Marshall turns the garden hose toward Mitchell, pretending like she doesn’t see him standing there.
“Whoops!” she says when she pretends to notice him, as she almost sprays him. “Didn’t see you there.”
Mitchell grins and looks up at me for guidance. “You don’t want to mess with her,” I say behind my hand. “The Marshall women are sneaky.”
“We heard that,” they both sing out in unison, and then they both start laughing.
Mrs. Marshall sets her hose to the side. “Who’s this young man?”
“This is my son, Mitchell,” I say. I gently shove him toward her when he doesn’t say anything. “Say hello, Mitchell,” I tell him.
“Hello, Mitchell,” he parrots.
Mrs. Marshall guffaws and scruffs the top of his head.
“Did you take the bus home, Mitchell?” Abigail asks. I’ve probably worried the fool out of her today because every time she saw me I was checking my phone to be sure of the time.
He nods. And it hits me that she just called my cabin home. It makes my insides warm, and a lump forms in my throat.
Mrs. Marshall reaches into the pocket of her old housecoat and pulls out a piece of candy for him.
Mitchell looks at me. “Can I have it?”
“I don’t see why not.” I walk over and kiss Abigail on the cheek. “I’m going to go show Mitchell the cabin.”
She nods and stands watching us with a smile on her face as we walk over to the place that’s now ours.
“This is our house?” Mitchell asks.
“Yep. It’s all ours. At least for now.”
He rushes through the front door as soon as I open it. “Where’s my room?”
I point toward his little space. This morning I moved the bunk bed away from the wall and gave his space a fresh coat of paint. I still have to finish the rest of the house, but I figure I can let Mitchell help me with that. But his room—I wanted that to be perfect.