“Your instructions are to open one each Saturday. In order.”
Claire blinked.
“I’ve never seen those.”
Neither had Aaron.
Noah looked at the lawyer.
“What’s in them?”
“I don’t know. Your instructions are to open one each Saturday. In order.”
Aaron studied the envelopes for another second before he almost smiled.
Noah gave a short laugh.
At a funeral.
I nudged him.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… that’s him.”
Aaron studied the envelopes for another second before he almost smiled.
Aaron and Claire had both come over.
“Yeah. It is.”
The following Saturday, Noah opened the first envelope at our kitchen table.
Aaron and Claire had both come over.
Inside was an address and one sentence.
“Take Claire with you.”
Claire stared at the address.
Then her mouth opened slightly.
Claire hadn’t been there in years.
“I know this place.”
It was a diner about twenty minutes away.
Claire hadn’t been there in years.
When we arrived, an older woman behind the counter looked at Claire and froze.
“Oh, my goodness.”
Claire frowned.
Claire started crying before she even knew why we were there.
“Ruth?”
Ruth came around the counter and hugged her.
“I haven’t seen you since your mother died.”
Claire started crying before she even knew why we were there.
Ruth disappeared into the back and returned with a cardboard box.
“Your father brought this to me six months ago.”
Margaret’s handwriting covered every card.
Inside were recipe cards.
Dozens of them.
Margaret’s handwriting covered every card.
Claire picked one up and made a sound like the air had been knocked out of her.
“Cinnamon rolls.”
Ruth smiled sadly.
Claire pressed the card to her chest.
“Your mother’s Christmas recipe.”
“I thought these were gone.”
She sat in that diner and cried.
Later, in the parking lot, she told Noah, “After Mom died, I stopped doing Christmas breakfast.”
Noah leaned against the car.
She looked down at the recipe card.
“Why?”
“The house didn’t smell right.”
She looked down at the recipe card.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
Claire wiped her face.
“Dad knew.”
Take Aaron to Franklin Field. Bring the glove.
Saturday Two was harder.
The envelope said:
Take Aaron to Franklin Field. Bring the glove.
The old baseball glove had been included with Mr. Vance’s belongings for Aaron.
The second Aaron saw it, his jaw tightened.
“No.”
Claire looked at him.
Aaron pointed at the glove.
“Aaron.”
“No. I’m not doing some sentimental scavenger hunt.”
Noah stayed quiet.
Aaron pointed at the glove.
“Do you know what makes this ridiculous?”
“No,” Noah said.
Aaron laughed without humor.
Aaron looked toward Mr. Vance’s empty house across the street.
“My son, Ben, played Little League at Franklin Field for five years.”
His voice sharpened.
“I invited Dad constantly.”
Claire said softly, “I know.”
“He always had an excuse.”
“Dad couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Aaron laughed without humor.
“Too tired. Too hot. Bad knees. Didn’t feel like crowds.”
Then he looked at Noah.
“Dad could sit on that porch every Saturday watching you mow, but he couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Noah flinched.
Aaron immediately looked guilty.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I know.”
“It’s just…”
Aaron rubbed both hands over his face.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care.”
Noah held out the glove.
At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
“Then maybe you should come.”
Aaron stared at him.
Finally, he took it.
At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
A groundskeeper finally waved us toward the concession stand, where Mr. Vance had left an envelope in a sealed box months earlier.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read it silently at first.
You asked me to come watch Ben play.
Then he sat down.
“What?” Claire asked.
He handed her the paper.
Mr. Vance had written:
Aaron,
You asked me to come watch Ben play, and I kept telling you no.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
You deserved better than excuses.
After your mother died, I couldn’t sit in those bleachers. I tried once and turned around before I reached the gate.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
I did.
I came to three games.
I parked beyond the outfield fence where you couldn’t see me.
I should have walked closer.
I watched Ben hit a double in one. I watched him strike out twice in another and throw his helmet in the dugout. He gets that temper from you.
I should have walked closer.
I didn’t know how.
I’m sorry.
Aaron stopped reading.
Claire nodded through tears.
He stared across the empty field.
“He was here?”
Claire nodded through tears.
Aaron laughed once.
Then he cried harder.
“Three games.”
Aaron looked down at the glove.
Noah sat beside him.
Aaron looked at him.
“All those years, I thought he chose everybody else over us.”
Noah said, “Maybe he didn’t know how to come back.”
Aaron looked down at the glove.
“That’s not the same as trying.”
“No.”
The third Saturday belonged to Noah.
That surprised him.
Noah continued.
“But I think maybe this was him admitting it.”
Aaron nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
The third Saturday belonged to Noah.
