"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."
Claire pressed the card to her chest.
"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.
