Page 131 of Small Town, Big Storm

I bump his shoulder with mine.“I bet you can, what with suddenly having a six-year-old and all.”

He runs his knuckles over my cheek.“Show me more?”

I flip through the pages, showing him the ridiculous amount of baby pictures I took of our daughter—sleeping on my chest, smiling in her bassinet, at the park with Gerald and the rest of the mafia in the background, strapped to Sully’s chest as he stood behind the bar, mixing drinks, Clover and Daisy, Clem and Blossom fussing over her on the rug in the front room.I chronicle her rolling over and her first steps (which quickly became her firstrun), the first time she went on a big kid swing and her first summer camp at the Pioneer Museum.

Storm laughs when he reads the sign I made her hold up in the kitchen before her first day of school.

Name: Holly Abigail Baker

Grade: Kindergarten

Age: 5

When I grow up, I want to be: Gerald

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”he asks.

“Why do you think she likes bubblegum ice cream so much?”I tease.

More laughter and it keeps coming as I show him a packet of hair from her first haircut (and describe how she wasnota fan), as I tell him about my first parent-teacher meeting and show him her first report card (high marks in everything except sitting still during circle time).

“I seem to remember another person getting wiggly during the same time,” I tease.

He grins as he flips through the rest of the contents.“Never did have much patience for reciting the alphabet and singing songs.”

“Or for math tests.”

“God,” he says, “Clem’s mom’s math tests used to be brutal.”

“I hear Clem’s are harder.”

He shudders.Then touches my cheek again.“Thanks for showing me this.”

“I have loads more pictures on my phone,” I tell him as we pack up the box.“I’ll share them with you.”

“Thanks, Poppyseed.”

Now I touchhischeek.“Anytime.”

He slips the lid on, stands to put the box back onto the shelf.

But as he stretches a piece of paper falls out of his pocket.

No.Anenvelope.

We both reach for it.

“Don’t,” he whispers.My brows fly up, but I freeze, holding his stare until he exhales, shakes his head.“It’s from my dad.He left it with his will, apparently.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t opened it?”

“I’m tempted to burn it,” he says ruefully.“He left Rain one too.”

“What did Rain’s say?”