“Is this Butterscotch?” Lorelei asks, dropping to her knees and holding out her hand for the dog to sniff. The dog wiggles up to her licks her hand, and then quickly sprawls on her back, presenting her tummy for rubbing. Lorelei scrubs her ribs as expertly as Rune.

Lorelei’s braids are the same bright golden apricot Rune’s was at her age. She and I bonded last summer over our love of horses and being freckled-faced, brown-eyed girls in a sea of freckle-free, light-eyed people (for her, her dad, her grandpa, her cousin, for me my mom, sister, and nephew).

She’s adorable, but she looks as tired as Rune. Whereas his eyes were bloodshot, Lorelei’s have lavender shadows underneath. What’s making them both so exhausted?

“You have perfect timing,” Lorelei jumps back up, “I’m almost done with my display.”

“Sweet!” I open my arms for a hug, and she slips in and wraps her arms around me. She’s grown at least three inches and now comes under my chin. I’m five-nine; she’s going to be tall like all of the Borstads. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you,” she says, stepping back and beaming at me, “Is this your secret pesto?” she asks, taking the jar of green sauce from me.

“I’m glad you remember it,” I beam back.

“We were going to barbecue salmon, but I’d rather have this. I wanted to invite you for dinner, but Rune says you’re having company.”

This helps my ego quite a bit. I’m delighted she wants to include me.

“I am,” I say, stroking her bright hair, “another time?”

“Tomorrow?” She smiles hopefully and then impishly says, “Do you have any new coloring pages I can test out for you?”

“Indeed, I do,” I tell her as I follow her into the house and we make our way through the living room into the kitchen, “I’ll look through what I have and email a few to Rune tonight.”

“I can’t wait!” Lorelei says, putting the pesto in the fridge.

The smell of paint has died. It’s been replaced by the delicious scent of beeswax and blackberries. This more appealing fragrance comes from the two elegant white candles in glass canisters, one I spied on the living room coffee table and one here on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s Rune?” I ask, setting the package of spaghetti down I brought just in case they don’t have.

“Still setting up his sound studio,” Lorelei tells me. She takes my hand and leads me to the stairs, putting her finger to her lips and pointing with comic emphasis to the door that leads to the same room as the office in my house.

“He’s recording music now?” I ask in a return whisper. I know he plays piano and guitar well; his mother was a music teacher. Maybe playing Gregg Allman has inspired him to make his own music.

“No,” she laughs quietly and shakes her head vehemently, “he’d never do that. It’s hard to even get him to play Karaoke with me at home! He does a lot of voice-over stuff now.” She says so matter-of-factly I have to hide a smile.

I suppose it is all a matter of fact to her. Both her dad and Rune have been famous her whole life.

“He voices characters for animated movies?” I guess. Does he play villains or heroes? I’m imagining the latter.

“A few TV shows,” she says, “but mostly he records audiobooks. Tons and tons of audiobooks.”

Interesting.

**

Lorelei’s room is the same one I sleep in at home. Unlike the questionable colors Jenna picked downstairs, this room is painted a lovely light sage green. The single bed I loaned her now wears a pink and green striped quilt to match.

Several boxes on the floor are open showing clothes and other items, but clearly, the model horses have taken top priority. Between the windows on the far wall are a series of floor-to-ceiling white wooden shelves Jenna had installed to hold all of Lorelei’s model horses and books.

The books are obviously still being organized, but about fifteen of the famous miniature plastic Breyer model horses are lovingly arranged on the easiest-to-reach shelves.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What do you think?” Lorelei asks, holding her arms out like a magician presenting a rabbit being pulled out of a hat. Butterscotch takes this opportunity to jump up on the borrowed bed.

“Hey, down,” I say to the dog, who stays put but crouches in her I’m-pretending-to-be-submissive mode, which means she’s set on getting her way.

“It’s okay,” Lorelei says, sitting on the bed to pet Butterscotch. I narrow my eyes at the dog (pointedly ignoring me) before returning to the model horse display. After all, if things work out as planned, Butterscotch will be living here soon and likely sleeping with Lorelei. This won’t be my battle to fight.

“I like it,” I tell her, carefully inspecting the horses. I have over fifty of my own Breyer model horses boxed up in my parent’s garage, but mine aren’t nearly in such excellent shape. “I particularly like how you’ve got them set up by type,” I tell her. It’s obvious which horses are for riding Western and which are for riding English.”

“I like riding English the best,” she admits, “but the Borstad guys only ride Western, so I do that too. Have you ever been to our cousins’ place on the Olympic peninsula? Where they take people on horse-packing adventures?” She asks.

“Yes, but not for about twenty years,” I tell her. “It was really fun, but I like riding English best too.”

“Wow, that’s a long time ago,” she raises her eyebrows.

“What’s a long time?” Rune asks, leaning on the doorframe in exactly the insouciant way I imagine Wizard Howl did when he wanted to keep Sophie from snooping in his bedroom.

“The last time I went with you to ride horses at your cousins’ place near Sequim,” I say.

“Wow, what was that, like twenty years ago?” He asks with a laugh and then, “Is this a girls-only zone right now? Am I intruding?”

“No,” Lorelei laughs at him, “you’re allowed…for now.”

“We’re lamenting that you, Gunnar, Granpa Hank, and your cousins only ride Western,” I tell him.

“English does have some amazing boots and great outfits,” he admits, slipping onto Lorelei’s bed as smoothly as a cat and leaning against the headboard, “But it’s way too disciplined. I’m happy with a sweet trail horse that’s willing to gallop on the flats—unless, of course, I’m being paid well to gallop across the moors to my lost love for some period piece.” He gives us both a lazy, self-satisfied grin.

He seems a little better than yesterday; his eyes aren’t so bloodshot. I also noticed, which somehow I didn’t before, that he has a lovely light tan. I’m the color of milk because it’s been raining like crazy most of the month.

“You and fashion!” Lorelei picks up a pink heart-shaped throw pillow and hits him lightly with it, “You’d have to act again to be paid to do that,” she says, slumping against him like he’s a piece of comfortable furniture.

Don’t even think about it, I tell my body as it eyes his slender form appreciatively, wishing it, too, could be slumped against him. Jack, I remind myself, Jack is coming over any minute.

“True. So I guess it’s not going to happen, Puppy,” Rune says, using the nickname Gunnar has for her, running his hand over her the top of her hair.

“You’re just lazy!” She tells him, “You’ll spend weeks learning to be a character for a story and do special accents and everything. You could learn to ride English if you wanted to, and then you could do exciting stuff like jump.”

“But then, who would sit admiringly in the bleachers and cheer you on and take better photos than your dad gets?” Rune asks. Lorelei makes a face like he has a point.

My phone buzzes, and my stomach clenches. Time to find out if I have a date for Saturday night or not.

“I’ve got to go, you two. My guest is here,” I tell them, “Lorelei, I’ll make a note to myself to email Rune a couple of new coloring pages tonight.”

“The printer’s all set. Here’s my email,” Rune says, texting me.

“I have a new set of colored pencils,” Lorelei says, “I’m ready.”

**

Jack’s sitting in one of the two Adirondack chairs on the front porch, leaning forward and looking into the viewfinder on his camera set up on a tripod. He appears to be focused on something in one of the striking, red-leafed Japanese maples that line the front of the front yard. I imagine it’s an interesting bird. We certainly have a lot of those around here.

Uncle Reuben planted the dramatic trees when he retired early from his job as a social worker, and he and Theo started to spend half the year up here. By then, Theo had turned the day-to-day running of his two stores over to my grandmother and just focused on buying and consulting so he and Reuben had plenty of time to travel between their house here and the one down in Long Beach.

I stop for a moment, taking in Jack’s profile. It’s an interesting one I’ve sketched many times. He has a sharp, aquiline nose, light brown hair, and beard shot through with gold from the sun, both worn short for ease for his active life. No, he’s not pretty the way Rune is. He’s not even classically handsome, but he is fascinating.

Even from here, I can feel the intense energy crackling off him. Watching now I’m reminded of all the photos and videos I’ve observed him take over the past couple of years and all of the fun outdoor adventures we’ve been on together around the region.

My heart twists uncomfortably. It may all be coming to an end if my tsunami premonition is accurate.

“New camera?” I call, trying to sound light as I walk forward again, Butterscotch zooming ahead to greet him.

“It is,” he turns to me with that charming smile that makes his dark brown eyes sparkle. “That’s a sweet electric SUV your neighbor’s got. Is it new?”

“I don’t know, he just got here,” I say, realizing that I don’t want to talk about Rune with Jack, even though it might be an intelligent strategy. “Tell me about the camera.”

“Oh,” he laughs a little self-consciously, “this is the one I’ve been going on about to you. I decided to splurge when Amy hired me for this new gig; you’ve got to spend money to make money, right?”

“Amy?” I ask, thinking, what new gig? The dread twists harder.

“Pennington, the new board member for ReWild Washington,” he reminds me, “We met her a few months ago when we showed the board our video concept.” He stands as I walk up the stairs, kissing me on the cheek, not the mouth.

Don’t project, I tell myself, trying to be like Vivienne; you don’t know anything for sure yet.