I nod. “It turned out pretty well. Choppy liked it.” Mom had referred Choppy to me, so I was extra invested in making sure he was happy. “How was your day yesterday?”
“Long, but good. Some clients that had been looking for a home for months finally closed, so that was a relief.”
We chat about the clients she’ll see today, and after a few minutes I ask, “Mom, do you think Lamar would show me how to make gumbo this weekend?”
She blinks with surprise. “I’m sure he would. But . . . why?”
I play with the peeling tread of my Converse sneaker. Time for a new pair soon. With my limited footwear, I wear them out pretty quickly. “I’ve been wanting to learn for a while.”
“I know. I mean, why now?”
Mom has probably seen the bucket list on our fridge hundreds of times. The items on there are no secret.
As for item number five, Lamar offered to show me how to make his family’s top-secret gumbo recipe years ago. He’s from south Louisiana, and his grandmother passed it down to him on the condition that he’d swear to keep it in the family. That he considers me family, even though we aren’t blood, is an honor.
I consider how to answer my mother’s question. “Well, I’m not getting any younger.”
She sighs. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“And I want to check a few things off the thirtieth birthday bucket list.”
Her hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “What else have you done?”
“Logan and I took Bean to the Denver Disc Dogs club last night, so that’s something new. Oh! And I flossed.”
“Astonishing!” Mom says with an ironic eyebrow raise. “No, that’s really great, Stevie. I’m glad you’re going to accomplish some things you’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
She gets that thoughtful look on her face again as she pulls into the driveway of my sister’s one-story ranch home and turns the car off.
“Coming in?” I ask.
“I thought I would,” she reaches for her purse down by my feet. I hand it to her. “I have a little time before my next showing.”
Bean explodes with joy in the backseat, whining and probably scratching the leather seats. I hurry to let her out. She leaps to the ground and rockets to the front door, barking.
Jazzy throws the door open and Bean almost knocks my niece on her butt as they greet each other. Their excitement to see each other is the sweetest moment of my week. Jazzy is a tornado of color, her latest clothing trend. She wears hot pink high-top shoes, lemon yellow shorts, a turquoise shirt, and her big floof of light brown curly hair is secured in a topknot by a rainbow-colored hair band. The hues all look beautiful against her copper brown skin. She has golden eyes like her mother and is tall for her age like her dad.
Dog and girl run straight through to the backyard to play, while my mother and I stop in the cozy living room to greet Tamara and Dean.
My sister is three years older than me and drop-dead gorgeous. She has shoulder-length dark brown hair that she usually wears in a smooth style, large, honey-tinged brown eyes, dark brown skin with a smattering of light freckles, and a perfect figure. Dean, who’s five years older than Tamara, has graying dark hair and an olive complexion, and he’s equally as fit.
“Where are you guys headed today?” I ask after we hug and say hello. “You look like you’re getting ready for an expedition to the Amazon.” They’re wearing workout clothes with rain jackets and waterproof sandals. A hiking backpack and two large plastic water bottles sit on the counter in the kitchen.
“Up to Clear Creek to do some kayaking,” Dean says.
“You’re entirely too healthy.” I pause, thinking. “I actually can’t remember the last time I exercised.”
Tamara shakes her head ruefully. “You’re welcome to come on Adventure Thursday any time, you know.”
I lift my hands in surrender and shake my head. “Bringing me along might end up being more of an adventure than you bargained for.”
Adventure Thursday is a tradition Tamara and Dean started when they first got married. As teachers, they have summers off except for tutoring and a few part-time hustles they do to make extra money. So, they’d made a commitment to do something new and fun every Thursday. The Rocky Mountains are chock full of outdoorsy challenges like hiking, rock climbing, rafting, parachuting off peaks, hot air ballooning . . . you name it, and we have it here. And over the years, Tamara and Dean had tried it all. For the last couple of summers, Mom, Lamar, or I had babysat Jazzy so that they could go.
Speak of the devil, my niece busts in from the backyard. “Aunt Stevie, guess what? Bean learned a new trick.”
Tamara clucks at her daughter. “Inside voice, please, Jasmine.”
Jazzy scowls. She came up with her own nickname and gets grumpy when anyone doesn’t use it, including her parents. My mother scoops her granddaughter up in her arms and hugs her. Technically, Jazzy is her step-granddaughter, but Mom never calls her that.
“How are you, little miss?” Mom asks, kissing her cheek and twirling her around.
“Good, Gramma, but wait, I have to show you Bean’s trick—” She squirms to be put back down.
“Okay, Jazzy! Hang on, I’m talking with your parents right now. I’ll be right there. How was the water park yesterday?” Mom asks Tam.
My sister groans. “So crowded. But Jazzy had fun. Right Jazz?”
“Yes, but—” Jazzy points to the back door.
Dean winks at Mom and me. “Wore her out, too. She took a two-hour nap when we got home.”
Mom’s eyes go wide. “Two hours? Our girl took a two-hour nap?”
Tamara and Dean nod with satisfaction and high five each other.
Jazzy’s been trying to speak, but the adults keep interrupting her. Finally, she grabs the hem of my shorts.
I bend down on one knee so she can hear me. “What’s Bean’s trick, Jazz?”
She throws her hands up dramatically. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She learned to dig under the fence!”
I stand. “What?”
“Yeah, she went that way.” She points to the side fence.
Dean steps to the back door and looks out. “She’s not here.”
“Do you have any chicken in the house?” I ask.
Tamara nods. “Leftover kabobs from last night.”
“Can I grab a piece or two?” I ask.
“I’ll get them,” Mom says.
“Okay next question,” I ask. “Do you have any chickens as neighbors?”
“What?” Tamara’s brow wrinkles.
“Backyard chicken coops?”
“Oh.” She thinks about it. “Dean, doesn’t someone keep chickens around the corner on 8th?”
He nods. “About halfway down the block. Think that’s where she’s headed?”
“I have a bad feeling,” I say.
Mom hurries out of the kitchen with the cooked variety of chicken wrapped in a paper towel. “Want help?”
“No, but can you stay here with Jazzy, please? I’ll be right back. You two have fun!” I say to Tamara and Dean.
I rush out the door, calling for Bean. Jazzy complains to her parents that she wants to help find Bean too, but frankly a six-year-old is more hazard than help when you’re trying to locate something quickly.