Page 70 of Any Port in a Storm

To have two, actually.

“I think it’s going to be normal again, though,” she continues. “At least, for normal people.”

“What do you mean?” I roll my pen back and forth on the paper I’d been using to lesson plan.

“Well, eventually, this is going to get better, and everyone’s going to burst out of their cocoons, starved for each other’s company. It’ll just be those of us with broken immune systems left inside, waiting for all those germs to settle down before we’re able to venture back out ourselves.”

“Aw, hon.” My heart breaks for Grace, who’s got the purest spirit of anyone I’ve ever met, and who deserves so much better. Both from her lot in life and the people around her. “I hope it doesn’t play out that way.”

“It will,” she says matter-of-factly. “But that’s okay. I ended up heading back to my parents’ house last week, so at least I have somewhere bucolic to hang out for the duration.”

“And how are Lionel and Bruce?” I ask. Grace’s dads live on ten acres in the Berkshires, surrounded by an entire flock of chickens and a number of extremely aggressive goats that have always low-key terrified me.

“They’re doing pretty well. Happy to have me home. Bruce is experimenting with sourdough.”

“Oh boy,” I chuckle.

Bruce, who married Grace’s bio dad three years after her mom died, is a self-proclaimed “perpetual hobbyist.” He rarely sticks with a project for more than a month or so, but when he chooses his next one, it’s always a big to-do.

Bruce goes all in on whatever passion he’s pursuing. In addition to the supplies he needs, he also tends to splurge on what he calls “special extras,” like a monogrammed chef’s hat (for his pastry phase) or an entire arbor for the backyard (when he decided to start an ultimately very unsuccessful micro-vineyard). Once, Grace told me with great amusement, an entire potter’s wheel had even shown up at their door while she was at school.

Fortunately, Lionel, a very prominent lawyer and complete and utter sweetheart, doesn’t just tolerate Bruce’s whims—he loves everything about them. If Bruce is making jam, Lionel’s taking it to the office and bragging about his talented husband, then showing up at home that night with a bag of ripe strawberries from the farmer’s market and a loaf of fresh bread to enjoy with the next batch.

I’ve met Grace’s parents a few times, and they’ve always seemed so settled and lovey. They’re couple goals, to be honest.

“I adore your dads,” I say then. “I’m guessing Lionel’s obsessed with the bread?”

“Oh, for sure. I think it’s killing him just a little that he can’t brag about it at work.”

“Yeah—how is he handling court? Do they do Zoom?” The idea of tele-court strikes me as incredibly funny, which I take as a sign I need to stay out of the sun.

“Believe it or not, they do. And he’s only mentioned Rye Bader Ginsberg to his paralegal a few hundred times.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“No, you heard me correctly. Bruce’s latest loaf had rye flour, and they named it.”

I snort. “You poor thing.”

“I’m kind of loving it, to be honest. I don’t know what I’d do if I were stuck in Springfield all alone.”

“Yeah, I hear you. I’m lucky to have Nick here.”

“You are,” she replies suggestively.

I sneak a quick look at the clock on my phone. “Shit. I’m sorry; I actually have to go. I’m sitting in on one of Nick’s lectures this afternoon.”

“Ew, why?”

A laugh slips out as I grab my drink and slide open the balcony door. “He’s got a tour arranged with the Tate. They’ve got a ton of Pre-Raphaelite stuff.’

“Oh, man.” Grace sighs dramatically. “You two really were made for each other.”

“We’re just friends,” I remind her, but the memory of Nick’s chest against my cheek swirls to the front of my mind.

“Yeah,” she says pointedly. “Sure.”

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