Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
There was Mariah, of course. She was fourteen now, a total mother hen, always fussing over the littler ones. Griffin and Blair’s son Hank was four, same as Moretti and Bianca’s twins—a boy and a girl named Alex and Natalia. Currently Mariah was pushing the three of them on a tire swing I’d hung from a sturdy oak tree.
Elliott was eleven, and he was pulling Cole and Cheyenne’s daughter Marabel and our daughter Lily, in a wagon. They were both three years old and already the best of friends. Elliott was an amazing big brother—kind, sensitive, patient, playful—not just to Lily, but to all the kids. He was still a huge help on the ranch but also an excellent student as well. He loved reading and writing, and his teachers always remarked on his artistic abilities. While he didn’t wear dresses anymore, and the unicorn barrette was long gone, he still adored the color pink, often painted his nails or wore jewelry, and had his own creative style. Like any kid on the verge of adolescence, he was still figuring out who he was, but I couldn’t have been more proud that he called me Dad.
The three youngest kids weren’t even walking yet—Cole and Cheyenne’s son Roan, Moretti and Bianca’s son Rocco, and Griffin and Blair’s daughter Charlotte. They were playing on a blanket near the chairs where their mothers sipped glasses of wine and speculated about what their husbands might have put in a time capsule twenty years ago, at eighteen years old.
“It’s probably full of baseballs,” Blair said.
“Yes!” Cheyenne laughed. “And maybe a stinky old hat or glove.”
“A Playboy magazine,” Bianca snickered.
“There are no lewd materials in there, thank you,” Moretti said, as if he was offended. “We took this seriously.”
“Do you guys even remember what you put in there?” Maddie asked.
“Vaguely,” I said as the tip of my shovel hit something. I dug a little faster. “Hey, I think I found it.”
“Pictures,” Cole said. “Didn’t we put in a bunch of pictures?”
“I seem to recall a giant portrait Moretti put in there of himself,” Griffin said.
“Oh brother,” said his wife.
When I’d removed enough dirt to grab the tackle box handle, I dropped to my knees and reached for it. It took some muscle, but eventually I worked it loose and pulled it out. Holding it up triumphantly, I jumped to my feet. “Aha!”
Everyone cheered, and I brought it a little closer to where our wives were sitting so they could see. Brushing dirt from the top, I flipped the latch and opened it up.
First thing I pulled out was a baseball, and everyone laughed. “This one says Cole Mitchell,” I said, handing it to him. “From your no-hitter, right?”
Cole nodded and smiled, wrapping his fingers around the ball. He peered closer at it and read, “June second, two thousand five.” Then he locked eyes with Cheyenne. “Whoa. That’s weird.”
“Isn’t that your birthday, Chey?” Blair asked.
Cheyenne nodded happily. “It is. That’s so crazy!”
I took out a second baseball. “Griffin Dempsey.”
“My game-winning homer against Mason City,” Griffin said as I handed it to him. “Man, that felt good.”
I pulled out a few more items and passed them around—my acceptance letter from Harvard, a newspaper clipping about Moretti’s record bases stolen, our baseball team roster and stats from senior year, Griffin’s letter telling him where and when to report to boot camp, some graduation tassels (although we’d forgotten whose they were).
There was also a takeout menu Moretti had put in. “Look, it’s from DiFiore’s!” Bianca exclaimed. “And that’s where you proposed to me!”
Moretti laughed. “Yeah. Twice.”
“My Mickey Cochrane baseball card,” I said, delighted at the discovery. “I’d forgotten I’d put that in here. My dad will be thrilled—he gave it to me when I was a kid.”
I stood up and slipped the card into my back pocket, wondering if my dad would recall the exact day he gave it to me. His long-term memory was still incredibly sharp, especially for baseball stats, despite the swift cognitive decline his Alzheimer’s had caused over the last few years. He still lived with us, although it was hard, especially once Lily arrived. But Maddie had the most generous heart imaginable, and she never complained. Elliott, too, was incredibly patient and sweet to his Grandpa Eugene, and I thanked my lucky stars for both of them every single day.
Cole peeked into the box and laughed. “There is a giant picture of Moretti.”
“See? I told you.” Griffin reached in and pulled out the five-by-seven.
Bianca laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”
I took out the remaining stack of photos, and everyone gathered around to watch as I shuffled through them.
“Oh look,” Cheyenne said. “Griff, it’s you and Dad and Grandpa.”
Griffin nodded. “We’d just restored that old truck.”
“Is that the one you still have?” Blair asked, pointing at the photo. “The red one? We had our first real date in that truck!”