Starlee's Hope (The Wayward Sons 4)

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Starlee

For people in a constant state of flux, the wayward sons process change and transition better than expected. At least, that’s what my mother tells me over a plate of farm-to-table eggs and bacon at the Epic Café a week before Valentine's Day.

“I feel bad that I was so harsh to them when we first met,” she says, picking through her bowl of fruit for a fresh raspberry. “Especially Dexter. They’re really extraordinary boys.”

This feels like dangerous territory. I agree, obviously, because the wayward sons are amazing in their own unique ways, but my mother doesn’t know the depth of our relationship and exactly what I find amazing about each one of them. I play it safe. “To be fair, we didn’t start off on great terms either. Dexter can be a little hard to warm up to.”

You know, I want to add, with all the anger issues and baggage. I don’t, and not because I’m trying to protect him, but because he, and the other boys, are not the same as when I first arrived. The last eight months has changed everyone, me included. It’s hard to explain that to an outsider—even my mom.

“Well, really, I’m glad I’ve been able to help them.” She smiles over her tea. “To help you.”

Our relationship is still rocky—guarded. I’m afraid to let her too close in case she tries to take over again. She’s giving me space, I suspect out of a fear I’ll run again. We’re on a see-saw of emotions. A give-and-take as we work through our issues. Which is how breakfast at the Epic Café on Sunday mornings became a ritual.

“I think if they’d had to move into different group or foster homes, things would have gone badly for them,” I say. “I definitely know they appreciate what you’re doing.”

She smiles. “I’ve never been around so many teenage boys before. They’re a bizarre mix of smelly and thoughtful. That George is a handful for certain. He broke three plates the other day and spilled a drink all over Jake’s homework. I had to send Jake out on a run so he didn’t lose his temper.”

I laugh. “Sounds right.”

“So, what are your plans this week?”

I shrug. “Nothing much. Basic school work. Helping Hands is organizing a Valentine's dance down at the community center for some of the kids that participate in their programming.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I love that you’re involved in this project.” She sets her cup down. “Well, I should get back over to the Wayward Sun. The cookie orders are piling up. Charlie and I are working on a database order form program to streamline everything for Dexter.”

“You really like working over there, don’t you?”

She grins, pushing her hair over her shoulder. It’s straighter than mine, less curls, and threads of gray are woven in with the red. She’s striking, though, always carrying herself with a level of confidence that I’m jealous of. I think the boys are in awe of her—not just because she took command of Sierra’s house and business when she left, but because of how easily she took them in stride. Frankly, I’m in awe, too.

“It’s an interesting challenge,” she says. We both stand. I turn to wave at Tom behind the counter. He smiles at the two of us as we walk out.

My mom links her arm with mine and as hesitant as I am about a lot of things, I’m happy she’s back up here with me. As we cross the grassy yard back toward the lodge and the coffee shop, I can’t help but think that what she said is the crux of it all; being in Lee Vines is an interesting challenge for all of us, but there’s no place I’d rather be.

On Sunday the Wayward Sun closes at 2 p.m., and usually that time is set aside for homework or maybe a trek into the Sierras for a hike, if the weather holds. Today Dexter begged us all to come help him in the kitchen. He and my mother cooked up an idea to sell Valentine’s day cookies. They’re cute and funky, just like everything else in this little shop, and the orders pile in faster than anyone expects. That means the rest of us get roped into work.

I’m the first to arrive, probably because I’m desperately avoiding my AP Psychology homework. I don’t mind though, because any alone time with my boys makes me happy. I’m met by the smell of freshly baked sugar cookies and the sight of Dex in his white apron. His hair is tucked under a black stocking cap and his fingertips are dyed red from the pink frosting he’s been mixing.

“It looks like a murder happened in here,” I say, walking into the kitchen. His gray eyes meet mine and he wiggles his fingers in my direction.