“Oh, there are definitely going to be pics of you on ‘the Instagram,’ babe. A tattooed and bearded goat farmer? It’s gonna be a virtual panty-dropping spree.”
“I hate everything you just said.”
“Fine, fine, we’ll focus on the babies for now.” Gretchen scrolls through the Ohio farm’s photos. “Some of their most popular posts have the kids dressed in little outfits. They call themgoatcoats. That’s cute. I wonder how much it would cost to get some of those.”
Charlie lets out a forbearing sigh. “Come with me.”
—
Gretchen’s never been in the attic before. She wasn’t even aware the farmhouse had one until Charlie leads her into his office and opens a small door, behind which is a narrow winding staircase. It takes them up to a musty, angular space filled with boxes and plastic storage bins. Everett must have seen them come up here and thought it would be fun to join them, because he’s now hover-standing beside Gretchen, asking a million questions. Not that she can answer without having to tell Charlie that his ghost ancestor is around. She isn’t about to start another fight when they’ve come to a tentative accord. Instead, she subtly shakes her head and mouths,Not now.
Everett replies, “Hot cow? What about a hot cow?”
Charlie browses the mountains of storage bins until he finds the one he wants buried at the bottom of a stack. He lifts the top two bins in one go, his biceps bulging beneath his T-shirt, and Gretchen has to resist the urge to fan herself. “Warm in here,” she mumbles to cover herself in case she accidentally gives in.
“Heat rises,” Charlie says absently. He pulls the last bin toward him and unsnaps the lid.
“Oh!” Everett exclaims, standing chest-deep within a credenza missing its drawers in order to look over Charlie’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen this stuff in... who knows how long, but it feels like a while!”
“What is it?” Gretchen asks.
She’s momentarily confused when Charlie is the one to respond. “Some of Grandma Ellen’s knitting projects.” He holds up a tiny, colorful striped... something. “This the kind of thing you meant?”
“Is that...” She doesn’t finish the question, because it’s obvious that it’s a tiny sweater meant for an animal—most likely, she assumes, a baby goat. Gretchen moves closer and tests the texture with her thumb and index finger. “Whoa. How many of these do you have?”
Charlie does a quick visual count of the bin. “Probably... forty? Grandma and I made them back when the herd was a lot larger, so more than enough to cover the kids we have now. You can take your pick. Figure out which ones are most photogenic, I guess.”
Gretchen dives in with an excited gasp, sorting the tiny sweaters into piles on the bin’s discarded lid. Some are a little wonkier than others. “You said you helped make these?” she asks.
Charlie’s response isn’t verbal, and she doesn’t look up to see if he nods. But Everett chimes in, “Oh, I remember this! It was the week of Christmas, and Charlie’s parents were, I don’t know, off somewhere or another for work like always. So Charlie stayed here with Charles and Ellen. He was fifteen and all broody over some girl. Ellen told him she needed to make sweaters for kidding season and taught him how to knit so he would help and stop being so insufferable.”
Gretchen swallows, knowing this is a risk. But it’s specific enough that she decides it’s worth a shot. “Christmas when you were fifteen,” she says quietly, watching Charlie for a response.
He stares at her for a long time.
“You were annoying everyone, pining over a girl. Was it still Brittany Studebaker?”
He slowly shakes his head, and Gretchen is relieved when a small smile plays on his lips. “Brittany Romero, actually.”
“Wow, you really had a thing for Brittanys, huh?”
She reaches for another sweater, less colorful than the rest. It’s a dark gray-blue that reminds her of a storm cloud. As she pulls it out of the box, she’s surprised to find it keeps going and going.
“Oh, that’s not—” Charlie lunges toward her, but the abrupt movement makes Gretchen instinctively pull away, keeping it out of his reach.
When she yanks the rest out of the bin and holds it up, she finds that it’s not a goat sweater at all but a... well, she supposes it’s a person sweater. Except...
“Wow, I don’t rememberthat,” Everett says, “and I feel like I would.” He lets out a little whistle. “I definitely would.”
“I... I, uh, tried to knit a sweater as a present for my grandpa after we finished the ones for the goats.” Charlie palms the back of his neck. “But um, my skills weren’t exactly there yet.”
Gretchen holds up the misshapen, oddly proportioned garment. “No, no, I’ve met your grandfather. And he definitely has four-foot-long arms. So this is perfect.” She bites her lip so as not to laugh. Everett, now float-sitting atop a child-sized wooden rocking horse pushed so far under the angular slope of the wooden-beamed ceiling that his head must be somewhere outside, doesn’t bother holding back and lets out a full-throated cackle.
A small window lets in enough of the late-afternoon sunlight to reveal the pink on Charlie’s cheeks. “I got the gauge wrong. And, um, some other stuff probably.”
“It might be a bit rough”—Gretchen looks again at the sweater and realizes that’s an almost comical understatement—“but it’s still really sweet that you tried.”
“That’s what Grandma said too.” And now Charlie lets out a little chuckle of his own, his embarrassment shifting more toward amusement. “Still, I’m surprised she bothered keeping it. Probably planned to frog it to reuse the yarn but never got around to it.”
