He did not look at the cloth, his legs already swinging rapidly against the metal legs of the tall patio chair as he scrambled up onto the seat. He pointed a sticky finger toward the gravel driveway.
“Ellie’s car,” he shouted, his body tense with expectation.
A dusty red sedan turned past the mailbox, the gravel crunching loud under the tires.
“She is finally here,” I said, rising from the concrete and wiping the chocolate from my own fingers.
Will did not move, his eyes locked on the car as it came to a stop near the garage.
“Is Daddy going to help her carry the big box?” he asked, his head tilting.
“Daddy is by the basement stairs,” I said, pointing toward the bulkhead door where Brad was retrieving the bag of charcoal.
“He always helps her,” Will said, his small sneakers kicking the chair legs in a steady, rhythmic beat. “He likes her car. He took me in her car when we went to the big park.”
