“I’ve never been able to get him to celebrate his birthday,” she confirms.

“So I’m learning. I have two days to convince him.” I put the crockery pot back on the shelf—it has a noticeable chip in the lip. “And I’m doing a little shopping. Figured I’d check out this thrift shop in town.” A double-wide trailer dropped in a barren parking lot about ten minutes from our house. With Jonah gone, I’m limited with how far I can venture unless I want to spend an exorbitant amount on an Uber to Wasilla.

I can’t wait to get my license. I’ve rebooked the test for three weeks from now.

“You’re in a thrift shop?” Agnes does a terrible job hiding the shock from her voice.

I laugh. “I’m trying to embrace this whole upcycling and recycling thing for decorating our place.” Ever since Jonah divulged his worries about finances, I’ve been reining in all spending to avoid stressing him out. “It’s a challenge. Gives me something to do.” And it gives the gray-haired woman behind the counter who has been watching me intently (as if I’m going to steal something from a thrift shop) something to do. Maybe if I had come with Jonah the day he donated a truck’s worth of trinkets and trash from our house, she’d seem friendlier. “How are things at Aro?”

“Oh … it’s fine. Not the same, but nothing stays the same forever.” Agnes sighs. “So, what about Diana? When is she coming up?”

“She’s trying for August, but Aaron said he can’t make it work and she won’t come on her own.” I try to not let my annoyance show in my voice. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve never been able to manage so much as a girls’ night without an appearance or at the very least, a phone call, from him.

“August will be nice. Fewer bugs,” Agnes rationalizes. “And your mom?”

“They’re saying Christmas.” Another prick of disappointment that I’m trying to ignore, though I understand my mother’s rationale—two Christmases in a row apart is not an option. “But Jonah’s mom wants us to go to Oslo for Christmas.”

“Maybe you should invite Jonah’s family to Alaska, then.”

I wince at the idea. “Yeah … I don’t know.” We have three bedrooms, so we could physically handle both sets of parents under the same roof. Mentally and emotionally is another story. “Have you ever met Astrid?”

“No, I don’t think she’s been back to Alaska since they left all those years ago.”

I wander down the cluttered aisle, pausing long enough to lift the metal handheld beater that I found buried in the depths of our corner cabinet. “I’ve said hello to her on the phone when they talk, but that’s about it.” Which is about once a month, the ten-hour time difference difficult to navigate. She seems nice—a soft-spoken woman with a heavy Norwegian accent who often cuts over to her native tongue, frustrating Jonah to no end, because he’s lost the language over the years.

But what if she hates me? What if she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son? Would that bother him? I know it would bother me. Jonah and I will have been living together for a year by that point. Will we have broached the topic of marriage?

Will we be engaged?

An unexpected, fluttery wave stirs in my chest at that prospect.

“Well, a big family holiday in a log cabin sounds lovely to me.” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in Agnes’s tone. “Have you found anything good in there?”

“I have! An old ladder that I’m going to use for blankets and this big, ornate picture frame that I think I’ll paint and turn into a tray.” I’ll need to come back when Jonah’s home to load it into the truck.

“I can’t wait to see the place.”

I smile and nod, though she can’t see it. “How’s Mabel?”

“Oh …” There’s a long pause. “She’s okay.”

An alarm bell goes off in my head. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just teenager stuff.”

“Like?” I push.

Agnes hesitates. “She quit her job at Whittamore’s last week, with no warning. And she’s been hanging around with a couple kids that I’d rather she didn’t.”

“Sounds like teenager stuff,” I say in agreement. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that Agnes has the demeanor to parent a kid through the rebellious stage, especially alone. “When are you guys coming to visit?” It’s been more than a month since we moved here.

“Maybe in a few weeks? George said he was flying that way. We’ll see. But I should let you go. Howard is wavin’ me down. Have fun upcycling.”

“Talk soon.” I end the call and head toward the cash register, intent on paying for my finds and negotiating with the lady to keep them here until I can pick them up.

A low table in a corner catches my attention, stopping me dead in my tracks. I bend over to trace my finger along the edge of raw wood to confirm it’s what I think it is, before moving the box of porcelain trinkets and lanterns cluttering its surface. Beneath is a beautiful, lacquered slab of wood, the rich markings in the grain mesmerizing. There are a few scratches on the surface, but I would think nothing that can’t be buffed or sanded out. It’s as fine a piece of furniture as the ones I was eying online, and it’s being used as nothing more than a place to hold a dusty collection of trash.

“Is this for sale?” I call out, a thrill coursing through me.

The woman working at the counter ambles around, a hobble in her step as if her hip is giving problems—to ease up beside me. “Which one?” She reaches for a rusted lantern.

“No, not those. The coffee table.”

“The table?” She peers over her reading glasses at it. “I mean, I guess I could sell it. Fit these things on a shelf somewhere else …” Her voice trails as she looks around. The little thrift shop is crammed.

I’m wishing I hadn’t insisted that Jonah take Phil’s side tables to the dump. I could have offered them to her. But now’s not the time for regret. My stomach stirs with excitement at the prospect of getting my hands on this piece. “How much do you want for it?”

“I dunno.” She frowns, waffling with indecision—on price or parting with it, I can’t tell. “How much you willin’ to pay?”

Probably a hell of a lot more than she suspects. “Forty bucks?” I throw out and hold my breath.

Her lips twist in thought. “How ’bout fifty?”

“Done!” I blurt. Too fast, because the woman is peering at the table again, her eyes narrowed in thought. Probably wondering if she has something more valuable than she realizes.

“Well, I don’t know. It is pretty handy to have around here for—”

“My mother had one just like it,” I lie, schooling my expression as I think fast. “She’s going to be so happy when I give this to her. For her birthday.”

The woman studies me shrewdly. “What happened to hers?”

“House fire?” I nod somberly, even as my answer sounds doubtful. I can’t believe I’ve resorted to making up a horrific tragedy. I’m going to hell, all in the name of a coffee table.