Wes stepped into
the unusually quiet house, put his car keys down on the half-moon accent table
his mother bought expressly for the purpose and frowned.
“Dad?
Tristan?” he spoke into the apparently empty house. His father’s car was in the
driveway, however, so they had to be here somewhere. It was just a matter of
finding them. He walked through the house eventually stopping in the kitchen
for a drink. As he popped the top on a can of ginger ale, he heard a shout coming
from the backyard.
He
grinned. “Shoulda known,” he muttered, leaving through the back door and stepping onto
the patio. He looked around and saw no one, so he walked down the gravel path, skirting
the perennial bed full of buzzing bees taking advantage of the sprawling, late-blooming
asters, short, compact mums and tall, dark purplish-blue monkshoods. Here Wes
could hear more distinctly his father’s low baritone and Tristan’s infectious
laughter. He finished his drink, set down the can and climbed up the ladder to
his old, no-longer abandoned tree house.
