More Than Neighbors by Janice Kay Johnson

“I may hire him to refinish the floors. Although now I’m trying to figure out how we can do it and keep living here.”
    “It would be tough,” he said honestly. “Especially with the dogs.”
    She sighed. “I may put it off, but now I feel guilty since he came all the way out here.”
    “I was thinking the front porch steps need replacing. Mark could help me do the job. It’d be a good learning experience for him.”
    The boy’s face lit with pleasure. “I can? You mean, saw the boards and nail them and everything?”
    “I don’t see why not.” Gabe helped himself to some broccoli then passed it to Ciara. Their fingers brushed. He felt like he’d just touched a hot burner.
    “I can’t ask you—” she began.
    “You didn’t. I offered. Mark’s old enough to be doing some of the basic work, once he learns how.”
    “Really?” She must have heard how doubtful she sounded, because she glanced at her son, but he was glowing and appeared not to have noticed. Gabe had come to realize that Mark didn’t notice much about what other people were thinking or feeling. He was oblivious to the subtle cues that worked for most people. Discouraging him would have taken more cruelty than Gabe wanted to employ.
    “Why not?” he said. “He’s doing fine with what we’ve been working on.”
    He had a feeling she wouldn’t have wanted him to see her surprise, but he did. He pondered it as they all started eating. Was the boy such a screw-up, then? Gabe wouldn’t have guessed it. He seemed smart, and his concentration was impressive. Gabe liked that he was meticulous, too. He hated making mistakes as much as Gabe did.
    The first bite of manicotti had him stifling a moan. This would be one of his favorite meals, too.
    Ciara asked questions about Goodwater, mentioning folks she’d already met. He told her most people stocked up on groceries and other supplies with an occasional run to the city, the way she was talking about doing. She wanted to explore fabric stores in Spokane one of these days, too, which had Mark grimacing and the corners of Gabe’s mouth twitching. At that age, hanging around a fabric store would have been his idea of a fate worse than death, too.
    He eyed the manicotti, wondering if it was too soon to take a second helping. Or would she expect him to eat his broccoli first?
    She saw the direction of his attention. “Please, have more.”
    He didn’t hesitate, but tried to disguise his gluttony with some conversation. “Mark says you have your own business, but he was a little vague about what you do.”
    She gave her son a fond look. “That’s because he doesn’t see the appeal. I make custom pillows. Decorative ones,” she added after seeing Gabe’s blank expression. “I also sell one-of-a-kind pillows in a bunch of small home-decor-type stores, but my specialty is using a piece of fabric that holds sentimental value to someone as the centerpiece of a pillow.” This time, she smiled at his bemusement. “Say you were the starting forward for your high school basketball team, and you’ve treasured that jersey all these years. Instead of it being stuck in the bottom of a drawer, I cut it apart and use it with some complementary fabrics to make a pillow that looks really cool on your family room sofa. It’s right there, making you happy because you’re reminded more often of your glory days, plus people notice and comment on it, and you can laugh and say, “Isn’t it a kick?” But hey, now you get the chance to tell people about your stardom without having to figure out a way to work the conversation around to it.”
    Gabe considered the idea. “That’s damn clever. Sports jerseys, huh?”
    “That’s only an example, although I’ve had people send me a bunch of those. But I’ve sewn lacy pillows out of wedding or prom dresses—the prom ones are fun for girls to take to college for their dorm room. I can make gorgeous pillows from tattered family quilts that might have been