Meet Me At The Chapel

“I’ll spruce it up.” Casey didn’t mind humble. And, if it was dirty, there usually wasn’t much that couldn’t be fixed with elbow grease. She’d never been afraid of hard work or of getting dirty.

Brock opened the door and let her go in first. He was right—the loft apartment with its pitched roof and rough-hewn, wide-planked wooden floor was indeed humble. But the inside of the roof was lined with sweet-smelling cedar, and there was a single bed in one corner of the room, and a small love seat on the other side. The bathroom was tiny and the kitchen only accommodated a hot plate, microwave and little refrigerator. Her large black trunk, a trunk her mother had used when she went to boarding school, was waiting for her at the end of the bed.

Brock had to duck his head as to not bump on the low part of the ceiling—he could only stand completely upright when he was standing directly beneath the pitched ceiling.

“I tried to straighten up the place a bit.” To her ears, he sounded a little self-conscious.

“This is great.” Casey wanted to reassure him. “It’s perfect for us.”

She saw a faint smile move across his face. He was pleased that she was pleased.

“Well, I’ll let you settle into the place. I’ve got more work to get done before supper,” Brock said, his head bent down so he didn’t bang it on the top of the door frame. “You can use the kitchen for cooking—the hot plate is only good for so much. And you’re always welcome to join us for meals.”

“Thank you—let’s just play it by ear, see how it goes.”

Brock nodded his agreement before he ducked his head completely free of the door frame, put his hat back on his head and then left her to her own devices.

The first thing she did in her new home was let Hercules out of his carrier so he could get used to the smells and layout of the loft. Next she checked the bathroom accommodations and the feel of the mattress, before she unlocked the trunk and began to unpack. Every now and again, she would look out the window and watch Brock at his work. He was focused and relentless in the way he attacked his work—that kind of work ethic was attractive to her. It reminded her of the work ethic that her own father and grandfather had both had.

It didn’t take long for her to get settled into her summer loft apartment. Hercules had his toys strewn across the floor, which made her feel right at home. She scooped up her poodle and sat on the bed to contemplate her next move: to take a nap, or not to take a nap—that was the dilemma. In the end, the “take a nap” side won out. She kicked off her boots and curled up on her side. The bed was just big enough for her and Hercules.

“Mmm.” Casey closed her eyes with a contented sigh.

She had managed to find the perfect spot to spend a stress-free, worry-free summer. She usually worked during the summer session—this was her first real summer off since she had graduated with her master’s degree in special education and took a job with the public school system.

She was in a comfortable bed, the cedar on the roof smelled sweet and there was a gentle breeze coming in through the open window. Life was, indeed, pretty darn good.

* * *

Casey had dozed off quickly and was awakened abruptly. Hannah burst through the door; the door swung open and hit the wall with a loud thud. Casey sprung upright, catapulting poor Hercules forward.

“My stars, Hannah!” She clutched the material above her rapidly beating heart. “You scared me! Remind me again about what you should do before you come into a room?”

Hannah spun around in the center of her bedroom/living room combo space, her head tilted back and her arms spread out wide like airplane wings.

“I was supposed to knock.” The girl kept on spinning. “Dad wants to know if you want to have some gluten-free mac and cheese with us.”

Casey felt a little foggy brained; she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then blinked several times to get a clearer view of the preteen spinning like a top.

“Tell your dad I’ll be down in a minute.”

Hannah left as quickly as she came, without a greeting or a salutation. There was a lot of work to be done to improve Hannah’s social language skills. It would just take time and patience. But the reality was, and she hoped Brock was realistic about it, Hannah was never going to have completely “normal” pragmatic skills; it was possible, however, for Hannah to have friends, a job and a fulfilling social life. With supportive people in her life, Hannah’s quirks and slightly askew social skills would be expected, understood and accepted.

Casey freshened up a bit and then headed down to the farmhouse. As expected, Brock was at the stove with his standard “Kiss the Chef” apron on, which may have been feminizing on some men, but not on the ranch foreman. Hannah was at the table eating macaroni and cheese out of her plastic ladybug bowl, with her ladybug silverware. Casey had a feeling that Hannah insisted on eating out of that particular bowl, using those particular utensils—and if she didn’t get her way, she would either begin to have a tantrum or flat-out refuse to eat.

“Thanks for the invite.” Casey sat down at the table.

“It’s gluten free.” Brock handed her a bowl. “Hannah’s allergic.”

“I figured.” Casey nodded. “I actually dated someone who had celiac disease, so I have a lot of gluten-free recipes stored on my phone if you want to see if I have any that you don’t have.”

“That would help,” Brock told her. “I have a heck of a time getting her to eat much of anything other than mac and cheese. That’s all she wants. Mac and cheese.”

“I have some tricks up my sleeve,” Casey reassured him.

Hannah finished her meal quickly, left the table without taking her bowl to the sink and ended up on the floor in the living room playing with Hercules.

“I’d like to take a couple of days to get settled in here, let Hannah get used to the change, and in the meantime, we can sit down and talk about some practical goals,” Casey said quietly.

Brock agreed with her timeline. Any change, even if it were a positive change like Casey coming to stay on the ranch for the summer, would be difficult for Hannah to process.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts.” Brock stabbed a chunk of hot dog he had mixed into his mac and cheese with his fork. Before he took that bite he added, “I’m sure you have some.”

He was right—she did. Her brain just naturally observed children with special needs, catalogued the behaviors to try to fit the pieces into a puzzle and then, always, there were a list of goals that emerged from her informal, naturalistic evaluation. She had been a special education teacher for a decade and it was like breathing now—it happened without thinking about it. And, in the short time she had observed Hannah, she had made a laundry list of pragmatic goals—but it was always up to the parent and child, if possible, to help prioritize those goals.

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