Page 65 of Smoke Signals

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while.”

Stellan exhales slowly. “That’s a good sign.”

We head back toward the kitchen, where Julia is pouring milk into a small glass while Alaska sits at the table with two cookies on a plate in front of her. Tim stands near the counter with his arms crossed, watching the scene with quiet amusement.

Julia looks up. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Alaska we’ve got dinner reservations tonight.”

“Reservations?” Stellan asks.

She nods proudly. “JNC Nippon.”

Stellan rolls his eyes. “Did you have to go so fancy?”

“What is this place?” I ask.

“It’s a Japanese steakhouse. They cook the food right in front of you at the table. We thought Alaska might like the show,” Julia tells me.

Alaska claps immediately.

Stellan laughs. “Well, I think you guessed right.”

I lean against the doorway and watch them all for a second; the easy flow of conversation, the warmth in the room, the way Alaska already looks comfortable.

Tim claps his hands once, like he’s moving a crew through a plan. “Tour,” he says, pointing at me. “Come on, Hartley. Let’s show you the place.”

I follow him through the house as he shows me everything. The living room, the family photos, the den where he watches sports, the back room that used to be a workshop before it turned into storage. He talks about the neighborhood, the schools, which roads flood when it rains, where the best grocery store is, practical things. He doesn’t pry, but he keeps looking at me like he’s taking stock, figuring out if I’ll protect his son or hurt him.

“I hear you run a studio in Chicago,” he says as we pass a set of French doors that lead to a back deck.

“Massage therapy,” I confirm. “I lease the space.”

“Good work,” he says. “Hard work.”

“Yeah,” I admit.

He glances toward the kitchen. “Julia’s excited,” he says. “She’s been talking about meeting you two all week.”

My mouth goes dry. “No pressure.”

Tim’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Pressure’s part of the job,” he says, and then he opens a door to the backyard and gestures. “At least here you get a yard with it.”

A couple hours later, we’re heading into town. The restaurant is nicer than I expected; warm lighting, dark wood, a koi pond inside near the entrance with a little bridge over it, water moving slowly beneath it. Alaska stops to stare at the fish, eyes wide, then signs fish at Stellan.

He crouches beside her. “I see them,” he says. “They’re showing off.”

She presses her face to the spindles of the bridge and giggles again, that bright sound that still feels rare.

A host leads us through the restaurant a minute later. The place smells like garlic, soy sauce and grilled meat. We pass a few tables where chefs are already working, spatulas clanging against metal while flames jump up from the grills. Alaska slows down just enough to stare at each one.

We reach our table and slide into the seats around the big flat hibachi grill in the center. The metal surface is already warm, heat rising in soft waves.

A waitress appears almost immediately with menus and a practiced smile.

“What can I get everyone to drink?” she asks.

Stellan glances at me first.

“Mai tai?” he suggests.