Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 29: New England

George was grateful to his parents. He was always grateful to his parents, but tonight he was particularly grateful to them, for making him at least finish school and test out as if he were going to go to uni, even though he had no intention of going. They had been disappointed that two of their three children hadn't pursued degrees in higher education, and that one of them had in fact chosen to open a bar, of all things, but they'd supported all three, always, and ultimately Joanie, Steven, and George had succeeded in their chosen fields.

And tonight, sitting with Scout's family as they sat around the fire, talking, George was relieved that he had a solid background in history, civics, and literature, so he could at least keep up with what was being said. As best as he could tell, between the dozen or so adults in the room, there were at least twenty bachelors, masters, and PhDs, most from Ivy League schools that were famous all over the world. It was daunting, and would've felt intimidating if everyone hadn't been so very kind.

Beginning with the moment they'd pulled up in the driveway, he'd felt enveloped in a warm embrace of family goodwill and love. The house was large and old, a classic white farmhouse straight out of a Robert Frost poem, and Scout's family came pouring out of every door, with a couple of dogs even jumping out of open windows. Next to him, the mother of his child made a happy noise as she swung open the car door and ran into the open arms of a woman who must be her mother.

"Heavens, are you pregnant?" he heard.

"Surprise!" he heard Scout's joyous reply.

"Oh my god, Scout--"

"Sis, why didn't you tell us?"

"Shit, are you kidding?"

"Chip, language!"

"Aunt Scout, are you really having a baby?"

George grinned and got out of the car.

Scout turned around, reaching for him.

"This is the person you're all going to ask about next, so here he is, okay?" She put her arms around his neck, announcing, "Everyone, this is George."

A young girl with braids and braces gasped, saying, "Oh my god, George Wilder is your baby daddy?"

"Sh, Gracie, Jesus, don't say it like that," an older woman, presumably her mother, admonished.

Scout laughed, her musical chimes laugh. George had a feeling he was going to be hearing it a lot over the next few days, and the thought made his heart soar.

"He is, Grace, aren't I lucky? Hold on, let me get the dogs out of the back, and we can go in and talk, okay?" And she went to the back, where the driver was unloading the luggage.

"Ooh, dogs," Grace said with a beautiful, metallic smile. "What kind?"

What a lovely age, George reflected, when dogs held as much allure as George Wilder in the flesh. He went to help Scout with Jess and Bandit.

Now, as he sat with his arm around Scout, feeling the baby shift against him from time to time, he couldn't recall a time when he'd felt more content. Farraway Mist and the strange events that had transpired there had never seemed so far away. He was in Connecticut, Scout and the baby were safe and by his side, and he would do whatever it took to make things stay that way.

Period.

As if she could read his mind, Scout put her head on his shoulder, settling against him, moving even closer.

He noticed Scout's niece, Grace, had slowly been scooting closer and closer, until she was now sitting almost on his foot.

"So, Auntie Scout, did you really come here in your very own private jet?" she asked, eyes round like chocolate creams.