July 3, 1964
“Mom-mom-mom!” Easton shouted, tumbling into the kitchen, his face lit with happy exuberance. “Mom-mom-mom!” he repeated, grinning the grin that stole everyone’s heart. He was wearing his favorite Red Sox cap—a permanent fixture on his blond head—and his sky blue eyes were sparkling with life. Even at the tender age of seven—just an evening shy of eight—Easton had an irrepressible way of filling a room with his unbridled enthusiasm, but on this particular evening, Martha Quinn was a little short on patience.
“What is it, Easton?”
“Look!” he exclaimed, turning off the kitchen light and proudly holding up a mason jar blinking with tiny golden-green lights.
Martha looked up from pouring cake batter into two round pans. “I see. Now turn the light back on or I’ll have batter all over the table.”
The screen door swung open again, and because the spring was broken, banged against the house, allowing two more jostling children trailed by a big yellow Lab to tumble in.
“If Willow’s feet are muddy, please keep her outside,” Martha commanded.
“Mo-om,” howled six-year-old Piper. “Sailor took my jar!”
“That’s because mine broke and you weren’t catching anything anyway,” eleven-year-old Sailor said defensively.
“I was so,” Piper protested. “Mom, do you have another?”
“I do . . . somewhere. Sailor, how’d you break your jar?”
“It fell.”
“You mean you dropped it,” Martha corrected and then glanced down at their bare feet. “Did you clean it up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use a dustpan?”
“There weren’t any small pieces.”
Martha eyed her skeptically.
“Pipe, you should’ve put your name on your jar, like I did,” Easton said, holding his jar so she could see his name scrawled across the lid. He opened the refrigerator. “Here’s another jar,” he said, taking out a half-eaten jar of bread and butter pickles. “Mom, can I dump these into something else?”
Martha eyed her middle child again. “Sailor, please ask Birdie and Remy to come in.”
“Birdie! Remy! Mom wants you!” Sailor hollered through the screen.
“I could’ve done that,” Martha said.
A moment later, the screen door swung open, banging against the house again, and the two oldest Quinn girls clambered in, giggling and elbowing each other, but as soon as they sensed the tension in the kitchen, they stopped, stood straighter, and waited for instructions.
“I need you two to keep everyone outside. I have a million things to do tonight.”
“We’ve been trying, Mom,” thirteen-year-old Remy and fifteen-year-old Birdie—whose real name was Martha—protested, “but they—”
“No buts!”
A car door slammed, and Martha sighed. “Thank goodness!”
“Dad!” the girls shouted, clambering around their father as he came through the door. “What kind of ice cream did you get?” they asked.
“Did you get strawberry?”
“Coffee?”
“Vanilla?”
“I hope you were able to get chocolate!”
“Hold on!” Whitney Quinn said, laughing good-naturedly and holding the bag above their heads. “Whose birthday is it?” he asked, eyeing his four daughters.
“Easton’s!” they chorused.
“That doesn’t matter,” Sailor protested. “On my birthday, we . . .” but Whitney held up his hand and her voice trailed off in defeat.
“It’s Easton’s birthday, so the flavor of the day will be . . .”
“Did you find black raspberry?” Easton asked hopefully.
Whitney smiled. “You only turn eight once . . .”
“You did! All right!” he exclaimed.