CHAPTER
Three
The next day Nora stood sentinel on the covered front porch of Bradfordwood, the home she’d grown up in. The gray sky slid by like a moving watercolor painting. Raindrops plinked off the roof, the stone steps, the red bricks that formed the driveway. The murky, opaque quality of the light was the result of both the rain and the fact that somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun had begun to set.
Nora slipped her hands into the pockets of her sweat shirt. She’d dressed in work-out gear this morning because she’d had an industrious plan to hit the gym at some point this Saturday. But then she’d spent ages agonizing over how much to charge John before finally crafting and emailing him a bill. She’d picked up the Silverstone Chronicles, sunk two hours into reading, visited her favorite fiction blogs, updated her progress on Goodreads.com, and switched out her winter wardrobe for her summer wardrobe. She never did make it to the gym, yet here she stood in her yoga pants, Hogwarts Alumni T-shirt, and sweat shirt.
Her older sister, Willow, was due to arrive any minute, and tradition dictated that the family be standing outside, waiting and waving, when she pulled up. Nora was certainly one for tradition even if Willow’s string of arrivals and departures occasionally made her feel dull. Trusty Nora. The sister who’d never lived outside of Merryweather except during her college years. Still here. Rooted in the town of her birth.
The truth? She loved Merryweather. She’d actively chosen to live here, so there was no reason for her choice to make her feel drab—
Nora almost snorted. When had any comparison between herself and Willow or Britt not made her feel drab?
She could still remember the moment that had crystallized her role in her family in her mind. She’d been thirteen and sandwiched between her sisters, sharing the same bathroom mirror as they prepared to leave for a stage production of The Lion King.
She’d peeked to one side and watched fifteen-year-old Willow lean forward to apply mascara. In the light from the wall-mounted bathroom fixture, Willow’s face looked breathtakingly lovely. She had big, almond-shaped eyes and amazing cheekbones. Perfect bone structure, really.
Willow was the beautiful one.
Nora peeked to the other side and watched Britt brush her thick, long hair. At the age of nine, Britt had already been recognized by their parents as a creative genius. For months, she’d been churning out dessert masterpieces that seemed better suited to magazine covers than to their family’s table.
Britt was the talented one.
Nora then turned her attention on her own reflection. Mouse-brown hair, because she hadn’t started dyeing it red until midway through college. Ordinary face and body. Braces.
Okay, she thought pragmatically. The reality of her sisters hadn’t snuck up on her, after all. She’d been living with the truth of their extraordinary qualities all her life. But in that one moment, the truth demanded a decision from her.
Your sisters will always be prettier and more naturally talented than you are. How are you going to respond, Nora?
She’d firmed her lips and lifted her chin. I’m the smart one. That’s how.
That choice had informed everything that came after. Nowadays, Nora looked back on her plucky thirteen-year-old self proudly because that awkward girl had chosen the right track.
The year Willow left home to attend UCLA, she was discovered by a modeling agent. She’d been circling the globe ever since, captivating the world with her beauty.
A freight train couldn’t have stopped Britt from following her passion. She aced culinary school, then studied abroad for two years under legendary French pastry chefs. She became a Master Chocolatier and opened a shop in Merryweather Historical Village named Sweet Art.
Willow and Britt had done very well for themselves, yes. But Nora knew them through and through. They had flaws and vulnerabilities, too. Also acres of goodness. She loved them. She was closer to them than to anyone else in the world.
These days she spent very little emotional angst on the topic of her appearance or her God-given talents (or lack thereof) relative to theirs. She did sometimes make wisecracks to herself about it. And it did prick her when she was introduced to people and they responded with a baffled, “You’re Willow’s sister?”
But emotional angst? Not much.
She’d been looking forward to Willow’s homecoming.
How long had it been since Willow was home last? Five months? Even though they made an effort to visit each other—Nora had flown to LA for a long weekend in February—they were never able to spend as much time together as Nora would have liked.
This particular visit promised to be extra special because Willow would be staying in Merryweather for more than six months. She hadn’t spent that much consecutive time in Washington since she’d left for college.
Footsteps approached, bringing Britt to a halt next to Nora. “No sign of her yet?”
Nora shook her head and lifted her phone. “Any minute now, I’m guessing. I’m waiting for her usual, ‘I’m at the gate turning in’ text.”
They watched the rain sprinkle the drive. “I escaped out here away from prying ears so I could get the scoop about your meeting yesterday with the Navy SEAL.”
“He has a girlfriend.”
Britt wrinkled her nose. “Well, that stinks.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Maybe they’re about to break up,” Britt suggested hopefully.
“Their relationship looked pretty well established to me. They were holding hands, and she was beaming at him. They seemed at ease with each other.”
“Perhaps what appears to be ease is really serious dissatisfaction on both their parts.”
“Yes, and perhaps Adolphus Brook will come cantering up this driveway on a stallion, pull me onto the saddle with him, and ride away with me.”
“I’d pick John Lawson over Adolphus Brook any day of the week,” Britt said.
“Blasphemy!” Nora had spent three years watching and rewatching episodes of Northamptonshire and mooning over Adolphus, one of the characters on the show.
Britt zipped her puffy vest up to her neck. “Brr.” The wind teased free a few sections of her hair and sent them wisping around her forehead and cheeks. She’d caught the rest into a topknot that looked effortlessly chic. “How did things go between you and John before his girlfriend showed up?”
“Things went very well. He’s . . .” Nora groaned. “I can’t adequately put it into words. . . .”
“That’s a first for you.”
Nora chuckled. John had that effect on her. He foiled words! Even artful words. “He gives off this aura of complete . . . ability. It’s in his face and his bearing and his body language. It’s not pretentious or anything. It’s just . . . well. I’m guessing he has a crazy amount of confidence.”
“Go on.”
“If a dragon had swooped down during our meeting, I think John would have stood up, wiped the crumbs from his hands, and taken care of it.”
“I love men who can fell dragons.”
“I can fell dragons.” The masculine voice came from behind them.
Nora angled to watch Zander exit Bradfordwood’s grand front doors carrying a plate covered with six small and crispy potato pancakes, each topped with a swirl of sour cream, a thin slice of smoked salmon, and a sprig of dill.
“At the moment,” Nora told him, “the ability to steal Valentina’s appetizers is a skill I value above felling dragons. I’m starving.”
“How’d you manage to sneak these without Grandma noticing?” Britt asked him.
“I have my ways.” A twist of humor on his lips, Zander extended the plate toward the sisters.
Alexander “Zander” Ford and Britt had met when they’d both been in the ninth grade. They became the best of friends. Zander had spent so much time with the Bradfords over the years that he’d earned a place as a de facto family member.
Sometimes, when Nora looked at Zander, she could still see the shadow of the ashen, undersized, sullen kid he’d once been, though he was a grown man now. His almost-black hair and the dark shadow of scruff on his cheeks contrasted with his fair skin and ocean-blue eyes. Sleeves of tattoos covered his arms down to his wrists. He always dressed starkly and simply. Today’s outfit consisted of worn jeans and a black T-shirt.
Zander and his older brother had lived with his aunt and uncle during their high school years because Child Protective Services had removed them from their mother and father’s care. Nora hadn’t forgotten his aunt and uncle’s junky house on Merryweather’s ragged edge. Nor had she forgotten the tough, street-kid clothes Zander had worn like protective armor in those days.
He no longer needed armor. His lean, six-foot-tall body communicated toughness very well all by itself. He was serious and introverted, with a dry sense of humor you’d never be treated to unless you’d gained his hard-won friendship—or happened to be standing next to him when he murmured something funny under his breath.
No stranger would guess that the guy with the tats and the intense eyes had a photographic memory. But they might guess, if they were very observant or especially skilled at deciphering the charge in the air, that Zander was in love with his very good friend Britt. And had been for a long, long time.
“When you were inside,” Britt told Zander, “Nora told me that the Navy SEAL has a girlfriend.”
“The ones who can fell dragons are usually taken.” He tipped up his chin and popped one of the potato pancakes into his mouth whole.
“Dating words to live by.” Nora nibbled on the delicious appetizer. Zander had only stolen two for each of them. It would require willpower to make her portion last.
“You’re going to be seeing him more,” Britt said to Nora. “Right?”
“Right. I’m helping him research his genealogy.” Which was the extent of what she’d divulge to her sisters or anyone else on the subject. John had told her he hadn’t yet informed his parents about his search for his birth mother. She certainly wouldn’t be the one to shatter his privacy.
“You never know what might happen between the two of you in time,” Britt said. “The future is wide open.”
“Yeah,” Zander agreed. “The Navy SEAL might get eaten by the dragon.”
“John Lawson would never get eaten by a dragon,” Nora replied, with no small amount of indignation. “You serfs clearly haven’t read Uncommon Courage.”
Zander and Britt laughed. “Your sister called us serfs,” Zander said, flicking a potato crumb in Britt’s direction.
“Calling John’s prowess into question will always get you categorized as serfs,” Nora assured them.
“You big serf you,” Britt said to Zander.
“You are.”
“No, you.”
“Where’s Willow?” Nora frowned toward the point where the driveway disappeared in the direction of the road. The actual road couldn’t be seen from the porch. Bradfordwood reigned over a two-hundred-acre plot of land. “She said she’d be here in ten minutes what seems like fifteen minutes ago.”
Just as she awoke the screen on her phone to check the time, a text from Willow arrived.
Turning in, it read.
“Good! She’s here. Hide the evidence.”
Zander slid the plate and napkins out of sight beneath one of the porch chairs.
Nora leaned inside the front door. “Grandma,” she called. “Valentina. Willow’s driving up.”
Willow stored her white Range Rover near Sea-Tac airport. Each time she flew in, personnel from the storage facility brought the SUV to the gate to meet her. The car’s headlights glided into view.
Nora, Britt, and Zander started waving. Grandma’s diminutive frame and Valentina’s plump one took up places nearby, also waving. Even though there were five of them, their welcome party seemed woefully small without Mom and Dad, who were usually such an integral part of every porch greeting and farewell.
When the Range Rover stopped, they all hurried forward. Willow hugged them, smelling of Chanel and bringing light to the overcast day with her bright green eyes and gentle smile. “Hi, Nora. Britt! So good to see you, Zander. Hi, Grandma. You look wonderful. Valentina, did you make the potato pancake appetizers you promised?”
Willow wore black skinny jeans and a pale gray sweater that sheathed her body like a stylish cocoon. At five feet nine, Willow was on the short side for a model. Nonetheless, as they climbed the steps and entered the house together, Willow stood four full inches taller than Nora.
Willow answered their questions about how her travel day had gone while they made their way past the front dining room and sitting room, the library, and a powder room. For all Bradfordwood’s ten thousand square feet, the family mostly congregated in just two rooms: the kitchen and den. Those spaces flowed together and lined the rear of the first floor. Enormous windows captured the view off the home’s back terrace, a long sweep of manicured lawn that stretched downhill to the Pacific water of the Hood Canal. On the far side of the canal, land rose into a hump that resembled the back of a great, green slumbering dinosaur.
“Eat!” Valentina encouraged in her thick Russian accent, her stout arms motioning to the appetizers she’d set on the bar. “I make potato pancake for you, miss! Yummy. So yummy!”
Their father had hired Valentina as their housekeeper/nanny when Willow was a baby. Valentina’s round, pink-cheeked face complemented a personality that shined with a perennial case of happiness.
Grandma, in contrast, must have excused herself to use the restroom right at the moment when the Holy Spirit handed out the fruit called joy. “I’ll just take a broccoli spear,” she said in her usual anguished tone. Nora suspected it gave her pleasure to slight Valentina by never eating anything but mouse-sized portions of her cooking. “There’s dairy on the potato pancakes and dairy doesn’t agree with me.”
Each morning, Grandma donned her trademark pearl earrings and rolled her long white hair into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. She’d been gifted with the smoothest and prettiest complexion of any seventy-nine-year-old woman alive. Never had she spent a day in the hospital. She had enough income to live comfortably and to dress gorgeously, yet she could look on any glass brimming to the top with Dom Pérignon and find a way to regard it as half empty.
The rest of them helped themselves to the potato pancakes, mixed nuts, and crudités. This spread was a mere precursor to the roast Nora could smell baking.
The room’s lamps and recessed lights cast them all in golden light as they made themselves comfortable in the den with their plates, glasses, and paper napkins.
“I don’t know why she didn’t use the good linen napkins,” Grandma groused to Nora.
“Has anyone heard from Mom and Dad since the group email they sent out a few days ago?” Willow asked.
“No, that’s the last one I got, too,” Nora answered. “They’re still in Zambia receiving discipleship training.”
“I love that they’re finally fulfilling a dream that Mom’s had for so long.” Britt sat cross-legged on the sofa, plate balanced on one knee. “Some of my earliest memories are of her reading books to me about Africa and missionaries.”
“She read those to me, too,” Willow said. “Was it their anniversary, do you think, that finally tipped the scales and motivated them to serve overseas?”
“I think so,” Britt answered. “It made them take stock.”
“I agree,” Nora said. “My theory is that Dad wanted to give Mom the only anniversary gift he hadn’t given her yet.”
“You would take the romantic approach.” Zander had remained standing, one shoulder casually braced against the fireplace. “I think their anniversary reminded Garner that they’re getting older, and if they were ever going to be missionaries, it needed to be now.”
Nora arched an eyebrow. “You would take the death-is-imminent approach.”
“Overseas missionary work is for the young,” Grandma put in. “Kathleen and Garner are too old for it, as I’ve told them more than once.”
“I don’t think there’s an expiration date on service,” Britt said calmly. They were all used to disagreeing with Grandma.
“They’re not too old for service,” Grandma explained. “It’s overseas missionary service that they’re too old for. I certainly believe that the Lord expects all of us to suffer in His service until death.”
“Um.” Britt pulled a skeptical frown. “I don’t think that suffering necessarily has to be a part of the service.”
Grandma sniffed and held her broccoli spear airborne between two thin fingers. “In the Bible it says, ‘Take up your cross and follow me.’ Our service to the Lord should cost, otherwise it’s not service.”
“What about the verse that says, ‘God loves a cheerful giver’?” Nora asked.
“It’s entirely true. We’re called to suffer cheerfully for God.” Spoken by the lady who wouldn’t recognize cheerfulness if it served her a hamburger.
“Well!” Nora made her voice bright to counteract Grandma’s gloom. “Even though I’ll miss them, I think it’s great that Mom and Dad took the opportunity to go to Africa.”
“And all because you”—Britt extended an arm with a grand flourish toward Willow—“made it possible.”
In some ways, Willow had kept to the oldest-child stereotypes. She was hands down the sister who’d achieved the most. And like most firstborns, she was a rule follower. She wasn’t pushy or bossy, however. If and when she guided the family, it was always through listening first, thinking second, and then speaking in her thoughtful way. “I’m glad I could take over the Inn at Bradfordwood so that Mom and Dad could go. I don’t get many chances to help them these days.” She rubbed a fingertip into the sofa’s chenille fabric. “I needed a break from work anyway.”
Grandma launched into a monologue about how the current generation worked too hard and never turned off their electronics—Guilty, Nora thought—and how they were too ambitious in general.
Nora would have loved to see Grandma try to scold Frederick Bradford about ambition, seeing as how all three sisters had his ambition to thank for this home, their family’s company, Bradford Shipping, and their charmed upbringing.
Frederick, their many times great-grandfather, had been a reasonably successful East Coast railroad man. He would have remained a minor footnote to tycoons like Vanderbilt and Hill except that he’d had the foresight to turn his gaze to the Northwest before anyone else. He moved to Seattle in the late 1870s and by 1881 completed the first rail line linking Seattle to Chicago. Suddenly a journey that had taken five months could be accomplished in five days.
Several years later, the Klondike gold rush brought thousands of prospectors rushing to Washington via Frederick’s railroad en route to Canada. That did it. Frederick’s respectable net worth swelled into a bona fide fortune.
He’d ended up falling in love with a young Englishwoman, marrying her, and taking her to her home country on a lavish honeymoon trip. According to family stories and his existing letters, he’d been so enamored with his bride that, while in England, he’d purchased a house on the hills of Northumberland for her as a wedding gift. He’d then had the house taken apart brick by brick, shipped around the cape, and reassembled in Washington. They’d named it Bradfordwood.
Eventually Frederick’s mother-in-law had come to live with them. Either out of a gracious wish to give the woman independence or because she annoyed the tar out of him—accounts were mixed—Frederick built a dower house on the edge of his property for her.
Several years ago, Mom had latched onto the idea of turning the dower house into an inn. She’d painstakingly renovated it and had been running it ever since with equal parts dedication and love.
The moment Nora’s parents had decided to move forward with their bucket list missionary plans, Mom began looking for someone to take over the running of the inn for her while they were away. She’d found a wonderful candidate with plenty of experience in hotel management, but he had a family and lived in Vermont. He needed time to sell his house and move his wife and kids cross-country. He wouldn’t be arriving for duty until November.
Willow had volunteered to take up the reins of the inn until the hotel manager arrived. Mom had only needed to close the inn for two weeks, just long enough to bridge the gap between their departure for Africa and Willow’s arrival.
“Do you think it will be strange to live in this house again for such a long stretch?” Britt asked Willow.
A pause. “Maybe,” Willow allowed. “This house is so familiar to me, and yet it feels like a time capsule . . . like a piece of my past more than my present.”
“I reinstate my offer for you to come and live with me,” Nora said. “I can supply Ben & Jerry’s, excellent books, and all the tea you can drink.”
Willow chewed a cashew, a pretty curve on her lips. “Tempting. But I think I’ll get along fine here with Valentina to keep me in line. Right, Valentina?”
Valentina had been crooning and beaming during the preceding conversation. “Yes, miss!”
“Will you make Belgian waffles sometime soon?”
“Belg?” Valentina tilted her head questioningly. Valentina was sort of like Gilligan in the sense that she’d come to America with her husband on a three-hour tour and stayed more than thirty years. Even after thirty years, Valentina’s grasp on the English language was loose. Nora suspected this was partially because Valentina realized that if she didn’t understand what was being said to her, she could go ahead and do things the way she wanted and smilingly blame the end result on a lack of comprehension.
“Do you still have the Belgian waffle iron?” Willow asked her, slowly and clearly.
“Waffles! I make them for you, miss. So yummy!”
“You can stay at my place,” Britt told Willow. “I have chocolate.”
“Or at my place,” Zander said. “I’m handsome.”
They all laughed. Except Grandma, who gave a disapproving tsk.
Willow set aside her plate. “Are you dating anyone these days, Zander?”
Every face turned toward him. Even Grandma’s. Especially Grandma’s. She wasn’t usually privy to conversations regarding their dating lives.
He shrugged. “No one special.”
“I’ve been trying to convince him to ask out this girl named Audrey that he works with,” Britt said. “I’ve met her and she’s very cool.” Britt rose and sailed toward the bar. “Anyone need an iced tea refill?”
“It’s never a good idea to drink too much tea at this time of the evening. All that caffeine,” Grandma said accusingly.
Nora cut a look in Zander’s direction and noted that his hooded gaze surreptitiously tracked Britt’s movements.
When exactly was Britt going to wake up and notice that the very best man, the one who’d die for her, the one who’d been there for her in every moment big or small for the last ten years, was The One?
So far none of the Bradford sisters had been lucky in love. In Willow’s case that was because she’d yet to find the right man. Nora was 95 percent certain that her own destiny included nothing but imaginary men. In Britt’s case, she already had the man. She just hadn’t recognized him yet for who he was.
“How’s the book coming along, Zander?” Willow asked.
“It’s coming along well.” For the past several months, Zander had been working on a manuscript. He’d finished it a few weeks back and was currently polishing it up before shopping it around. He hadn’t given any of them, not even Britt, so much as a peek at it.
“Can we read it?” Nora asked him.
“No.”
“Still no?”
“It’s nice to have a few secrets,” he said.
Grandma moved her weight forward as if gathering herself to stand. Nora grasped her forearm and helped her up.
“I hate to leave, but the knitting circle at church can’t function without me,” Grandma said. “I keep telling and telling the ladies that I don’t knit and they keep adding me back onto their roster and insisting that they can’t have their meetings without me. Since they knit baby blankets for underprivileged mothers I can’t very well not go, can I?”
“No. It’s probably best that you go and suffer cheerfully,” Britt answered.
That night Nora lay in bed concertedly trying to keep her thoughts focused on Adolphus Brook. Replaying her favorite swoon-worthy scenes from books, movies, and television in her mind usually staved off loneliness and ushered in sweet dreams.
Tonight? Not so much.
She couldn’t sleep because she couldn’t get John out of her head. John, who was the most man man she’d ever met. John, who was not on the market. John, who was adopted and wanted, for a reason he had not disclosed, to find his birth mother.
Why did he want to find his birth mother now, at this particular stage of his life?
She knew enough about adoptee search to know that there was often a catalyst that flipped a switch in the life of the adoptee, driving them to take action. Usually the people she assisted gladly told her why they’d decided to research their history. That John hadn’t relayed this information made her doubly curious. She wanted to know that piece of his puzzle. She wanted to know the why of his search.
Irritated with herself, she tossed back the covers, revealing her purple pajama top and drawstring plaid bottoms. She padded in the direction of the living room.
Her glorified shoe box of a house sat in a secluded spot on a wooded hillside overlooking the canal. Canal was a misnomer. The body of water known as the Hood Canal was actually a fjord, and she wished it had been named appropriately way back when. She valued proper nomenclature.
She’d decorated her house in a country-meets-the-1950s vibe. The shades of distressed white, cherry red, and Dutch blue she’d chosen spoke to her of welcome. The bookshelves covering her walls spoke to her of old friends and adventures.
She slid a disc from season two of Northamptonshire into her DVD player. Five minutes later she’d settled into her chair, holding a mug of her homemade concoction of decaf chai tea. Gently, she tucked a throw blanket around herself.
This little obsession with John wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world. She couldn’t have John. She could, however, have the company of Adolphus.
Nora had always been an avid fan of period dramas. Three years ago, when her heart had felt like ground beef, they’d become somewhat of a lifeline for her. She’d watched them whenever her heartbreak had threatened to drown her.
She’d sighed over Richard Armitage in North and South. Tumbled into love with Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice. Spent a great deal of time considering the merits of William Hurt’s Rochester next to Michael Fassbender’s Rochester next to Timothy Dalton’s Rochester. She’d shaken her fist at Julian Fellowes when he’d killed off Matthew in that famous season-ending car crash on Downton Abbey.
And then, then, she’d discovered the BBC’s Northamptonshire.
She’d become an instant addict. The gorgeously produced and acted series was set in England’s Regency era and followed the loves, dreams, trials, and intrigues of both the lowly and the gentrified residents of the British county of Northamptonshire.
Most of the show’s female viewers clucked and cooed over the dark and powerful Earl of Cumberly or the brawny and earnest horse trainer, Craddock. It took a very discerning and erudite woman to notice the appeal of Adolphus, the Viscount of Osgood and Lady Amelia’s scholarly and bespectacled younger brother.
Upon discovering Northamptonshire, Nora had joined every online gathering of fans she could find and gone on to found the Devotees of Adolphus Brook group on Facebook. Through the Devotees, she’d caught the attention of Duncan Bartholomew, the actor who played Adolphus.
To her utter astonishment, her initial fawning correspondence with Duncan had developed into a genuine online friendship. They didn’t talk on the phone. They’d never met. However, they communicated often via Facebook.
She actually knew THE Duncan Bartholomew! She was his pal! She was! Every single time she received a message from him, joy sang through her. He’d even taken to calling her Miss Lawrence after he’d found out that she, like the Lucy Lawrence character on the show, was a librarian with a heavy case of amour for Adolphus.
Much to Nora’s frustration, Northamptonshire had only attained moderate success in England and in America via PBS. Also, despite the valiant support of Nora and the Devotees, Adolphus could not be considered one of the stars of the large cast. His supporting role was far too small.
Nora had spearheaded numerous social media and email campaigns aimed at increasing the show’s visibility and securing more and bigger plot lines for Adolphus. So far, without measurable success.
She nursed her tea as she watched Northamptonshire through weary eyes. When Adolphus strode into the picture, she smiled. Hello, darling.
The quote emblazoned across Nora’s purple pajama top:
“I am happily married to academia.”
—ADOLPHUS BROOK
Text message from Willow to Nora and Britt:
Willow
I just remembered that Grandma’s 80th birthday is coming up at the beginning of July. Since Mom and Dad are gone, I do believe that means the birthday fanfare is up to us.
Nora
I nominate Willow as Handler of Birthday Fanfare.
Britt
I second.
Slackers.
Britt
We could take Grandma out to lunch at Flemings again this year. Eating at the most impeccable restaurant in town makes it difficult for her to find things to complain about. You know how she enjoys a worthy challenge.
Nora
I don’t think we can get away with lunch at Flemings for an 80th birthday.
Willow
I agree. An 80th birthday = a party at Bradfordwood.