Eloise smiled. She drank the lemonade, which was cold and sweet and perfectly in between. Outside, the hydrangeas didn’t care what she called it. They just kept blooming.
The argument began, as most did in the Fowler household, with a thermostat. is june spring or summer
“It’s summer, El. Close the door. You’re letting the cold out.” Eloise smiled
The next morning—June twenty-first, the solstice—Eloise woke to find a glass of lemonade on her nightstand. Beside it, a sticky note in her grandmother’s neat hand: They just kept blooming
They called a truce only because Eloise’s father, Tom, walked in carrying a grocery bag full of sweet corn. He set it on the counter and assessed the battlefield.
Margaret’s needles clicked in disbelief. “June is June. June is roses and fireflies and the last day of school. That’s summer.”