She turns to me. “You know, some people love plenty but just can’t show it,” she continues. “Not like . . .” She looks over at the Laskos’ house. “Esme—that woman has love bubbling over. She wears her affection for people like other people wear jewelry.”

She’s noticed that, too.

“Your grammy, though. She’s busy. And she’s getting on in years. You’d have to count all the waves in the ocean to know how much Bridget loves you. You’re a lucky girl.”

I stare up at her. She seems sad watching the Lasko show in the windows. “I envy them. I never learned how to do what Esme does.”

And then I realize that she’s out here looking up at the tree and missing her family, too. I have to catch my breath when I also realize that we’re both orphans.

“What are your eyebrows all scrunched up for?” she asks. “Something spinning in that head of yours? You know it’s a McHill tradition. Thinking about every little thing.”

“I was thinking that we’re both orphans, you and me.”

She nods slowly. “Yes. Yes, we are.” She sits down next to me. “Well,” she says, “I suppose there is no arguing with facts.”

“You knew my mother, huh?”

“What a silly thing to ask. You know I did. I was here when Mellie came home from the hospital with Joseph and Bridget. God, how they loved that baby. Don’t know why she . . .”

“She what?”

Olive looks disgusted again. “Well, what do you think?”

I should be upset, I guess, but I’m actually finding Olive to be a relief. I never have to wonder what she’s thinking. I lock eyes with her. “Why she left?” I say.

“Of course. She was careless about things. Didn’t think ahead. Didn’t take responsibility. And I think that’s caused some hard things for all of you. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Olive.”

“But you know what else?”

“Yeah?”

“I have faith in you. I bet one day you’ll wear an olive wreath on your head, and people will cheer for you.”

“Huh?”

“You know who gets the olive wreath up in Boston? The winner of the Boston Marathon.”

I smile. I’m happy that she thinks I can do something special.

I hear Grammy’s tires rolling up the driveway, so I stand and brush the pine needles off of my legs.

“You’re a mess. Your grammy is going to make you bathe.”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

You can always count on Olive to point out the terrible stuff.

But I see her looking up at her tree the way most of us look at people we love, and I get the feeling that she isn’t thinking about the tree. She’s thinking about her father and their cookouts and the people she misses.

I think that when I look at Olive from now on, I’ll see a lot of different things. Like instead of just a plain scoop of cold ice cream, a scoop with some chocolate chips hidden inside.