Spunk

MARISSA

“It’s the oldest standing church in Boston,” she told me excitedly. “The oldest church in the whole city, Mom. Out of all the churches! It was inspired by the same architect who rebuilt London after the great fire.”

“Sir Christopher Wren,” Layton piped up helpfully, nudging my hip with his as he came to walk on my other side. “He’s a great British architect. He’s one of the most highly acclaimed English architects in history, in fact. He was given responsibility for rebuilding fifty-two churches in London after the fire.”

“You would get caught up in the architectural history,” I retorted playfully. “Trying to turn her into an architectural buff at such a tender age already, are you?”

“A guy can hope,” he said quietly, so quietly I didn’t know if I was meant to hear the words. But I had, and they made my heart soar. Louder this time, he said, “We have to make a right here. The theater is just around the next corner. Do you want to have lunch now, or a late lunch after?”

“After,