8. Dinner for Deux
Chapter 8
Dinner for Deux
B abies freak me out. Terrify me. They’re loud but fragile. Demanding yet can’t explain what they want. Plus, they leak snot and pee and poop and ooze mysterious stickiness.
Not having kids was one thing my ex and I agreed on. For my part, mostly because I was told I probably wouldn’t be able to.
Compared to Honey who is self-sufficient, Emberly was needy, loud, and secretive given the fact that I had no idea she was the heiress of a town.
I tell myself to ignore the flames inside when I think about Honey or when I’m around her. I just barely got out of a marriage alive.
But maybe I want her to want me a little. Perhaps I like that she asked for my help this morning.
I don’t know how I survived pushing the infant in a stroller to the restaurant. At least it wasn’t raining. Right now, the drizzle is light, but the winds are heavy. Earlier, I saw on the forecast there’s a storm in the Gulf, but the meteorologists predict it’ll blow itself out before it gets here.
The work on the chateau today built up an appetite. Specifically, a hankering for flapjacks ... and maybe seeing Honey again. She occupies my thoughts when she shouldn’t. Her honeysuckle scent fills the air even though I’ve been working in the moldering chateau all day.
Here I am, doing the opposite of what I promised myself. Not doing what I usually do. Feeling how I usually feel. Should feel.
Honey said she’s single. I can’t imagine her being a single mom, because only a loser would leave her and she doesn’t seem the type to tolerate losers. I figured she must’ve been babysitting and mixed up the schedule or was helping someone out in a pinch. But maybe I was wrong.
A few loose strands of her wildflower honey-blonde hair hang in her face. She blows them out of the way and unties her apron. “We’re closed.”
“You’re here.”
“I’m cleaning up.”
“Looks like you’re playing with the baby.”
“How could I not? She’s adorable.” Honey glances at the little one with affection in her eyes.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’ve been filling up on beignets.” She narrows her eyes at me as if I committed treachery.
The baby lets out a shriek.
Honey winds up a dial on one of the toys and what sounds like a drunk clown sings while plastic boxes light up with a rainbow of colors.
“The muffins over there are pretty good.”
“Traitor,” she says with a slight laugh like she’s torn between wanting to serve me flapjacks and banning me from the restaurant altogether.
The sound ignites the pilot light inside me—I hadn’t realized it had gone out. At times, Honey’s laughter can be smoky, flirty, or a tease—a taste promising more. She laughs easily, usually robustly, even though it doesn’t seem like her life is easy. To most people in her shoes, it wouldn’t seem like much is funny.
But I cannot get enough of the sound.
This past week, I’ve seen her, Mara, the Coffee Loft owner, and her sister Tallula standing in the street talking, so if they’re rivals, they’re especially friendly ones. And yeah, Honey was wearing a sweater dress with tall boots and had her hair up off her neck one of the times. Another, she had on a crew neck sweatshirt and shorts which revealed a bit more of her long legs than the skirts she normally wears, like the one she has on now. It has a tie around the waist and swishes when she walks. Her fitted shirt has a tiny tear by her shoulder.
Around a yawn, she says, “I used to serve grilled muffins.”
“How about flapjacks?”
“Now? It’s nearly dinnertime.”
The idea of having dinner together floats into my mind and melts like hot butter on a griddle. “Haven’t you ever had breakfast for dinner?”
It’s then I realize that since I walked in, she’s been in motion—flipping the Open sign over, dimming the lights, refilling things. “I’m lucky if I ever sit down and eat.”
“Maybe we should do something about that. So no flapjacks?”
She parts her lips as if she’s going to correct me, but instead says, “Come back tomorrow.”
“Are you inviting me to return to this fine establishment?”
The huff I expect is more like a druff , a droopy huff—the kind that comes from exhaustion. “If by fine, you mean I pass the season health code inspections, then sure.”
The Laughing Gator Grille has a frozen-in-time look with paneled walls, seventies wallpaper print, and lots of alligator kitsch. I hadn’t noticed the first time I came in ... because my attention was elsewhere. My pulse does something weird, and I realize that was mostly because I’d been captivated by the woman behind the counter.
She comes out from behind it now and marches over to the door as if to show me out.
I hesitate. “Well, for the favor I did, you owe me cream brool, at least.”
Honey doesn’t flash the smile I’d hoped for. “I know that you know it’s pronounced crème br?lée.”
“I was just joking.” My stomach growls.
As if unable to turn away someone hungry, Honey says, “I have some leftover boudin.” She pronounces it, boo dan .
“I’m not convinced the estate is ghost-free. Maybe I should leave them some boo dan.”
The baby laughs or screeches, I’m not sure.
“Boudin is sausage made with pork, onions, garlic, and some other stuff.”
“Secret stuff?”
“Everyone knows most of my recipes include honey, so it’s not like a secret ingredient.”
I can’t help but think she has some secrets.
“There’s also some leftover potato salad that I was going to put on special tomorrow.”
“Can I take it to-go?”
She is already boxing it up.
“Actually, can you make it a double portion?”
“Magic word?”
The corner of my mouth tugs with a smile, recalling our exchange this morning. “Please.” I hesitate, then add, “Will you join me?”
“For what?”
“Dinner?”
Her hands flap and she drops the lid to the takeout container. “Me?”
The baby fusses, goes quiet, then turns red before a rumble comes from behind the counter.
Honey’s eyes widen.
The baby wails.
Flustered, she turns in a circle.
I’m equipped to deal with advancing hose lines, navigating smoky environments, and handling hazardous materials. I’ve rescued cats from trees and used the jaws of life more times than I’d like. But I’m not sure how to save Honey from this situation.
Looking like she’s running on empty, she starts to remove the baby from the complicated safety straps in the little seat with bells, whistles, and all kinds of gadgets, but her hands shake.
When she said she rarely sits down to eat, I think I now understand why ... and have my doubts she’s consumed much of anything today.
If only I had on my protective gear. All the same, I run into the flames of Honey’s life.
I carefully unlatch the harness clips. The baby’s little fingers wrap around my thumb as she kicks wildly with only one sock on.
“Maddock, I got—” Honey starts.
But the little one is already snug in my arms and goes quiet. Her hands are now in fists and her eyes are screwed shut, but she’s calmer.
“Magic word, magic touch. I’ve got it all.”
Honey lifts her arm to playfully swat me but must be too tired.
“Come on. We’ll go over to the house and have something to eat.” My nose twitches and my appetite disappears as a foul odor wafts ...
Her lip teases a knowing smile. “You sure you got it?”
“Maybe I’ll leave diaper duty to you.” Holding the baby away from me, her feet kick while she chews on her hand.
Honey expertly takes Leonie into her arms and they disappear down the hallway to the bathroom. The faint sound of singing filters toward me.
My mother wasn’t a singer, but she did hum. Strange to think that the Witt line ends with me. I don’t have siblings and I probably won’t ever have kids—if the doctors’ warnings were on target, I probably can’t.
Honey returns with a clean and quiet Leonie. They both look exhausted. The latter from the tough life of a baby, what with the eating, sleeping, and constant attention from being so demandingly adorable. And the former, well, from trying to look after said baby while running a restaurant.
Despite Honey’s sassiness, there’s something undeniably admirable about her taking care of Leonie with so much love and dedication. Her life isn’t just her own and I don’t think that kind of humility, purpose, and sense of duty can come from anything other than parenthood.
It makes her glow in a way that I can’t quite explain.
Plus, she looks really great in that skirt.
But while she’s taking care of the baby, who’s taking care of her? I want Honey to eat the boo dan and potato salad while seated. Thankfully, I have a table—a huge one.
I pick up two of the baby items and start toward the front door.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you home,” I call over my shoulder as I head outside into the rain.
“Maddock, I can?—”
I turn around and look pointedly at the stroller, reminding Honey of this morning’s adventure.
Two minutes later, the bed of the truck is loaded with the baby’s gear. I roll the cover rolled out to keep it dry from the rain and the stroller basket is strapped safely in the rear seat.
It’s a one-minute ride to the mobile home park, but I bypass it and continue down the dark road that leads to the estate. The trees above block the rain and the windshield wipers squeak.
“I’d like to argue with you about our destination, but—” Honey starts.
“But you’re tired, which is why we’re going here first.”
When the headlights sweep the old estate, glowing from inside, Honey sits up.
I’m under a bit of pressure from Leyton to decide on whether I’m going to take up his offer, so I pulled out all the stops to get this place cleaned up before I decide what to do.
“Wow. It’s transformed.” Her mouth hangs open.
I hired a crew to clear away all the overgrowth and undergrowth surrounding the exterior. I think letting in a little sunshine might sanitize the place. While they were at work, along with a few guys from town—the ones Honey calls the Klatch—we cleared out all the junk inside. Over the weekend, I hired a house cleaning service to scrub, wipe, and clean the grime.
“It’s not about to get the white glove treatment and there’s still a ton of work to do, but I think health services and the parish building inspector took the chateau off the top of the list for places to condemn.”
Hunched against the rain, I jog to the passenger side and open the door and then take out the stroller basket containing the baby. It’s surprisingly heavy.
Walking up the front steps, Honey says, “It’s remarkable what a week can do.”
“And several thousand dollars worth of excavation equipment, Dumpsters, and elbow grease. I figured I’d start on the outside.”
“And the inside?” she asks as we enter the chateau.
“Mostly just cleaning. I had a crew here along with several contractors to assess what I’m dealing with.”
“I’ll admit that I’m impressed.”
“This brings me back to my request ...”
Honey shifts her weight, and the baby lets out a little coo.
“Can I warm up her food first?” Honey is a blur in the kitchen as she does I-don’t-know-what with a pot of hot water and a baby bottle. Thankfully, the stove burners work. Moments later, Leonie makes a purring sound as she drinks warm milk. She droops and drifts in Honey’s arms. After a little hiccup, her eyes close and she falls asleep.
With the baby safely in the stroller basket, I set out the containers from the Laughing Gator Grille.
I gesture to the chair. “Sit.”
Despite the exhaustion etched on her features, Honey shoots me a glare.
“Please sit.”
She eyes the chair like it’s a dangerous object as if she uses it, she may never get up again. Getting to my feet, I pull it out and then wait until she lowers down.
After a prayer, Honey digs into the meal like a lioness and her kill.
“You didn’t eat all day, did you?”
Around a mouthful, she says, “No time.”
“Even when it was slow?”
“I was busy—orders, paperwork, preparing sides, baking. I wear all the hats, except chef most days. And of course, keeping this one from having a meltdown.” She tucks the blanket into the side of the basket.
“Is she yours?” I ask, oddly worried about the answer. Not because that would make Honey a mother, but because there was once someone in her life she loved enough to share a life with and all the flirting, smiles, and memories that come with that. Yet, he’s not here which means someone got hurt.
Honey sets down her fork. “Is she my baby? Technically, yes. Biologically, no.”
“I thought you were babysitting. At least, at first.”
Leonie lets out a wail and Honey launches to her feet. The woman is definitely a mom. Resting the baby on her shoulder, she bounces slightly and gently taps her back. “That’s it. You just need to burp.”
After a few minutes of this, Leonie lets out a man-sized belch. Then she nestles down in the crook of Honey’s neck.
She closes her eyes and wavers on her feet. “Ooh. I have to go.”
I guide her to the chair and notice the spit-up dribbling down her back.
“I’ll get you a shirt.”
“Maddock, I’m used to this. You don’t have to?—”
But I’m already in the other room, rooting through my clean laundry until I find a Reno FD T-shirt.
When I return, Honey says, “As I said, I come with strings attached.”
I try to take the baby from her arms, but she has her pudgy little fingers wrapped in Honey’s hair. I gently peel them loose. Making contact with her silky hair sends a jolt straight into my heart. My breath catches and I stagger slightly. Thankfully, Honey is too tired to notice.
Like I’m handling a live bomb, I carefully take the baby out of Honey’s arms and tell her where the bathroom is so she can clean up and change.
“I know where it is,” she murmurs.
Leonie nuzzles against me. Her sweet baby scent tickles my nose. I tug my shirt up a bit on my neck. I need to shave and don’t want her soft little head rubbing against my sandpaper stubble.
Her little fists relax and she becomes a baby blob in my arms. Completely at ease, safe and secure.
Honey returns, wearing my gray shirt. It’s oversized and grazes her thighs. I swallow thickly and cannot tear my gaze away.
She says, “Maybe you do have the magic touch. So far, only ladies have been able to soothe her, which was a bit of a problem since our caseworker was a guy.”
I don’t imagine the fine lines around Honey’s eyes were there a few months ago. Even though some of them likely resulted from fatigue and stress, I imagine more came from smiling the way she does now as she pats Leonie’s rump.
She says, “Let me take her so you can finish eating.”
I shake my head. “Nah. You eat first.”
“No, seriously. I’ll eat later.”
“Honey.” My voice is stern because I eat most of my meals seated and at a regular pace. Plus, I don’t want to disturb the baby ... and I rather like the idea that she’s content in my arms “Please eat.”
“You’re so bossy.”
“And you’re so sassy.”
“So what does that make us?” she asks.
That makes us the worst or best match ever.