10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Charles
I wasn’t getting much work done, but we are starting to shake down as a household, and this is only the first day.
Miss Bailey is a quick study when it comes to learning how to use the kitchen computer and communication system. But then, it is mostly just a workstation computer attached to a smart phone and handset. Manuela liked having a handset that fastened to the computer. She said it kept her from losing the phone.
I leave Cece chattering happily with Manuela’s granddaughters, while Miss Bailey rummages in the upright freezer for a frozen meal Manuela had put together. That would be our dinner.
I stop in the doorway and take an appreciative look at the domestic scene. My little daughter looks happy for the first time in several days. Miss Bailey braided her long, dark hair at some point. It accents the slim contours of her back and brushes the back pockets of her way-too-modest shorts.
I have a good view of her derriere as she bends down to explore the bottom shelf of the freezer. Again, I feel unsolicited stirrings. She is slender, but well rounded, with lightly muscled thighs and calves. I can imagine walking up behind her . . .
I take myself out of the kitchen before I do something irrevocable and completely stupid. Or at the very least embarrassed myself by displaying another tent in my pants. What is the matter with me?
I march myself down the hall and get out the tattered remnants of my phone book to see if I can piece it back together. I have a copy stored online, but the paper copy somehow feels more real. With my world fluctuating all around me, I need the solid feel of my hardback notebook. Even if it does have puppy tooth marks on it.
I stare at it for a minute. Why had it been on Cece’s desk? And how had Gidget gotten it in the first place? Had my baby girl been afraid I would yell at her? I sincerely hope not.
Then I consider the last few weeks. I had withdrawn into myself. Losing Em hurt in ways that I could not even begin to examine. And, yes, there was anger in there, too. She could have kept to her room and not gone near those who shared her quarantine.
But they had been sick. Taking care of sick people was what she did. Even with her chronic asthma, she would not have shirked helping out. Besides, isolating herself might not have helped her survive, only increased her feelings of guilt.
And I have people to take care of. I spread out the mangled pages and begin to make phone calls.
As I speak with building managers, distribution centers, and quarantined workers, the picture is grim, but not as bad as it might have been. My managers are good people and have the well-being of their staff well in mind.
Throughout the afternoon, I sent emails, held conference calls, and generally hammered out procedures that might help keep my people safe and slow possible spread of the disease.
Agri-Oil did several things. It had oil rigs in wheat fields, grew special breeds of corn for biofuel, and it supported farmers, large and small. The Baileys are a good example of people who are both customers and suppliers.
I even have a few acres of my own near the Bailey farm, positioned alongside one of the few streams in the area. Kansas is moisture poor, and the early farmers with their broad-bladed, sod-cutting plows had not done the “Great American Desert” any favors. The subsequent generations are still working to deal with the result.
There is a light tapping on the door, and my daughter calls out, “Daddy? Miss Kate says dinner is ready and wants to know if you are eating with us.”
I look about me and realize the shadows had grown long and my voice hoarse. No doubt, my managers are going home or closing up their home offices for the day.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” I croak. “I’ll be out.”
Since the office had originally been designed as a guest bedroom, it had a half bath attached. I use it, wash my hands scrupulously, and try to shake off the day.
To my surprise, Miss Bailey has set the small table in the dining room. The plates at each place are under warming covers, and a tall pitcher of what looks like ice tea sits on the table.
“Miss Kate made tea,” Cece says, excitedly dancing around me. “And I helped! It’s lemon and ginger tea.”
“I hope you like it.” Miss Bailey looks a little worried. “Cece picked the flavor. I can get out something stronger, if you like. I found the wine rack.”
I’m tempted. After an afternoon of talking with worried people, sometimes angry people, and people who were afraid, I could use something to take the edge off .
“It’s really good tea, Daddy.” Cece stops her movement around me. “I like it a lot, and Miss Kate says it is a di-ges-tive.” She says the word carefully.
“What does a digestive do?” I ask gravely.
Cece stops and thinks for a moment. She glances at Miss Bailey. “It makes your tummy happy?”
Miss Bailey smiles at the little girl. “Close enough. Mint and ginger tastes nice, and is light enough to go with most things.” She looks back at me. “I didn’t think you would want caffeine tonight.”
“Right,” I say. I pull out my chair and sit down in it with a sigh. “Going by the way I feel, I wouldn’t mind something stronger, but I probably shouldn’t.”
Miss Bailey nods. I’d given the answer she wanted to hear. Oddly, I discovered that something inside of me wanted her approval. When did that become important?
Cece tugs her booster chair up to the table, clambers up, and Miss Bailey pushes it in. She then goes to the foot of the table and sits down. My heart twinges because Em usually sits next to me, and her place is empty.
Kate gives no sign that she notices. Instead, she asks, “Would you like to say grace, Mr. Emory, or should I?”
The question startles me because Em and I had never prayed over our meals. Neither of us were atheists, but we’d never made religion a big part of our life. I’m even more surprised when Cece pipes up and says, “Me! Me! I can do it, Miss Kate.”
Kate glances at me, asking permission. I cover my confusion by nodding my permission.
Cece closes her eyes and bows her head, and so does Miss Bailey. I bow my head, but keep one eye slitted open to keep an eye on proceedings. Could the day get more surreal?
Cece pronounces, “God is great, God is good, now we thank him for our food. Amen. ”
“Amen,” echoes Miss Bailey.
“When did she learn to do that?” I ask, astonishment overtaking good sense.
Miss Bailey smiles at me, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. The little minx is baiting me! Or testing the waters?
“Saying grace was required at the preschool,” she says. “It is, after all, a church run establishment.” She watches me closely, then adds, “I’m not much of a praying person myself, but it seemed to me that the world could use a prayer or two today.”
Emotions well up inside me. Today is so different from my life just three months ago. I nod, clear my throat, and manage to say, “Amen to that. I’ve heard more hard luck stories today than I’ve heard in the last three years.”
I lift the warming cover on my plate to reveal a pork chop, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Not an inspired meal, but Kate had said that her skills primarily extended to simple foods. I pick up my fork and scoop up some of the mashed potatoes.
They are creamy and delicious. I’d not eaten potatoes like them since, well, ever. Em had long since pronounced that potatoes were not a vegetable, and rice was healthier. It was amazing that we even had any in the kitchen.
The ladies at my table do not wait for my comment. They pick up their utensils and begin eating. I notice that Cece’s meat is already cut, making it easy for her to manage without assistance.
The green beans are nothing special, but the chop is done to perfection, neither dry nor pink in the middle. While Cece and I are eating, Miss Bailey pours tea for everyone.
The tea is perfect with the meal, and even better with the ginger snap cookies that follow.
“This is wonderful,” I praise Miss Bailey, “I thought you said you couldn’t cook. ”
She blushes with pleasure, and it looks good on her. “Just simple food,” she says. “We didn’t have food to waste at home, so I learned to make it right.”
“I helped make the cookies,” Cece chimes in, having a second one.
“Did you?” I take a bite. I’m not usually a fan of gingerbread, but these cookies are chewy, not tooth breaking hard. They were spiced just right to have a little bite to overcome the sweetness, somewhat like Kate, I think, remembering the brief kiss on my cheek and the elusive feel of her slim body against mine.
I cover the rush of heat triggered by the memory by taking another bite and making a huge production out of chewing and savoring the flavor. “That must be why these are so good, sweet and spicy, just like the cooks that made them.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I nearly panic. Had I scared off the only person willing to help run my household? And what was with me? I’d not reacted to a woman like this in years — not even Em had provoked this kind of spark.
Cece giggles, and I cover by focusing on her happy response. “Miss Kate did most of it. I just stirred the batter and put the spoons of batter on the pan.”
“Those are important jobs,” I say, keeping my face appropriately grave. “Imagine what would happen if all the ingredients weren’t mixed well? Or if you put one big glop of dough in one spot and a teeny tiny one in another?”
“Miss Kate showed me how to measure,” Cece says. “I learned that three little t’s makes one big T, an’ it’s important cause if you put a big T of baking soda in cookies they will taste awful!”
“Did you?” I ask. I’d never been initiated into the mysteries of cooking, so I had no idea why exactly this was important.
“No,” Kate says. “But I did, once. I was making a special breakfast for my mother. She pretended to like the cookies, but my brother snitched one and bit into it. He made an enormously big deal out of how bad they tasted and has never let me forget it.”
I laugh. I could just imagine James tormenting his sister that way — just as I was beginning to appreciate what a manipulator he was to drop Miss Bailey off and then flee the scene. But surely he had not guessed we would be here virtually alone, chaperoned only by my four-year-old daughter?
That put the burden on me to behave honorably, and not like a horny teenage kid with no thought for tomorrow.