11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Kate
Over the next few weeks, I watch Charles Emory come alive while we all develop a steady routine. He ate breakfast with us, then disappeared into his study.
I spend the mornings with Cece, preparing food ahead so that I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time on cooking meals, walking the dog around the garden, teaching Cece to toss a ball for Gidget or pull a string for her cat.
After my finals were over, I started looking for practicum options, only to realize that most schools were closed. My only options for now would be teaching online, and I didn’t want to do that and take care of Cece.
Charles gifted me with the grand title “Household Manager” and gave me freedom to order pretty much anything I pleased, along with backup from Manuela. I told myself that just meant that he trusted my professionalism and my ability to look after his daughter.
We settled into a steady routine that lasted into early August .
I grew accustomed to Charles being around and didn’t focus on it too much.
Still . . . mercy me, he was good to look at. Cece just about worshiped the ground he walked on, and you didn’t get that from a kid without the sort of loving kindness that went with being a good person and a good parent. I liked that in a man.
We’d made gingerbread that day, cutting the dough into cookie shapes that included the gingerbread man, the old couple, their house, and the animals he’d met, including the wily fox.
I watch him taste testing our latest culinary efforts.
His mouth . . . mobile and expressive, as he bites into that simple piece of gingerbread, rolls his eyes and mimes its deliciousness . . . I can imagine that mouth touching mine.
How had I ever gotten up the nerve to kiss his cheek? I remember his warm, masculine scent of Old Spice, the shaven stubble of his skin . . .
I bite into my cookie, chew, and swallow. When he looks my way, I take a sip of my iced tea, using the glass to at least partially hide my face. My cheeks feel hot, and I am almost certain he could read my thoughts. James always said I had a face like an open book, with all my thoughts right there for anyone to read.
Charles asks, “Kate? Are you alright? You look a bit flushed.”
Oh, God, just take me now. Let the floor open up and swallow me.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. “Those really are spicy cookies.” Good save. I got this, I’m just fine. He isn’t flirting with me. “Did you ask something?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Cece wanted to know if it would be all right if we all watched a movie together.”
“With popcorn and soda pop?” Cece begs. “Please, please, Miss Kate. It’s been forever since we had home movie night. Mommy wasn’t,” there is a little hitch of a sob in her voice, “home, and Daddy was really, really busy. Could we?”
How can I possibly deny her anything after that tiny almost sob? “I can’t think why not,” I say.
I can think of a thousand reasons why not. Intimate family setting. Lowered lights. An employer that I’d almost, no, had kissed in the garden. Heat pools in my nether regions.
I need to go somewhere and give myself a good talking to before I get into trouble. “What movie do you want to watch? Mr. Emory, do we have movies here?”
“We have a digital library of movies, as well as two or three subscriptions,” he says. “I’m pretty sure we can find any movie Cece wants to watch. What do you want, Punkin?”
“I want the ‘move it, move it’ movie,” she says.
A wave of relief washed over me. Madagascar II, action packed, crazy cartoon animals . . . not at all sentimental. It’s going to be fine. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go make some popcorn while the two of you pick out your soda. Unless you’d rather just finish the ice tea?”
“I don’t think there’s much of that left,” Mr. Emory says. “Come on, Cece, let’s look in the guest fridge.”
With that, he walks across the room and opens up a panel in the dining room wall, revealing an assortment of soda behind a folding glass door. One thing for sure, we aren’t going to run out of carbonated drinks any time soon.
I murmur an incoherent excuse and flee out to the kitchen. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I mutter to myself as I get out the air popper, the butter flavored oil, and the extra-super fancy popping corn. It’s the kind with red kernels that you almost have to grow for yourself in order to find it. No plain old yellow corn for the Emory family!
By the time two batches of corn have popped, I mostly have control of myself. I gather up the big bowl of popped corn (which now looks like any other popped corn), and three smaller bowls. Individual bowls, I figure, would cut down on the chance of stray touches.
Out in the living room, Mr. Emory has the opening screen for the movie showing on a huge flat screen TV and an assortment of canned beverages on a rolling cart parked between an overstuffed couch and its matching chair.
I set the popcorn down on the coffee table that is between the couch and the screen.
“We didn’t know what you would like,” Cece pipes up, “So we got three of everything. Me an’ Daddy already got ours, so you can pick any you want.”
I note that Charles is drinking Sprite, and Cece has some kind of red punch that has already created a mustache stain on her upper lip. He has settled into one end of the couch, with Cece lounging against him. That leaves the chair for me. I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry about that, but decide being glad was prudent and safer.
While they get their popcorn, I select an unsweetened fruit-flavored bubbly that I like, then get my bowl of crunchy, buttery treats.
Cece watches the screen with rapt attention as the movie starts. Mr. Emory shifts so she will be more comfortable. I pretend to watch the bright, animated scenes while observing daughter and father.
When her popcorn is gone, and most of her drink, Cece whispers loudly, “Daddy, can you pause it? I gotta go!”
Obligingly, he picks up the remote and pauses the movie. “We’ll be right here when you get back, Punkin,” he says.
“I’ll just clean up a little while we wait,” I say, picking up the empty popcorn bowls. I absolutely do not want to sit in that conversation nook with my hot employer.
Charles unfolds himself off the couch. There is a popping, clicking sound. He winces and steadies himself for a moment before picking up the empty soda cans and wheeling the cart of untouched cans away to the disguised refrigerator. “Probably better switch the little soldier over to water,” he says, “Or she’ll be up all night.”
I laugh. I can’t help it; he sounds so normally parental. “Good plan,” I approve. “And maybe have her brush her teeth before we settle back down to watch the rest of it?”
Mr. Emory shoots me a finger gun. “Another good plan,” he says. “Otherwise, we’ll be waking her up or letting her go to bed with dirty teeth. Maybe a switch to pajamas, too.”
“Very wise,” I quip, “You’d almost think you were an experienced parent.”
“Four years, going on five,” he returns. “She’s been a real education.”
“I have no doubt,” I say, then carry the bowls out to the kitchen.
Keeping an ear out for Cece’s return, I clear the dining room table, and load the dishwasher. I’d planned the meal so there should not be left overs, but Cece had left nearly half of her portion on her plate. I give a mental shrug. I can mix it with Gidget’s breakfast tomorrow.
When I return to the living room, Cece, dressed in flannel pajamas with monkeys printed into the fabric, is happily demonstrating the “move it, move it,” dance. She bounces over to me, gives me a hug, then curls up beside her father who is once again seated on the couch.
I settle back into the overstuffed chair, wishing for something to do with my hands. I could crochet. Maybe I should learn to knit. With my current carte blanche for ordering stuff, I could get the materials online. Now that my classes are done, I need something besides Cece to occupy my time.
As it is, I pretend to focus my attention on the screen. Mercifully soon, Cece’s eyes begin to droop, and she falls asleep leaning on her father’s shoulder.
“Kate,” he whispers, “I won’t be able to get up without waking her. Can you get her into bed?”
I nod. Talking ran the risk of waking Cece. I go to them, lean over Cece, and gather her into my arms.
There is no way I can pick her up without touching her father and breathing in his scent. He smells of sandalwood and musk, with a bit of healthy male perspiration mixed in. Little electric tingles run through my hands as they brush his shirt. What would it feel like to be cuddled in his arms?
Cece murmurs sleepily, then leans her head against my chest. She is heavier than she had been at the funeral. Amazing how children seem to gain ten pounds when sound asleep. Perhaps she is growing, and maybe even gaining a little weight.
“Can you manage?” Mr. Emory whispers.
I nod. I get my feet in motion, carry her out the door, down the hall and into her room. I am even able to ease her down on the bed and get her properly tucked in under the covers. Mr. Fluffy follows us and hops up on the bed, nestling beside her.
When I return to the living room, the screen is mercifully blank, and Charles is going through a slow series of contortions behind the couch, using its back as a sort of puffy ballet bar.
He straightens and turns to me. “Thank you for that. I would have had to wake her. I’ve not been keeping up with my pt, and my hip stiffened up on me.”
“What is wrong with it?” I ask.
“Caught a bit of shrapnel in it. I’ve got a titanium hip that’s probably going to be due for replacement soon. They warned me when I got it that it’s probably only good for about ten years, and I’ve used it hard, so I might have shortened its life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, wincing at the thought. I didn’t even suggest that he go get it checked out. The hospitals are overrun, and most physicians overworked. “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs. “Nothing to be sorry about, better than a wheelchair. It only hurts when I stand or sit too long in one position. I spent a lot of time at my desk today.”
Then he changes directions as quickly as a crow fleeing a cat. “A little wine will fix me right up and let me sleep. Care to join me?”
“Ummm…” I say.
“Please?” he wheedles, and I can see where Cece got her winsome ways. I try not to react. “I know you’ve had a long day. Let’s have a nightcap and play a game of Scrabble. We can call it a celebration of getting Cece to bed without waking her.”
The utter incongruity of wine and Scrabble strikes me as funny, and I laugh out loud.
“Shhhh!” he cautions. “You’ll wake Cece! Then she’ll need something to drink, and a trip to the bathroom, and none of us will get to bed before two o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I clap both hands over my mouth to stifle my giggles, because I know exactly what he meant, and I recognize the paraphrase of one of Cece’s favorite books. “All right,” I say. “But if Cece wakes you in the morning, it will be your fault for keeping me up late.”
Mr. Emory gets the bottle of wine, then opens a drawer in an end table at the end of the couch and brings out a very ordinary, worn Scrabble box.
Charles turns out to be a demon Scrabble player, and he has beaten me three times before we finish our glasses of wine — and I’m no slouch at Scrabble .
After the third game, Charles says, “Bedtime for me, and I think for you, too, Kate. May I walk you to your room?”
“You may,” I say, delighted with the sheer sophistry of the invitation.
He offers me his arm, and I take it. I am careful not to put any weight on it, mindful of his earlier troubles with his leg.
When we reach my door, he bends and brushes a soft kiss on my forehead. “Good night, Kate. Thank you for being here for both of us.”
Before I can say anything, he turns away and goes back toward the living room. I watch him go, tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, walking with only the slightest trace of a limp. In my imagination, my skin burns where his lips had brushed.
In my mind’s eye, I can see myself calling out to him, offering to give him a massage to ease the muscles obviously tight with pain. He would have to lie down…somewhere…and that massage would become intimate. I could let my hands explore that lean, athletic form, and touch . . .
I’m not ignorant about boys. I had a brother and a father, after all. I’d dated a few times. And I’d read copious romance novels. But I’d never been with a man, not all the way. Perhaps it is time to change that. And Mr. Charles Emory was . . .
Then I mentally curse myself for being a fool, because there is no way in hell that handsome, wonderful man will ever fall in love with me. But I might be falling for him.
I get out my phone and text Grace.
Grace: Hi, Kate. I’m kind of in the middle of something.
I look at the time. It is approaching midnight. What could Grace be in the middle of?
Me: Ok. Text you later. Or you text me when you’re not busy.
I get an “ok” emoji .
Then, I lay on the bed thinking. Or emoting. Or something. Am I a complete idiot? Falling in love with the boss is never a good idea. Maybe I am just responding to proximity. Yeah, that is it. Handsome man, nobody else around . . . But he really was handsome. No, he is more than that…he is hot. Really hot. Maybe I should have invited him in? Might he have expanded on that fatherly forehead kiss?
I remember what I had glimpsed when he stood at my door that first morning, before he’d started wearing jeans around the house. Yeah.
I go over to my dresser and dig out BOB (Battery operated boyfriend.) Time to take the edge off before I do something super stupid.