4. Harmony
CHAPTER 4
Harmony
I pull open the oven, grabbing the oven mitts from the counter before removing the glass baking dish from the second rack. The smell of baked apple pie wafts through the house as I walk it over to the stovetop and put it on one of the cooling racks I have set out.
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs slowly before he rounds the corner, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. “Good morning, baby,” I greet quietly as he comes to me and face-plants himself in my stomach, wrapping his arms around my waist as I bend to kiss the top of his head. “You are getting so big; I don’t have to bend too much to reach your head.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “Did you sleep good?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move from my embrace as I rock him side to side.
“You hungry?” I ask, rubbing his back, and he just nods. “What do you want? Pancakes?” I wait for him to answer, but nothing comes. “Eggs?” He nods. “Bacon?” He nods again. “On a plate or do you want one of those biscuit sandwiches?”
“Sandwich,” he mumbles, and I laugh.
“Okay, how about you go lie down on the couch, and I’ll call you over when it’s done?”
“Okay, Momma.” His sweet voice makes me smile as he turns around and walks toward the living room. The only thing in there is a two-seater couch and the smart TV I was able to get at a garage sale.
I take a pan and turn toward the fridge, grabbing all the things I need to make the sandwich. Then I grab a biscuit from the basket in the corner, which has been cooling since early this morning. “Do you want cheese on that?” I put my head to the side and shout at him.
“Yes, please!” he shouts back, and I look to the side. My eyes are on the back door as it opens, and Brady steps out wearing gym shorts and nothing else. My mouth hangs open when I see his bare chest. A coffee cup in his hand and his phone in the other, he pulls out one of his wrought-iron chairs and sits down before taking a sip of his coffee and then running his hands through his hair.
“Is it almost done?” Wyatt shouts, making me turn away from ogling my neighbor.
“Yeah,” I lie to him since I haven’t even started the bacon. I quickly turn on the gas stove and throw in two slices of bacon, letting them cook before adding the egg beside them. It takes ten minutes before I’m plating his sandwich and calling him over. He skips back into the room this time, sleep gone from his features. “Do you want some orange juice with that?”
“Can I have milk?” He walks over to the little table in the corner of the room with two chairs, pulling out one and sitting down. As I put the plate in front of him, he doesn’t even wait for my hand to move out of the way before he’s picking it up and biting into it.
“Good?” I ask. He mumbles with his mouth full as he chews, and all I can do is laugh. I pour myself my third cup of coffee today before grabbing a glass and filling it with milk for him. I set both cups on the table before going back and grabbing my own lightly baked biscuit, walking back to the table with a jar of the apple butter I attempted to make the other day.
“Eww,” Wyatt says right away, “that is not good.”
I shrug because he is not wrong. It was my first time trying to make it and to say it was a bust is an understatement. It’s very tart. I should have added more sugar, but then I didn’t want it to be too sweet. “It isn’t that bad,” I point out to him. “Besides, I’m not wasting it.”
It’s his turn to shrug his shoulders, and I take in a deep breath. “You okay?” I ask, and his eyes immediately fly to look at mine. It’s been a couple of days since Winston paid us a visit, and we haven’t spoken about it.
“Yeah,” he replies quickly, his eyes going down to his plate. “He’ll get bored of it soon enough.”
“I think so too,” I agree with him, but one thing he doesn’t know about his father is, he doesn’t like for anyone to think he’s failed. And me serving him divorce papers and then taking his son away from him is him failing. He doesn’t want his son to spend time with him. Nope, he wants his son so he can parade him down Main Street and pretend to be the perfect father.
“Do I have to go next Sunday?” he asks, looking up at me. When we first went to court, Winston got him every weekend, but he never showed up. So, when he took me to court again, I brought it up, and the judge gave him every second Sunday. In the past six months, he’s been there twice out of thirteen times. For the past two months, he hasn’t shown up at all. Not once. Not even for one second. But he has graced my door in the middle of the night, case in point, a couple of days ago.
“Your father wants to see you.” I am really being the better person instead of saying no. But the last thing I need is not to show up and be dragged into court again. This time, I don’t have a lawyer; I don’t even have money to call a lawyer. So I’d be sitting by myself at the table while the Cartwrights’ stuffed-shirt lawyer shows up. “We have to go and do a bit of back-to-school shopping,” I tell him. “Are you excited about starting school?”
“Yeah,” he says, letting the talk of his father go. When he gets old enough, he’ll decide what to do and only him. If he wants to have a relationship with his father, that is what will happen.
“Before we leave,” I say, taking a bite of the biscuit and the apple butter, making sure not to make a face to show him how bad it is, “I have to drop the pie off next door.”
“How come?” He takes the last bite of his sandwich.
“Because it’s the neighborly thing to do.” I don’t add in to thank him for coming out and scaring the shit out of your father and making the whole exchange a lot shorter than it would have been.
“Okay.” He gets up, taking his plate to the sink and dusting off the crumbs before placing it in the dishwasher that is full of my baking stuff. He finds a space on the top rack. “I’m going to get changed,” he announces, and I get up from my own chair and clean my plate.
“I’m going to take the pie over,” I tell him, “and then I’ll come back.”
“Okay, Momma,” he says, running upstairs to the bedroom. I wash off my hands and start the dishwasher before grabbing the warm pie and placing it in a dish so I can carry it. I step out of the house, nervously walking down the steps and heading to the street instead of going through the weeds and tall grass on the side.
I look up at the house, and I’m in awe of the beauty of it. White railing all in front of the house, and also on the upper balcony level with black shutters beside every single window in the front. Walking up the five steps, I look over to the left side where two white rocking chairs move with the light wind. Then turn to look to the right side that leads down to the gazebo part of the porch. Two beautiful wicker chairs face a wicker couch with a table in the middle.
I look up at the white screen door, lifting my hand and knocking on it. My heart speeds up with nerves as my mouth gets dry. I should have probably just left it with a note, I think when the door opens, and he stands there. His gym shorts are gone, and now he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that has the bar logo on it. His eyes pierce through the screen door, making my nerves shoot through the roof even more. My hands get sweaty as I concentrate on not dropping the fucking pie on his pristine porch.
“Hi,” I say, cutting the silence between us, “sorry to interrupt you.” I’m tripping over my words. “I came to bring you this.” I hold up the pie in my hands, and I suddenly want the floor to open up and swallow me. “It’s really nothing.” I’m still rambling, my brain telling me to shut the fuck up while my mouth just continues going. “It’s just a little something to say thank you for… the other night.”
His hand goes to the door handle as he pushes the screen door open, and I see his hair is still wet. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, and I never realized how deep his voice is. I mean, truth be told, it’s not like I sat down and had a conversation with him, ever. His family was the Cartwrights’ archenemies, so no way would that ever happen.
“Well, I have all the time in the world since I don’t have a job.” I cringe and really want to tell myself to literally shut the fuck up. “Well, this has been fun,” I mumble and see him smirk, which lights up his green eyes. “It’s still warm,” I tell him, reaching my hands out for him to take the plate.
“Thank you,” he says, grabbing the plate from me. “I’ll return the plate once it’s done.”
“Oh yeah.” I didn’t even think of that when I was baking this morning. “No rush.”
“I’ll take it over to my dad. It’s his favorite.” I smile at him. I’ve heard his father is sick, and as someone who misses her father like crazy since he passed away, I feel for him so much.
“Hopefully, it’s as good as it looks.” I nod at him, starting to walk away but stopping and turning back. “You have a lovely home.” I really wish I had a friend with me who would pull my hand away before I say anything more. “Have a nice day,” I finally finish and walk away from him. I listen for the screen door to slam shut, but not even when I get to my house do I hear it. When I look back, he’s still standing there watching me. My stomach flips over as I walk into the house and shut the door before my back leans on it, and I close my eyes. “Smooth.” I look over to the side, seeing the living room empty. “Very fucking smooth.”
Wyatt comes down the steps dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I grab my purse, and we head out. My eyes avoid looking at the house next door, but I have to look that way when I’m pulling out and see that his truck is gone. We spend most of the day out of the house, driving as far as I can to do our shopping and then stopping at the park so he can play before heading home for dinner. When I get home, his truck is back in its parking space, but after dinner while I’m cleaning the plates, I notice it gone again. I look down at the pots, letting my thoughts wander. I’m thinking about him when I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
I force Wyatt to take a shower and tuck him into bed before heading down and starting my dough for the following morning. I’m turning off the lights in the kitchen and headed up to bed when I see the headlights coming into the house. My stomach sinks when the car door opens, and Winston gets out. “Here we go.”