9. Annabelle
Annabelle
K evin has been on cloud nine all afternoon.
Sawyer left not long after Kevin’s home run, then after the game, the team all went for a quick sundae at the diner, care of the lovely Dr. Hamilton.
Seeing my son glow with his teammates was the icing on the cake to a terrific morning, one which I hope we can repeat often.
“Did you see that big pitcher, Ma? Did you see how fast he threw the ball at me?” Kevin asks for what feels like the twentieth time today.
I laugh, my grin wide. “I did. You were awesome, honey.”
The whole place looks like a tornado has gone through it as he and Noah run around, even though I cleaned it from top to bottom last night.
But as I chop the vegetables and get them on to boil, checking the roast chicken in the oven, the smell of my homemade dinner wafts through the air, and I feel very blessed.
“What’s he doing here?”
I look up quickly, seeing Kevin peering out the window, and I move to follow his gaze to the now somewhat familiar shiny black truck. Sawyer.
“Sawyer mentioned coming by to grab some paperwork. Be on your best behavior.” I look between him and Noah, ensuring they remember their manners.
I’m surprised he’s here, because even though he mentioned stopping by, I didn’t think he’d still come.
It’s now almost six, the sun is setting, and it’s dinnertime for us.
I assumed he would’ve been here earlier, and when he didn’t show, I figured he might come by tomorrow.
As his truck pulls up to the house, I wipe my hands on my kitchen towel and glance around. I should scramble to tidy up, but this is my life. This is my reality.
It doesn’t help that I’m still a mess from my yard work earlier, wearing my favorite pair of worn-in jeans and t-shirt, my hair in a messy bun, but I've seen him sitting in shit, so we’re even. Without another thought about my house or my appearance, I move to open the door.
“Hi,” I yell from the open door as he jumps out of the truck.
He’s still dressed in the same attire from the game earlier, and I’d be lying if I said my breath didn’t stall in my chest watching him walking toward me.
His Henley top is fitted, showcasing muscles in his arms I didn’t realize he had hiding underneath his polished suits.
Like this, he could be mistaken for a nice country boy, not the uncrumpled city lawyer he is.
But it’s his smile that has me grabbing the door so I don’t topple.
It’s bigger than this morning. Like he’s actually glad he’s here and not frustrated about driving all this way just to pick up paperwork that I forgot to give him.
“Hope I'm not intruding?” Looking right at me, he steps onto the porch.
“No, it’s fine. Come in,” I offer, opening the door and letting him follow me inside. “Let me just find that other page of the contract for you.”
Moving to the table where I’m sure I left it, I start flipping through the small piles of paperwork and school supplies that I’m sorting this weekend.
I tried to look for it earlier and couldn’t find it, so I’m not confident it’s here.
At a guess, I’m assuming Noah has taken it and used it for drawing with crayons, and I’ll find it scrunched into a ball in the rubbish, but I’ll at least pretend that I’m trying.
At that moment, Noah decides he wants me and runs into my leg, cuddling my thigh, leaving me a little restricted before I pick him up, put him on my hip, and continue the search.
“It was a good game today. Nice hitting, Kevin.”
My son seems to almost shy away from Sawyer’s comment before he speaks.
“Thanks,” is all he offers. He’s a kid of few words when it comes to outsiders.
I know it's because of his life these past few years. No time to be a kid with all the responsibilities he’s had.
He was young when his father passed and hasn’t really had a male figure in his life since.
I’m about to add my own glowing thoughts on my son’s game, when I hear something boil over on the stove in the kitchen.
“Oh no!” Striding to the kitchen, I would put Noah down, but his tenancy to run around and get into things is not something I need him doing when we have company, hot food on the stove, and missing paperwork.
“Do you need a hand?” Sawyer tentatively steps closer. I’m moving quickly, trying to get things taken care of as best I can with one hand, to no avail.
“Here, can you take Noah?” Without thinking, I offer him my son. Sawyer looks like a deer in headlights but he has little time to think about it before we both get burned, so I thrust Noah into his arms and I step back to the stove, moving quickly to prevent flames and my vegetables from searing.
When the small crisis is over, I look back to where they stand, and I stall. Sawyer is holding Noah out from his body like he has some disease.
He held him like that last time too. I have to hold back a chuckle. “Looks like you’ve never held a child before…”
“I haven’t,” he says all too seriously, and my eyebrows rise.
“Really?” I wonder how that’s possible. Everyone has held a child at some point, haven’t they?
“I have one brother, but we’re only a year apart.”
“No nieces or nephews?” I’m keen to learn more about the man standing in my kitchen, holding my child, as he slowly brings him to his body, holding him tighter to his chest. Tentatively, like he’s getting used to the feel of it, deciding if he likes it or not.
Sawyer huffs a laugh. “No. He’s too busy jet-setting around the world.”
“Much like you?” I assume that’s what someone like Sawyer does. I know he has his own jet. It’s parked at the airport, and the town talks.
“What do you mean?” He frowns in confusion as he wrangles Noah, and I bite my lip at how weirdly domesticated it looks.
“Well, you have a jet, don’t you? From what I hear, you fly in and out of here most weeks.”
“My travel is for work, not pleasure.” Again, it’s all work from him. I need to remember that.
“Well, you have a way with them,” I offer with a shrug, trying to be kind. Because it’s true. Noah now has his head down on Sawyer’s shoulder, his hands gripping on to his shirt collar. He’s clearly comfortable with the businessman.
“Jets?” his brow is pinched, as Noah grabs his ears, and once again, I have to hold back a chuckle from bubbling from my mouth.
“No, kids.” I nod to how my tired son rests against him, and Sawyer looks down, taking it in. “You’re a natural. Noah doesn’t really just go to anyone.”
My boy is a bundle of energy, so seeing him like this with a man he barely knows is unusual. But I firmly believe that small kids are pretty good judges of character.
“Hmmm. He’s warm,” is all Sawyer says, not in a hurry to remove my son from his chest.
Smiling, I hold out my arms. “Here, let me take him. He’s already eaten, so I’ll put him down, then I’ll try to find that contract.” I grab Noah from Sawyer, and my boy snuggles into me.
“Make yourself at home. I won't be long.”
Kevin is sitting on the sofa, watching TV, ignoring the whole situation as I walk by.
Just as I step into the hallway, I notice Sawyer looking around the house.
Not snooping but seemingly interested. As predicted, Noah is almost asleep before I even put him in bed, so a quick tuck in and he’s in dreamland.
When I get back to the living area, Kevin hasn’t moved, and I spot Sawyer looking at some framed photos on the side wall.
“You and the kids look good in these,” he says in passing as I once again start looking for the contract, knowing that it’s futile.
“Thanks.” I smile warmly. I love having a lot of photos around. It makes a house a home, in my opinion.
“I can’t help noticing there are none of your husband.”
My gaze flicks to his in surprise. I quickly look at Kevin, who’s now watching the interaction, and I swallow roughly.
I keep my response simple. “No. There aren’t.”
I feel his gaze resting on me, waiting for me to say more, but I don't. There’s only one photo of my husband in this house, and that’s in a box in the cupboard, which I’m keeping just for the kids.
There are no others, because I don't want there to be.
My eyes return to the piles of papers in front of me, but my mind races.
Before he can ask any more questions, I ask, “Have you eaten?”
“Excuse me?” His head tilts slightly as he turns to face me.
“Eaten. Dinner?” I repeat.
“Oh, no, I haven’t eaten yet.” He shakes his head.
“Would you like to stay…? For… dinner?” Why I’m asking him for dinner to avoid more conversation about my late husband, who knows? It just came out, and now I can barely put a sentence together.
“I don’t want to impose.” His eyes flick to the kitchen, and I know how good it smells. I wonder when he last had a home-cooked dinner was, assuming he isn’t a cook himself.
“You imposed the minute you drove through my gate.” A small, teasing smile dances on my lips as I look at him pointedly.
“Well, since I’m here…” he murmurs, his mouth quirking to the side. Something about the sight has me feeling warm all over.
I really hope this isn’t a terrible idea.