Chapter 7
After the maggot encounter, sitting down to fold laundry seemed less onerous than usual, even with Timmy helping.
And by helping, I mean that I folded, and he mangled. But his grin was so wide, and he kept telling me how much he loved me, that I wasn’t exactly going to correct him.
We’d just finished a basket, when Stuart called.
“I’m still with Bernie,” he said. “He found a company that should be able to handle the tile work for a decent price. They’re usually booked, and so I’d hate to miss out.
And then I really need to run by the office.
I’ve got a pile of paperwork to look over. Do you mind if I’m late?”
“Of course not,” I said, even though I did mind.
At least a little. It felt like we’d been going on fast-forward since we got back into town, and I’d been hoping for a little bit of time to sit and chill with my husband.
But I understood that he had things to get back to, not the least of which was repairing the investment house that an extremely powerful—and extremely pissed off— demon had pretty much destroyed.
For that matter, I thought, as I glanced out the window at the backyard where a demon carcass still hid beneath the gardening bench, maybe it was best that he wasn’t home yet.
I frowned, wondering why I had yet to hear from Eric.
It was getting dark, and he was supposed to have swooped in and taken care of the bodies by now.
Surely he would have texted me that it was done right?
I mean, yes, I could have gone into the backyard and checked for the body, but if it wasn’t there, I’d really like affirmation that it was Eric who moved it.
And, honestly, how much trouble was it to send a quick text?
“Kate? Did I lose you?”
I straightened. “Sorry, I’m here. I was preoccupied by Timmy.” I glanced at my little boy who was being remarkably well behaved, grateful that the kiddo wasn’t yet old enough to realize he was Mommy’s little scapegoat. “Do you want me to swing by and bring you some dinner?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I cringed again, because I really didn’t want to leave the house. Instead, I wanted to waylay Eric when he came for the bodies and ask his opinion on the various demonic goings-on.
“Love the idea,” Stuart began, making me tense with frustration, “but I’m good.”
I sagged with relief.
“We’re going to meet with these guys, then grab dinner out so we can go over some of the numbers and see where we are. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Of course. That’s absolutely fine.”
Dead air lingered between us. “Kate … is there something going on?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he added, “You know. Something about demons?”
“No, no. Nothing like that at all.” Honestly, the man knew me too well.
And while I should have told him, I also knew he had work to do.
Plus I didn’t want to get into it right now.
And, yeah, the truth is I was still a little nervous about his reaction.
We’d repaired things in Rome, but I didn’t yet know if the repairs were concrete or kiddie paste.
Because it was demons in San Diablo that drove him away in the first place.
Maybe it was unfair, but I felt better holding some stuff back. At least until I understood more. And until I could look at his face as I talked to him.
“Kate?”
“It’s all good here,” I told him, which at that exact moment in time was totally true. “It’s only that I was hoping that you and I could have an early night. Maybe chill on the couch. Hang out. But it’s fine. Really. I’ll take a rain check. Truly.”
I sincerely hoped that when I end up at those Pearly Gates the number of demons I’ve taken out over the years outweighs the number of fibs I’ve told my husband.
“Definitely a rain check,” he said, his voice shifting from business mode into night-with-my-wife mode. “A night in … a glass of wine … imagine the possibilities….”
“Believe me,” I assured him. “I am.”
With his perfectly honed sense of timing, Timmy started banging on his plastic truck with a wooden stick, which, I realized was the end of my spatula, now missing the flat, rubber piece that gave it those spatula-like qualities.
I ended the call with Stuart, then plucked the stick from Timmy’s hand.
“It’s you and me tonight, kiddo. You hungry?
” I started toward the kitchen, tossing the no-longer-a-spatula onto the counter.
I’d look for the plastic piece later, but I had a feeling it was buried deep in a toy chest or shoved into the couch cushions.
“Want to do dinner on the sofa with a movie?”
“Can we watch puppies?”
The beginnings of a headache trickled up the back of my spine. Not that I have anything against 101 Dalmatians, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it more times than there are actually Dalmatians in the movie.
“Of course we can, sweetie pie. What do you think about fish sticks and apple slices while we watch?”
His little head bobbed eagerly, and I immediately kicked myself, because I hadn’t actually checked to make sure there were any fish sticks in the house.
I said a quick prayer to Saint Monica, the patron saint of mothers, then zipped over to the freezer. I pulled it open, peered inside, and sagged with relief. “Hey, where’s my little chef?”
“Here, Mommy!” He scurried into the kitchen easily, as the baby gate that separates the living area from the kitchen wasn’t closed. It’s usually not these days, though we haven’t entirely disassembled the thing since he’s mobile enough now that I want the kitchen shut tight during the night.
Now, Timmy stood there holding the chef hat we keep in the toy box behind the couch. “You ready to cook, Chef Connor?”
He nodded eagerly, then opened the bottom cabinet and pulled out a cookie sheet. I dragged over his stool so that he could get to counter height, then opened the box and let him put the fish sticks on the cookie sheet.
He arranged them, then sipped his milk while we waited for the oven to preheat.
“Okay, Timster,” I said when the oven was ready. “Tell me how many minutes.”
“Three!” he said, holding out three fingers. “Me three!”
“You will be soon, buddy. But let’s set the timer for fifteen. Remember? Put it right there at the red mark.” The oven has a timer, but I use the dial kind in what may or may not be a misguided belief that letting him fiddle with it will enhance his education.
“Five!” he squealed as he moved the dial to fifteen.
“And who am I to argue with my little Einstein?” I asked, then kissed him on the forehead.
He pointed to his hat. “Chef, Mommy. I’m a chef.”
“Right you are. Okay, Mr. Chef. Hop down and let’s go get your apple juice out of the fridge.”
I pulled open the door, but instead of grabbing a juice box, he snatched a huge Honeycrisp apple.
“Please, Momma?”
Since who was I to argue with a kid who wanted to eat fruit, I took the apple, washed it, then put it on the cutting board as Timmy climbed back up on the stool. “Me cut! Me cut!
“What’s the rule?”
“No knives. I know Momma...”
He sounded so much like his sister I almost laughed. “You go find the movie and I’ll cut up the apple. Deal?”
“Okay….”
He wandered off, and I quickly sliced the apple. I was putting it on a plate when he shouted that he’d found the video. I checked the timer, then headed over to pop in the disc.
Timmy was two slices into his apple when the timer dinged, and I went to retrieve his fabulous meal, making him promise not to take a bite until I said so because the sticks needed to cool.
Meanwhile, I cut up some cheese for me—enough to share, because I know that’s inevitable—and another apple, because it really did look good. Soon enough, the fish sticks were ready to eat, and I was snuggled with my little man on the sofa, juice for him and wine for me.
We finished our food, and I gathered our plates and headed into the kitchen. I’d just dropped them in the sink and trash respectively, when I heard Timmy shouting, “Uncle David, Uncle David!”
I poked my head back in, then glanced at the TV screen.
But, honestly, the animated man who was the composer and human lead in the cartoon movie didn’t look a thing like David.
I told Timmy as much, at the same time silently acknowledging that it was pretty cool of Stuart, despite his dislike of Eric, to let us put the uncle label on him.
The “David” label came because as far as the world was concerned, Eric was David Long, a high school chemistry teacher. In reality, David Long died in the car accident that injured his leg, and Eric had moved into the body. Not the typical family situation, but we’ve gotten used to it.
Adding the uncle title made it easier on Allie since she and her father had been spending so much time together both at and away from school.
I’d been concerned that their time together would be frowned upon by the school staff at best, and deemed creepy and inappropriate at worst. The uncle solution nipped that potential problem in the bud.
“He doesn’t look at all like Uncle David,” I told Timmy, still looking at the television. When he only bounced more enthusiastically, though, I realized that he’d actually shifted his attention from the show to the French doors that lead to the back yard.
I turned that direction and, sure enough, “Uncle David” was standing right there.
Well, hell.
Not that I don’t want to see Eric. As a general rule, I do. But not today. Not after the earlier argument with Stuart. As far as I was concerned, Eric was supposed to have slipped into the back yard, removed the bodies, and slipped right out again.
Knocking on the back door—especially when for all he knew, Stuart might be home—wasn’t on the agenda.
Then again, Stuart’s the one who got all pissy and then left….
I shook my head, scattering the thoughts. The bottom line was that none of this was about the relationship between Stuart and Eric. Those two were going to have to figure that out on their own. But if Eric was having some sort of demon disposal issue, that wasn’t something that I could avoid.
By the time I got to the door, Timmy, thankfully, had turned his attention back to the screen. “Is there a problem?” I asked.
“There’s no problem. The bodies are in my trunk.” He frowned. “I really need to get a new car. That was a tight squeeze.”
“Okay. Well, thanks.” I shifted from foot to foot, not sure why we need this conversation if he had the bodies. “And sorry to make you come all the way back from Los Angeles.”
He moved his shoulders in the casual shrug. “Yeah, well, about that. I never left San Diablo.”
“What?”
“I was still in San Diablo when Allie called.”
“Oh. Well, that was convenient. Why?” I realized as I asked the question that I was asking it with a hint of jealously, wondering if he’d decided to stay because he was seeing someone.
Which, of course was insane. The last woman he was with was a demon who had pretty much taken control of his mind.
Right after that, we’d bopped to Rome. I sincerely doubted he’d started up with the dating thing.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Why didn’t you head home? You know, down to Los Angeles where you moved when you decided you had to get away from me?” That probably came out with a bit more angry-hurt than I’d intended. “What happened to needing to be away? To having time for yourself? Healing and all that stuff?”
All legitimate questions. What I didn’t ask was what I was supposed to tell my husband who’d been very happy to learn that Eric had decided to move to Los Angeles in order to give my family unit a little time to heal. A decision I’d both supported and loathed.
“None of that has changed,” he said. “I do need the time. But at the end of the day what I need isn’t really what matters, is it?”
“Allie.”
He nodded. “She needs me.”
“Eric—”
He held up a hand, cutting me off. “I’m sorry if it complicates things for you, but this isn’t about you or Stuart. It’s about me and my daughter. Maybe before, I could have justified being over an hour away. But not anymore. Not knowing what we know now.”
I nodded, because he was right.
“It’s about our daughter, and I get it,” I admitted. “But I need the truth, Eric. Is it only about Allie? Or is it about me, too?” I knew I was being bold, but I didn’t care. I needed the truth, because without it, I couldn’t navigate these murky relationship waters.
His shoulders dropped with a sigh. And though he reached out a hand for me, I didn’t take it. “Yeah, it is,” he said, pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket. “But it shouldn’t be.”