Chapter 2 – Marco
I’m completely exhausted after the lengthy custody agreement I was just negotiating on behalf of a client, but the heavenly smell that hits me after opening the door instantly makes me feel better.
And the beautiful music, I assume Bea has on, only improves the ambiance.
But when I walked into the kitchen, I soon realized that it was actually her who was doing the singing.
“Wow.”
Then, she turns around and seems embarrassed that I’d heard her.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just—” She rushes to turn the music playing on her phone. I can’t believe how adorable she is with half of her wavy, sandy-colored hair up in a clip and a retro band t-shirt on. Today, she went with Creedence Clearwater Revival. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t notice how amazing her bellbottoms made her round and perky ass look.
Oh, God. Stop being the creepy old guy ogling at his kid’s babysitter, I remind myself.
“You don’t have to apologize. You’re incredibly talented.”
Her cheeks turn adorable and rosy.
“I’m serious. Why haven’t I ever heard you sing like that before?”
“I guess I’m just kind of shy and insecure about it . . .”
“You really shouldn’t be. Heck, if I could so much as carry a tune, I’d never shut up.”
“Daddy!” my girls suddenly come bursting down the stairs in their jammies.
“Hello, my loves!” I say before they jump on me.
“I helped Bea make macaroni!” Alessia proudly announces.
“Did you? Well, it smells absolutely delicious!”
“It’ll be done in a few minutes,” Bea adds.
“Great.” I then go over and inspect Aurora’s most recent masterpiece. “This is really incredible, Rory.”
“Thanks.” She and her sister have since resigned to the couch.
“She’s been really into horses lately,” I say after holding it up for Bea to see.
“I’ve noticed that.”
“They did just go on a field trip to the stables.”
“Oh! Ernie’s place?”
“Yeah. You know it?”
She laughs. “Of course. Ernie and my pops have been close friends forever.”
“I see.” The little wrinkles that develop in the corner of her eyes when she laughs make me feel weak at the knees. But I know that a cool and young thing like her would never go for a decrepit, single dad like me. Besides, I’d never want to cross the line and ever jeopardize the relationship she had with my kids. They loved her, and I knew that it was mutual. There’s no way she’d spend as much time over here if it wasn’t.
Shortly after, the oven bell dings.
“Ah! Girls, wash your hands for dinner,” she says.
They comply and wait at the table while she presents the dish. I also sit down and marvel at the cheesy goodness before us.
“Yum.”
She again acts bashful. “I hope so.”
“You really didn’t need to do this.”
Bea tucks an errant chunk of her long bangs behind her ear. “I know. But I like to. Plus, you work so hard.”
I sigh. That’s something I couldn’t argue over. And I often worry that I’m working too much. But it’s a delicate balance between spending enough time with my kids and working enough to be able to provide them with the best life possible.
“Speaking of work,” she says after loading her own plate and taking a seat, “how was that meeting?”
“Ugh.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Not bad . . . just tense.”
“How so?”
“Well, divorces are always messy.”
“Oh. I’d imagine.”
“And the couple has a whole slew of little kids to fight over.”
She briefly looks at my girls.
“That would be tough.”
Yeah, when BOTH parents actually want them, it is, I think, reflecting on my own unique situation. Clara ran off on us shortly after our divorce was finalized, and we haven’t seen her since. Sure, she sent the occasional postcard from her recent travels, but that’s a far cry from being involved in our children’s lives.
“Anyway,” I change the subject. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How has your work been at the store?”
“Oh, nothing too exciting.”
“No? Cooky Mr. Fields hasn’t come in and demanded some obscure record from a Mongolian throat-singing band?”
She giggles. “No, not recently. But have you actually taken the time to listen to that music? It’s incredibly beautiful.”
“Really? The idea of it seems so funny.”
“Maybe in our culture. But it’s a pretty technical art form.”
The sincerity behind her pure blue eyes is inspiring.
“I’ll have to give it a listen.”
“If you give me your phone, I can add all of the best stuff to a playlist.”
“I’d like that.” I take my device out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“May we please be excused?” one of the twins asks after they inhale their food.
“You may. But bring your plates to the sink and rinse them off.”
They do as I instruct but then resume their places in front of the television.
“How were they today?” I ask after she gives me the phone back.
“Great. As always.”
“Good. Thank you so much for helping out.”
“It’s really no trouble. I like being with them and being . . . here.” She looks around the house.
“I’m glad. All three of us like having you here.”
“Thanks.” She makes a facial expression that accentuates her dimples.
I bite my lower lip at the thought of kissing them, which I want to do more than almost anything. But I shake my head and once again tell myself to behave.
After she and I finish our meals, she helps me load the dishwasher. Then, the girls ask if we can all watch a movie.
I say yes, give Bea the money I owe her for watching them and then bid her farewell.
“Can’t you stay?” Alessia asks her.
“She probably has other plans, Less.” I assume that someone as gorgeous and young as her would have big plans for a weekend night.
“I really don’t,” she confesses.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Unless you consider going home to a tub of ice cream and The Real Housewives a spectacular night . . . no.”
“Well, okay. As long as you want to stay.”
She smiles. “I do. What are we watching, girls?”
“It’s my turn to pick,” Aurora mentions.
“That’s right. We watched Frozen for the billionth time a few nights ago.” For whatever reason, Alessia has just always loved that movie. I, on the other hand, might blow my brains out if I have to listen to ‘Let It Go’ one more time. I swear, that song plays in my nightmares.
“Why don’t you pick, Bea?” Aurora hands our guest the remote.
“Oh, me?”
“Yeah. I’ll choose next time.”
“Aw. That’s so nice of you.”
She flips through the channels before stopping on The Golden Girls.
“Hey! It’s my namesake,” she yells and points with glee.
The opening credits are still rolling, and Bea Arthur is across the screen.
I chuckle. “I’ve always wondered where your name came from.”
“Really?” she whips her head around, and those piercing blues catch me again.
“Yeah . . . I mean, I can’t say I’ve met a lot of young women named Beatrice.”
She smiles. “I know. That’s what I like about it.”
Me too.