Chapter Thirty-Eight
Royce
Marina calls to let me know she’ll be home in about forty-five minutes.
I glance at my watch.
Seven fifteen p.m.
Ryder is curled against my side on the couch, his cowboy hat sitting crooked on his head, his eyelids waging a losing battle with sleep.
We’ve been playing hard the last few hours.
Spending time exploring the woods behind the cabin and casting a fishing line into the river.
We didn’t catch anything but a mottled sculpin, which we released, but you would’ve thought we’d caught Moby Dick by the way Ryder squealed when we reeled the tiny thing in.
I snapped a picture so he could show it to his momma when she got home.
“Come on, little man.”
He looks up at me.
“You wanna help me make dinner for your mom?”
“Is she coming home?”
“Yep. Be here soon.”
He lets out a yawn. The sun wore him slap out. “Okay.”
He follows me into the kitchen and crawls up onto one of the stools at the island. I open the refrigerator, and I stare inside. Marina was planning to make dinner when she got home, so there’s probably something waiting to be cooked.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
A package of ground chuck and a bag of fresh snap beans that look like they came from Grandpa Earl’s garden. There’s a sack of potatoes on the counter beside the sink and a dozen rolls on the island.
I can work with that.
I brown the hamburger patties, make gravy, boil and mash the potatoes, sauté the green beans, and warm the rolls. Ryder sits at the counter, watching me with his chin propped in his hands.
“You cook good,” he announces.
“Thanks.”
“My mommy cooks good too.”
“I bet she does.”
“She makes pancakes shaped like horses.”
I glance back at him. “That’s a pretty high bar right there.”
He nods solemnly. “Can you make horse pancakes?”
I shrug. “I’d have to work on that, little man.”
I make him a plate and sit with him while he eats.
Footsteps sound on the porch, and we both look up, expecting to see Marina, but Ginger steps through the door.
She looks from me to Ryder and back to me, and a slow smile curls her lips.
“Well, hello, fellas,” she says.
“Grandma, we made supper!” Ryder announces around a mouthful of potatoes.
“You did?”
“Yep. You want to taste it?”
“I’d love to.”
She takes the seat on the other side of him, and I stand to make her a plate.
She watches me. “Where’s Marina?”
“She should be on her way. I guess her class ran later than she’d expected,” I say.
“So, you’ve been here with Ryder all evening?” she asks.
“We played outside mostly,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “we caught a fish.”
“You did?”
He nods as he pushes his empty plate away.
I set a loaded one in front of Ginger and look at him. “You wanna take a bath and get your pajamas on?”
He thinks about it for a minute. “No.”
“All right,” I say as I take his plate to the sink. “But if you smell like dead fish when your mom gets here, she ain’t gonna let us hang out while she works again.”
He gives me the look of a man who has just been betrayed by his closest friends.
Five minutes later, he’s in the tub, and while he splashes around, I clean up the mess I made.
“That was pretty slick thinking,” Ginger says as she watches me moving around the kitchen, loading dishes in the dishwasher and wiping down the counters.
I make Marina a plate and slide it into the oven on low to keep it warm. Then pack up the leftovers.
When I go to get Ryder dressed, I open his dresser drawers one by one.
Nothing.
“Where are your pajamas?”
“Mommy washed them.”
I find the dryer in the laundry room and open the door.
A pile of cooled clothes tumbles into my arms. I toss them in an empty basket and rummage through them, finding Ryder’s pajamas at the bottom.
Ginger helps me get him dressed and tucked under his covers, and while she reads him a bedtime story, I stand there, staring at the rest of the laundry.
Might as well.
I fold it.
A couple of tank tops, another kid’s pajama set, and then I pull out a piece of red silk.
I stare at the little red garment for half a second before carefully folding it and setting it on top of the pile.
I’m a gentleman.
Mostly.
A mental picture of Marina wearing the nightgown flashes before me. I can almost feel the silk slide against my skin.
The front door opens, and I walk back into the living room.
Marina walks in, looking spent.
Her shoulders sag beneath the weight of the day, and there’s exhaustion written all over her face.
She drops her bag by the door. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Her eyes find mine. “Where’s Ryder?”
“In bed. Ginger’s reading him a bedtime story.”
She glances toward the kitchen.
“Dinner’s in the oven. Sit.”
She blinks.
“Sit down, baby.”
Her expression softens. “I wanna change out of these clothes first.”
“Go ahead.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I watch her go before turning back toward the kitchen.
I pull the plate from the oven and pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds, set it on the island, and pour a glass of tea from a pitcher in the fridge.
Marina walks back into the kitchen with a clean face and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She’s traded her work clothes for a pair of lounge shorts and a T-shirt.
She drops into the chair in front of the plate.
Ginger comes in a few minutes later, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind her.
“He’s out,” she whispers.
“Thanks, Mom. I wish I had been here to tuck him in,” she says. She looks down at her plate, then up at Ginger. “And thank you for cooking. I was planning to, but honestly, I’m glad Ryder got to eat and go to bed. He has day care in the morning, and it’s past his bedtime.”
Ginger’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t cook.”
Marina’s eyes slowly lift from her plate to me. “You did this?”
“Not just that.” Ginger points toward the hallway. “He got Ryder in the bath without a fuss, cleaned the kitchen, and folded the laundry too.”
Marina looks at me like she’s trying to figure out who the hell I am. “You did all that?”
“And he took Ryder fishing.”
I bend and plant my elbows on the kitchen island in front of the two of them. “Now, Ginger, you’re gonna make me blush. Don’t give me too much credit. Cooking and cleaning aren’t a big deal.”
They blink at me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a man cook for me, and I know I’ve never had one do my laundry,” Ginger says.
I stand and grab the pitcher to refill Marina’s glass. “Sounds like you’ve been keeping the wrong sort of company. My dad did anything that needed doing in our house, and so did us boys. Not like Momma was our maid. A man doesn’t deserve a cookie for that.”
Marina’s eyes meet mine, and her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
Ginger looks between us and clears her throat. “Well, I think I’m going to head to bed myself.”
“It’s only eight thirty,” Marina says.
“I know.”
Ginger starts toward the hallway, then doubles back.
She leans down beside Marina and whispers in her ear, but not low enough that I can’t hear. “I’m going to have my headphones on, listening to my sleep app, if you decide he deserves that cookie.”
“Mom!”
Ginger laughs as she disappears down the hallway.
Marina covers her face with both hands. “Oh my God. I can’t with her.”
I laugh. “She’s something else.”
“She’s insane.” Marina lowers her hands and gives me a look. “She sure likes you.”
I grin. “Of course she does. What’s not to like?” I waggle my eyebrows at her.
She shakes her head, trying not to smile, and reaches for her fork.
I watch her take the first bite. “Good?”
She nods, chewing. “Pretty good.” She takes another bite. Then she looks at me. “Why’d you do all this?”
“Because you had a long day.”
Her expression changes.
Something vulnerable flickers across her face before she looks down at her plate.
I push away from the counter. “Eat, Rina.”