10. Winnie
WINNIE
Conrad was doing better. He hadn’t magically transformed into a man who never glanced at his phone or mentally wandered into spreadsheets while his children explained the emotional politics of frogs. Nevertheless, he was better.
He came home when he said he would more often now.
Dinner had become an actual meal with meaningful conversation instead of a background event he attended physically while clearly somewhere else mentally.
He listened more intently. Laughed easier.
Sat on the floor with Billie even when he was tired.
Asked Bianca questions about her books and waited for the answers.
Read pieces of CJ’s stories with genuine attention instead of distracted praise while his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The whole house felt different because of it.
Which was why it was particularly unfortunate that a genuine business emergency arrived the same week as the school PTA bake sale.
I found him in the kitchen on Thursday evening with his tie loosened and one hand pressed against his forehead, staring at his laptop screen.
“That expression usually means numbers are threatening you,” I observed.
“They are.” He exhaled heavily and looked up. “There’s a board issue in Chicago. Something about revised projections and a possible acquisition problem.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It’s going to become more expensive if I don’t deal with it,” he said.
CJ looked up from the kitchen table where he’d been writing. “Corporate despair has entered the chat.”
“That phrase already sounds dated,” Bianca said as she worked on a homework assignment.
Billie sat cross-legged on the floor, building what appeared to be a castle entirely populated by plastic lizards.
Conrad rubbed both hands over his face. “I need to miss the bake sale tomorrow.”
Billie gasped. “The sugar festival?”
“The PTA fundraiser,” Bianca corrected.
“The sugar festival,” Billie repeated firmly.
Conrad looked genuinely upset about it, which I took note of. Old Conrad would have sounded frustrated by the scheduling inconvenience. Current Conrad sounded genuinely disappointed.
“I know I said I’d go,” he told the kids. “I’m sorry.”
CJ shrugged first, easy and forgiving in the way children often were when they sensed real regret. “You can’t really tell rich adults no during apocalypse finance season.”
Billie looked devastated for approximately four seconds before becoming distracted by one of the lizards falling off the castle. I began gathering plates from dinner, expecting the conversation to end there.
“Winnie,” Conrad said.
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to say yes more than anything. But I’d been going above and beyond for this family in numerous ways, and I was only getting more attached by the minute. PTAs were for parents. I couldn’t let myself continue blurring the lines.
“No,” I finally said.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
I frowned. “I can guess.”
His mouth twitched despite his stress. “Please?”
“I dislike it when that word is directed at me.”
“You’re a fantastic baker.”
I smirked. “That’s true.”
“The bake sale is a fundraiser. Can’t you do it for the children?” He batted his eyes at me and clasped his hands together under his chin.
I stared at him, unblinking.
“Billie was so excited about participating,” he continued.
I looked down at Billie, who had dressed one of the lizards in a doll’s sock. That child was traitorously adorable, and I didn’t stand a chance of saying no when she was involved, my own self-preservation be damned.
Conrad leaned one hip against the counter. “Would you maybe make something with her for the auction table?”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re weaponizing your children.”
“I’m leveraging my available resources.”
“This is very unethical of you, Mr. Lawrence.” I used his surname for emphasis.
“Effective though, yes?”
I sighed. I had survived several cholera outbreaks, two world wars, and disco, only to be defeated by a handsome single father asking politely for baked goods.
“Fine,” I said.
Billie launched upward from the floor. “We will win the sugar festival! We will win the sugar festival!” She twirled around as if she had consumed all the available sugar in the county.
“It’s not a competition,” Bianca said automatically.
“It absolutely is,” CJ replied. He turned to me and lowered his voice. “The PTA moms like to win.”
I smiled and began pulling ingredients from the pantry. “Then win, we shall.”
The next afternoon, I arrived at the bake sale dressed as I always was during daylight hours: black dress, black gloves, black hat. I even added a black apron I’d paid extra to have delivered overnight in hopes of intimidating the other moms.
Billie marched beside me in combat boots and a black cardigan. She had insisted we needed “matching witch energy.”
Balanced carefully in our arms were trays of heart-shaped pastries glazed dark red and filled with raspberry cream compote that oozed dramatically when cut into, squeezed, or bitten. I had warned Billie that the effect might upset suburban mothers. That had only increased her enthusiasm.
“Do they look scary enough?” she asked as we approached the school gymnasium.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Excellent.”
The PTA bake sale occupied the gym with all the aggressive cheerfulness unique to organized parent fundraising. Folding tables lined the walls beneath handmade banners while clusters of mothers arranged cupcakes in orderly lines.
Everything smelled over-the-top sweet.
I set down the trays carefully. In my humble opinion, the pastries were beautiful. The glossy red glaze was smooth with nary a crack. Delicate veins were painted with raspberry syrup—a detail I was particularly proud of. Then, of course, there was the dark chocolate edging and the cream filling.
The silence around our table spread gradually. Conversations lowered, and eyes kept drifting sideways.
Billie sighed happily beside me. “The hearts look pretty and diseased.”
“Thank you.”
CJ settled near the corner with his notebook and began writing, while Bianca opened a book the size of a very large dictionary. Neither appeared concerned in the slightest. I admired that about them.
The first PTA mother approached cautiously and with obvious skepticism when she saw more than a few children had sampled from our table.
She had blonde highlights, wore expensive athleisure, and sported a pinched grimace that seemed permanent.
I was sure she was a person who alphabetized her overly expensive supplements.
“What exactly are these?” she asked with a slight lip snarl.
“Raspberry cream pastries,” I replied pleasantly.
She stared at one. The filling slowly oozed down the side. “Why are they shaped like hearts?”
Billie answered before I could. “Because inside every person is a heart that has a very real risk of developing a cardiovascular disease at some point in their life.”
The woman blinked.
I folded my gloved hands together calmly. “They’re anatomically inspired.”
“Anatomically inspired,” she repeated faintly.
Another mother approached from the neighboring table carrying lemon bars.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “They look like actual hearts.”
“They’re not actual hearts,” Billie clarified. “Mostly flour.”
I could feel the judgment accumulating around us in real time. Honestly, I had expected it. Humans were extremely uncomfortable whenever food reminded them too directly that they themselves were technically made of meat.
One of the mothers finally gathered enough courage to say, “Well. I suppose the children might find them… creative.”
“Hopefully they find them delicious,” I replied. “In the end, it’s all for charity, right? Surely what matters is who raises the most money.”
Several women exchanged glances. Competitive instinct activated immediately.
Excellent.
One particularly severe-looking woman gave me a slow once-over, taking in the black clothing, gloves, parasol resting beside the table, and dramatic pastries.
Then she asked, with astonishing rudeness, “Why are you dressed like that?”
Billie’s head snapped toward her immediately.
I smiled politely. “I inherited my Irish ancestors’ sensitivity to the sun.”
The woman looked unconvinced. “I see.”
“You needn’t. I can see just fine.”
CJ made a choking sound from his chair that suspiciously resembled suppressed laughter.
The woman’s lips flattened into a thin line. Before she could respond, Billie stepped closer to me protectively.
Billie often understood emotional truths before she understood social nuance. She didn’t follow every layer of adult conversation, but she absolutely recognized mockery.
So, when the woman looked at me with disdain, Billie understood that instantly. Unfortunately, Billie’s conflict resolution instincts were deeply physical.
“Don’t be mean to Winnie,” she said.
“Excuse me?” the woman said.
Then Billie kicked her in the shin. The entire gymnasium froze as the woman yelped loud enough to startle three nearby children.
“Billie,” I scolded.
Billie looked entirely unrepentant. “She was being rude.”
The woman clutched her shin in outrage. “Did your child just assault me?”
“She’s not technically my child,” I said automatically.
Wrong answer.
“Oh my god!” the woman snapped.
Another mother hurried over while CJ slowly lowered his notebook with the fascinated expression of an author witnessing excellent material firsthand.
Bianca finally looked up from her book.
“You shouldn’t kick people,” the enraged woman informed Billie.
“You insulted Winnie.”
The injured woman pointed furiously toward the far side of the gym. “I want the superintendent over here immediately.”
Billie crossed her arms. “She deserved it.”
Another woman leaned down toward Billie with horrified disapproval. “That is not ladylike behavior.”
Billie stared at her for one long second. “Neither are your eyebrows.”
Dear God.
CJ folded forward into his notebook, wheezing silently.