Chapter 4 #2
“Have you seen any deer near the house?” she asks excitedly, trailing me as I open the back for Dylan.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “But we saw a fox the other day, didn’t we buddy?”
“He was small,” Dylan tells her, sounding just as disappointed as the day we spotted the flame-color of the fox against the brown woods.
“He was regular fox-size,” I tell Maddie. “But Dylan pictures foxes being bigger.”
“Like The Fantastic Mr. Fox,” Dylan says happily.
“Did your dad read you that book?” she asks him, clearly expecting him to say yes.
I didn’t read it to him, though. His nanny probably did, or maybe his mother. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t always as hands-on as I would have liked.
But everything is different now.
Dylan doesn’t reply. He’s already running for the steps up to the front door.
Maddie follows without giving me a second look, clearly taking her babysitting assignment seriously. It should be a relief. We’ve had plenty of sitters who tried to make doe eyes at me instead of minding Dylan.
But something about this girl tugs at me. I’m not sure why.
Not that it matters. Maddie Foster doesn’t need a sugar daddy. And I won’t be wasting any time with women for a while.
“Come on, Dad,” Dylan squeaks. “I want to show her my fort.”
I’m opening my mouth to tell him that Maddie is here to help him with his writing, not to play.
“Your fort?” Maddie echoes before I have a chance.
“I made it,” Dylan tells her excitedly. “My dad helped me. We slept in there.”
I glance over at Maddie but she doesn’t seem to think it’s weird that I would sleep in a pillow fort with my kid.
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” she tells him, again without sparing me a glance.
I unlock the door and we step inside.
Technically, I know it has to be warmer in here than it is outside. But somehow with the high ceilings and all this glass, it’s impossible to keep the place at a cozy temperature.
The interior is pretty impressive though. The living space is completely open, with vaulted wood ceilings, acid-stained concrete floors, and sleek, integrated cabinetry.
“Wow,” Maddie says again, her hazel eyes scanning the massive and mostly empty space. “This place is enormous. Where’s the fort?”
I can’t help the corner of my lips tugging up again.
“Come on,” Dylan tells her, grabbing her hand. “It’s in my room.”
For some reason, I really want to follow them. Maybe it’s just that Maddie has such happy energy and, like my son, I’m getting caught up in her wake. But I’ve got work to do and it’s best not to let my curiosity about the girl distract me.
Heading to the kitchen, I decide to knock out some of my notes and then give my finance guy a call. Once I’m seated I slide my laptop out of the charging station and lose myself in the numbers for a while.
Even though I don’t love the actual numbers I’m entering right now, I always enjoy the elegance of the columns and figures.
Breaking down and analyzing a potential project is satisfying.
There are right and wrong answers, good and bad decisions.
Unlike in the real world, everything in the world of the spreadsheets is clear.
“Want to draw?” Dylan squeaks as they come back out to the living space.
He heads for the coffee table before she can answer, pulling a decorative throw pillow off the couch and flinging it to the floor to sit on.
“Okay,” she tells him. “Are we allowed to sit on the pillows?”
For the rent I’m paying for this place, we should be allowed to eat them.
But I’m glad she asked and when Dylan glances up at me worriedly, I nod to him to let him know it’s fine.
“Yes,” he tells her happily.
She grabs a pillow of her own and lowers herself to the floor beside him. The way he scoots his pillow closer to hers makes my heart ache a little, and I turn around to focus on my own stuff.
I’m just getting back into my spreadsheet when I hear her talking with him.
“Is that a snowman?” she asks.
“Yes,” Dylan tells her. “He lives on Angel Mountain.”
That’s certainly wishful thinking. I’m told there hasn’t been a hint of snow all season. It’s one more thing making me think maybe this whole project was a mistake.
“Why?” she asks.
Dylan frowns, thinking it over.
“He likes deer,” he says after a moment, his eyes lighting up. “And big foxes.”
“What does he wish for?” she asks.
“He wants a mommy and daddy,” Dylan tells her.
I feel that in my heart. I guess you reap what you sow. His mother and I weren’t exactly fairytale parents, even when there were two of us.
I frown and try to focus on the numbers in front of me.
“I have an idea,” Maddie tells him. “I think we should write the snowman’s story.”
“His story?” Dylan echoes.
“Sure,” she tells him. “Anyone can write a story if they want. What’s the snowman’s name?”
“Froggy,” he replies immediately.
I wait for her to correct him. Everyone knows that snowmen are called Frosty.
But she nods as seriously as if he’s just handed her a briefcase full of nuclear codes.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s decide three things about Froggy and then we can start writing.”
By the end of the day, the two of them have finished their story, played a board game, added a wing to his fort, made their own grilled cheese since I was on a call, and come back to the living room. Now they’re starting on more illustrations for Froggy’s story.
And I’ve finally got my head around the numbers, so I pull my phone out of my pocket to call my finance guy.
He picks up on the first ring.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” I tell him without saying hello. My people know I don’t like small talk.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Without even seeing him, I know he just pushed his wire rimmed glasses up his nose and grabbed a pencil to start taking notes. Doug doesn’t question me. It’s why I hired him and why I keep him on.
“The trouble is the trees,” I tell him. “There are a ton of them and they’re all enormous and overgrown—it’s a hazard. And the hillside is steeper than it looked in the photos. Construction will be tough. We’ll need to factor in a massive retaining wall for each house.”
“Okay,” Doug says softly, in that way that tells me he’s taking careful notes.
“I also get the sense that getting anything done in this tiny town might take a lot of time,” I go on. “They’re sentimental, so doing a teardown might mean pushback.”
“Tricky on permits,” Doug says as he writes.
“Yeah, the Angel Mountain council will be stingy about permits,” I agree. “Plus it’s Christmastime. Where’s the snow?”
A funny tingle dances down my spine, and I realize that the living room is silent. I turn to see that Dylan is still bent over his artwork, but Maddie is staring at me.
Blowing out a breath, I turn back to the kitchen in relief.
Women stare at me. That’s nothing new. And never more than in the boardroom when I’m going on a rampage about a project. My ex-wife used to tell me that women like the brooding alpha type, whatever that means.
It’s probably just about the money. Most things are. And me talking about business deals is a reminder of the money.
But Maddie doesn’t need my money.
I wrap up the call with Doug as fast as I can and by the time I hang up, I see that Maddie is on her feet, pulling on her jacket.
“Sorry,” she says when she catches me looking. “I actually need to run. But I can come back tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Give me two minutes and I’ll drive you down.”
“No, no,” she says. “I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Maddie,” Dylan chirps happily. “We can write more of my story.”
“You bet we can, dill pickle,” she tells him.
“Dill pickle,” he squeaks in delight at the nickname. “Dill pickle.”
She grins at him before she turns to go, and she has already slipped out the front door before I fully clock that we didn’t even talk about what time she’s coming tomorrow.
And now she’s hiking down the mountain.
“She doesn’t even have a real coat,” I say to myself.
“She doesn’t?” Dylan asks, stopping suddenly.
His cheeks are still flushed from galloping around saying dill pickle over and over, but he looks so sad.
“She probably has one,” I correct myself. “She just isn’t wearing it right now. She’ll be okay.”
“She’s coming back tomorrow?” he asks.
He was right here when she said it twice, and he even made a plan with her. It’s heartbreaking that my little boy has had so few constants in his life that he doesn’t believe it when an adult tells him they’re coming back.
A flame of fury at my ex tries to ignite in my chest and I push it back down. My anger won’t help him. And I have to take responsibility for my part in everything that’s happened so far.
“Did you like her?” I ask him.
“She’s funny,” he decides. “She called me dill pickle. And I want to write another letter.”
He wants to write? His sweet little face is so full of hope.
You’d better be back, Maddie Foster.