17. Ember
SEVENTEEN
EMBER
After some breakfast and a few hours of work, I was beat. I took a long nap and woke up groggy to the sound of my phone ringing.
It was Jack. “Did I wake you up?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, wiping a line of half-dried drool from my chin as I forced myself to sit up. What time was it?
“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to bed. I’ll call someone else.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I’m tied up at work. I was hoping you could pick Darby up from school. She has basketball practice until five. I thought I’d make it in time, but someone smashed up half our fleet of company cars, and it’s a complete nightmare trying to figure out the insurance.”
“Holy crap. No problem. I’ll pick Darby up,” I said, and pulled my phone away from my ear. Just after four-thirty. I’d have to get up and go right away. “I’ll text you when we get home.”
“Thank you, Ember,” he said, and it sounded like he was thanking me for a much bigger favor than picking his daughter up from school. We hung up, I got ready, and I drove to the school.
Darby didn’t seem surprised to see me. She just said, “Hey,” and climbed into the passenger seat.
“How was practice?”
“Hard. We’re playing Eastridge High this week and Coach is stressed about it.”
“Rival school?”
She grunted, teenspeak for “yes.”
“Hungry?”
Another grunt. Double yes.
“I haven’t had time to prep dinner,” I said. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“Your dad’s tied up at work,” I said, turning in the direction of home. “He won’t be able to make it.”
“You know how to make mac and cheese, don’t you?” She glanced at me.
“Well, yes, but, you know. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.” Sometimes people were precious about who got to cook what. That was one of Jack’s three meals. I was already wedging myself into their family; I didn’t want to make it any more obvious that I didn’t belong here.
Darby looked at me like I was a moron. “It’s mac and cheese. He won’t care. He’ll just be glad there’s dinner already made.”
That did sound like Jack. I shook my head, wondering why I’d even been so worried about him being upset at me.
I’d never felt the need to tiptoe around him, and I doubted a creamy pasta bake would change that.
But after this morning, everything had changed.
I wasn’t sure what the rules were in this new relationship. If it was a relationship.
Maybe picking up his daughter and making one of his signature meals in his own kitchen would be a step too far. Too much, too fast.
But the lady wanted mac and cheese, and even I, without a parental bone in my body, could tell Darby was on a high-speed train to Hangryville. I nodded. “Let’s stop at the store on the way home.”
I liked to use three cheeses in my mac and cheese.
Gruyere, freshly shredded, the king of the melty cheeses.
Mozzarella for stretch. Parmesan for sharpness.
I also liked using cavatappi pasta, since the ridged surface, hollow center, and extra spirals trapped the sauce better than simple elbow pasta.
I explained all this to Darby as she chopped veggies for a salad, then handed her the whisk as we made the roux for the cheese sauce.
She was a good student, especially when I’d fed her half a dozen crackers topped with cheese as an emergency hangry-prevention snack the moment we got in the door.
“Okay. A lot of people say to warm the milk before adding it to the roux, but I always felt it works best when it’s fridge-cold. Hot roux, cold milk. Dash it in there and whisk like you mean it. No lumps.”
Darby’s jaw set, and she looked just like her father. “No lumps,” she repeated, and poured in the milk. The whisk flew, spraying droplets of milk all over the stove. I yelped, laughing, and she managed to control her movements as a bright laugh fell from her lips.
We got the whole thing in the oven a short while later with the kitchen looking like a war zone. Darby crouched in front of the oven and watched our creation for a few moments. “How long?” she asked.
“Twenty or twenty-five minutes,” I said. “Let’s get the dishes done. Or would you rather do your piano practice while I clean up?”
“Dishes,” Darby replied without hesitation. She moved to the sink and started scrubbing.
I worked on drying things as she handed them to me, putting them away one by one.
The kitchen was familiar now, and I didn’t have to ask where anything went.
It felt homier than my kitchen at home, more comfortable.
Most of the dishes were mismatched, like they’d been inherited and collected from various sources.
A lifetime of history and connection right there in a stack of ceramic dishes.
“What’s the deal with the piano?” I asked when Darby was working on the pot we’d used for the cheese sauce.
“It’s boring,” she said.
“Right.”
“I hate it.”
“Why do you play?”
“Because Dad says I have to.”
“Oh.” That didn’t seem like Jack.
She was quiet for a beat, scrubbing so hard part of her bun fell out.
Then she stopped, threw the yellow happy-face sponge down, and glared at me.
“I have a recital next month at the same time as Vikki’s birthday party, and he won’t let me skip it.
My best friend! They’re going to a cabin on the water.
It’s Halloween-themed, because her birthday is the first of November and Halloween is Saturday this year.
Everyone’s dressing up. It’s going to be so fun, and I’m missing it because of stupid piano. ”
I grimaced.
A spark lit her eyes. “Maybe you could talk to him?”
My head was shaking before she’d even finished the sentence. “No. That’s not my place.”
“Please, Ember?” Her eyes were so big and blue. She looked so desperate.
I lifted a finger and pointed it at her. “Stop that. I won’t come between the two of you.”
She deflated, and guilt bit me.
“Have you told him how you feel about playing?” I asked more gently.
“Every day!”
“I don’t mean complaining about practicing, I mean being honest, Darby. When you’re calm and you can explain your feelings without snapping.”
She scowled at me. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“You should try,” I said. “Your father cares about you very deeply. He’d want to know.”
She sighed, picked up the sponge, and started scrubbing again. “Maybe,” she grumbled.
We finished the dishes, cleaned the countertops and the stove, and then took the baking dish out of the oven.
Golden breadcrumbs topped the cheesy goodness beneath.
I hummed. I loved this dish. Total comfort food.
When I was on my own, I didn’t make it often because it didn’t freeze that well and it didn’t seem worth the effort to make one portion. But now I’d get to enjoy it with Darby…
And Jack, who chose that moment to open the kitchen door. He inhaled. “Ooh. What are we having?”
“Mac and cheese,” Darby announced, grabbing shallow bowls from the cupboard. “Looks way better than yours,” she shot over her shoulder.
I flinched, but Jack just grinned and approached to inspect. “It does,” he said, and winked at me.
A knot of tension in my heart dissolved.
I’d really believed he’d be mad about this.
Why had I believed he’d be mad? Jack wasn’t one to hold onto small grudges.
He was utterly confident in himself; admitting that I might be the better cook didn’t hurt his ego.
He stripped off his jacket and sighed in contentment, and I realized that his reaction was the exact opposite of what I’d expected.
He appreciated my cooking. He appreciated me.
As I watched them serve up their dinners, comfortable banter flying between father and daughter, a slight but profound shift happened within me.
From one moment to the next, I believed—no, I knew—that Jack was safe.
That I was safe with him. He wouldn’t berate me or ice me out.
He wouldn’t make me feel small, the way my own father had.
He wouldn’t look for chinks in my armor to catalog and exploit.
He would hold me in the palm of his hands and treasure me. Guard me. Protect me.
Up until that very moment, I hadn’t known I needed that. I hadn’t even realized it was missing from my life. A safe harbor. A place to come in and shelter from the storm of life. A person with whom I could be myself and be accepted.
My hands shook slightly as I spooned cheesy pasta deliciousness into a bowl for myself. Then the three of us sat around the kitchen table and ate together.
Like a family.
JACK
The mac and cheese was definitely better than mine.
I had two heaping servings and bickered with Darby about taking more than her fair share of the breadcrumb topping.
Ember laughed at us, red-cheeked, eyes aglow.
Pleased, as if I’d offered her the world on a platter instead of complimenting her cooking.
She fit. She was meant to be here. With me. With us.
As I ate the last bite of my dinner, I looked down at my bowl and noticed it was one of Tanya’s. She’d inherited it from her grandmother: scalloped edges with little blue flowers dancing around the rim, the glaze crazing in a spiderweb pattern all over the surface.
Guilt nipped at me. I hadn’t thought about my late wife at all today—or any day this week while I’d been taking care of Ember.
Then Darby pushed her chair back and grabbed my bowl to bring it to the dishwasher, and the feeling eased.
She stood next to Ember at the sink, who knocked my daughter’s hip with her own.
It was okay to move on, wasn’t it? It had been over a decade since Tanya passed. There was nothing wrong with feeling a spark of happiness again.
I sat there until the tightness in my back eased, and then I helped the girls with the last of the clean-up.