Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Back in the kitchen, Decker dumped the rest of the chicken onto a plate and put the air fryer bin in the sink to soak. He tossed a piece into his mouth as he wiped down the counters.
Grabbing a yogurt and a spoon, Willa sat quietly at a table strewn with her dad’s books and papers, so she busied herself making neat stacks of them.
When he finished cleaning, he just stood there. He hadn’t felt this lost since he was a kid in the bike club. And right then, his only anchor was the woman who was scraping the bottom of a yogurt container.
“Come on.” She got up and tossed her cup in the garbage and the spoon in the sink. “Let’s make pie.”
Like a puppy, he followed her down the stairs. Because baking was his therapy. It was the only thing that kept him from overthinking. Already, he was sorting through his recipes, deciding which to make.
“After tonight, you can use the kitchen in the family quarters. Just buy whatever you need.” She pushed open the door and entered the bustling kitchen.
“I don’t want to take up Jack’s space.”
“As you saw, he barely has anything in there. He either eats with the guests or brings a plate upstairs.”
The kitchen was in full swing—orders being called, pans clanging, the hum of the dishwasher—but she led him to a quiet section with a stainless-steel counter tucked along the back wall.
“I know you want mud pie, but I don’t have the ingredients.” He needed good quality chocolate.
“I’ll eat whatever you make.”
“You think they’ve got any cherries?” he asked.
“This is a new chef, so I have no idea.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Although, I think she’s more of a cook than a chef.”
“Then for tonight, we’ll make it simple with apple.”
“Oh, there’ll be no ‘we’ in the making of food.”
He thought about that empty refrigerator. How he’d had no issue loading it with food for him and Birdie. “Why? You sure like eating it.”
“Are we cooking or bantering? Because I know you only like to do the things you’re good at.”
“Hey. My banter game is strong.” He pulled open drawers until he found what he needed. Mixing bowl. Pastry cutter. Measuring cup.
“Is it, though? Or are you just used to people laughing at anything you say so they can get a free dinner out of you?”
He leveled her a challenging look. “I’m a funny guy.”
“Who told you that? Your agent? The women who want to load their toiletries into your bathroom cabinets?”
Grinning, he headed into the pantry, where he found canisters of flour, brown and white sugar, and salt. When he came back, he saw she’d laid out butter and a lemon. “I thought you didn’t cook?”
“I grew up in an inn. Chef Aubrey used to let me sit on a bar stool and play with dough.”
His hands moved automatically, the way they did when he dropped back in the pocket. No thinking. Just muscle memory.
The cutter tapped softly against the bowl. Press. Turn. Chop. Repeat.
He focused on the rhythm. The sound. The feel of the butter breaking down under the metal blades.
Anything but the image of that little girl curled up in bed.
Willa leaned against the counter. She seemed comfortable just watching him. No need for conversation.
Good.
Because if he opened his mouth, everything would come tumbling out. A tangle of thoughts he couldn’t begin to sort through.
He cut the butter harder.
Flour puffed into the air. As he covered the ball of dough in plastic wrap and brought it to the freezer, he started to calm down. It was a noticeable shift. And it allowed him to remember the world outside of his. “How’s your dad?”
She exhaled slowly. “His blood pressure’s down a lot.
Thank God. And we’ve been talking about the past. Well, my mom specifically.
All this time, he’s protected me from the truth.
And I get it. If he’d poisoned me against her, I would’ve resented him.
But I sure would’ve liked to know who she really is. ”
“Now.”
“Huh?”
“You’d like to know it now that you’ve got perspective. As a kid, you wouldn’t have understood. It's the kind of thing you need to experience to understand.”
She seemed to give it some thought. “I guess you’re right. And it’s not like he ever lied to me.”
“You just didn’t know what questions to ask.”
“Oh, hang on a sec. I forgot something.” She pulled out her phone and tapped out a text message. “There’s a family from Cleveland who aren’t getting in until after midnight. My dad wants me to remind the front office manager to tell whoever’s on duty to have cookies waiting for the kids.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. My dad’s the best. And that’s why it’s going to be so hard to find the right manager.
It’s got to be someone who treats people like family.
” She picked up an apple and began peeling it, the skin coming off in a long, curling ribbon.
“I keep seeing those numbers, though. Two-twelve over one-eighteen. I thought he was going to die.”
He grabbed a second peeler and an apple.
“I should’ve been paying attention,” she said quietly.
“He’s been working himself into the ground, and I didn’t even notice.
I was too busy chasing deals and trying to prove to my mom I was more like her than my ‘slacker’ dad.
” She set her wrists on the edge of the counter.
“If he’d died…” She shook her head. “I’d never have forgiven myself. ”
“You ever watch game film?” he asked.
She went back to peeling. “No.”
“You see every mistake. Every missed read. Every bad throw. Stuff you wish you could take back.” He reached for a knife. “But in real time, you’re doing the best you can with the information you’ve got.”
She kept peeling.
“You didn’t know he was sick,” he said. “If you had, you’d have been here.”
“Of course, I would.”
“Then ditch the guilt.” He cut the apple into even slices. “You didn’t see the blitz coming.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “That’s a very quarterback way to look at it.”
“Only way I know.” Not for long, though, right? Soon, he’d have to tap into a whole other side of himself.
Dad.
Father.
He grabbed another bright-green Granny Smith. “How’re you feeling about the leave of absence?”
“I’m terrified.” She gave a tight laugh. “And I can’t wait till Finlay’s out of wedding mode so we can catch up.”
“She doesn’t know any of this?”
“I’m not bothering them while they’re honeymooning.”
“Yeah.” He felt the same way. He wouldn’t bother his brother with any of his drama. They’d come home soon enough and be thrown back into reality.
“They’ve got two child-free nights at the Sweetwater. They don’t need me showing up in their hot tub, moaning about my mommy issues.”
“So, that leaves me?” he teased.
“Hey, you’re my road trip pal.” She nudged him playfully. “You have no choice but to listen.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not a road trip anymore.”
“Not true. You and me are road trippin’ for life.”
With all nine apples pared, cored, and sliced, he squeezed lemon juice over them. In a separate bowl, he mixed flour, both sugars, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. After tossing it, he headed for the sink. “Okay, let me wash my hands, and we can roll out the dough.”
He pulled it from the freezer and brought it to the counter.
“How many pies are you making? That’s a lot of dough.”
“Wait till you see why.” He dusted the counter with flour and set the large ball down. Slicing it in half, he wrapped up the rest and handed it to her.
“Back in the freezer?”
He nodded as he sprinkled flour on the rolling pin. This was the part he liked. The smooth wood, the back and forth. The motion loosened the tightness in his shoulders. After he set the dough into the pie tin, he reached for the apples.
“Wait. Don’t you want to crimp the edges? Chef Aubrey used to dip a fork in flour and make impressions all around it.”
“No, I’ve got a thing I do.”
“A thing, huh?” She sounded happy, playful.
It was nice. “Yep.” The filling landed in the tin, and he spread it out with his fingers. The tangy apple and the warm, sweet cinnamon and sugar mixture pulled at something deep in his chest.
“What’re you thinking about?” Willa asked.
“You know how I grew up in the bike club?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Ava was our nanny. She’s the only one who knows about the recipes.”
“Hey, I thought I was the only one.”
“You’re the only one who knows where they came from. She thinks I got them from the library sale. Anyway, she knew I was having a hard time, and she used to bake with me. I really appreciated that.”
“Are there enough pie plates in the world to get you through this one? Finding out you’re a dad is a real doozy.”
The image dropped into his mind. That little girl curled into herself. Blanket clutched tight. Clothes hanging off one shoulder. “Sure is.”
“I saw the way you looked at her, and I thought, how many nights did he put himself to sleep like that?”
The image struck again. That shoe on the floor.
The empty sleeve. She’d struggled until she’d given up out of exhaustion.
“It happened a lot.” He kept his eyes on the dough, rolling it thinner, wishing he had his cookie cutter with him.
He’d have to shape the flowers by hand. “You mind putting this in the fridge?” He handed her the pie tin.
“Sure.” After she came back, she said, “I keep wondering if she understands her mom’s not coming back. Like, why does she think she’s here?”
Now, that was something he knew. “She’s waiting.”
“For her mom to come get her?” She touched her hand to her chest, right over her heart.
“Yes. She’s been passed from her mom to the boyfriend to Cady to some dude who doesn’t know the first thing about kids. Her usual bedtime routine or daycare’s gone, so she’s just going along with it because she has no choice.”
Seeing Birdie like that cracked open a door he’d slammed shut a long time ago, but memories and sensations spilled out, making them impossible to ignore.