Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
W e sleep in until Hemi whines to go out. “If it’s not kids, it’s dogs,” Butch mutters, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. Seconds later, he’s rubbing Hemi’s head, intoning: “Whosagoodboy, whosagoodboy, whosagoodboy.”
I lean on my elbow, watching. “You like to put on a grumpy front, but inside, you’re nothing but mashed potatoes.”
He harrumphs, then pulls on yesterday’s jeans and leaves his chest bare.
“Mmm…that may be the best lumberjack look yet.”
He gives me an inscrutable look.
“Let me know if you plan on chopping any wood like that. I’ll bring my camera.”
He stops at the door, casting a baffled stare. “You’re ridiculous. You realize that’s not even remotely practical…or safe.”
I shrug. “Sex appeal is dangerous, Butch. That’s just a fact you’ll have to accept.”
He shakes his head, but I see him fighting a smile as he disappears. And it pleases me immensely .
Although I hate leaving this comfortable, ginormous mattress, I’m on a mission to make breakfast. I throw on some sweats and a T-shirt, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a ponytail.
When I enter the kitchen, Butch looks up from making coffee. “Hey, I was coming back to bed.”
I slide my hands around his waist and trail kisses down his back, pressing one into the hollow between his shoulder blades. “I was worried you’d start breakfast, and I want to make it this morning.”
He shifts to face me, tugging me closer. “You do, huh?” His eyes are the same shade as the tiny ferns along the path. “Did I mention how much I love waking up with you today?”
“Not yet,” I answer with a smile.
“I love waking up with you, baby.”
I shrug. “I could get used to it.”
He grins at what is fast becoming our saying. His lips press against mine and we share a languid kiss.
Emmy startles us when she enters making kissing noises. She promptly launches into the song immortalized in elementary school. “Daddy and Jacqui, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then?—”
Butch lunges at her, and she flees, shrieking. The chase is on, but he catches her handily and hauls her back to the kitchen. Nosing her pjs off her belly, he blows a loud raspberry on her ivory skin. Her giggles fill the air, and it’s the most glorious sound.
He releases her, bending on one knee to meet her at eye level. “Em, does it bother you if I kiss Jacqui?”
Her eyes flicker between her father and me. “I mean, it’s literally gross, but it’s your mouth.”
Butch and I both fight a laugh as he nods thoughtfully. “You know if something upsets you that you can tell me anytime, right?”
“Sure. ”
“Good. I love you, kid.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
During our breakfast of pancakes and bacon, Emmy announces it’s Game Day. Essentially, the day you sift through your Christmas presents and play with any toys and games, read your new books, or mess around with whatever you want. It’s another Hamilton tradition—and a lovely idea.
After we finish our meal, Butch starts a fire in the hearth and goes upstairs to shower. Emmy asks if I’ll help set up her Lite-Brite, and I jump at the chance. I haven’t played with one since my own childhood, and it was always a favorite toy of mine.
I open it up and pull out the familiar light box with its black screened front. Next are all the colored pegs that fit into the holes. Several picture templates with pre-printed outlines are included (that’s new) plus the standard paper blanks.
“Want to freeform your own design or try one of these?” I ask.
“Let’s create one from scratch,” she says.
“I like your style, Emmy.”
She beams her cute smile, and I plug the unit into a nearby outlet and slide in a blank. I grab a bowl from the kitchen and dump in the pegs from the plastic bag. Emmy and I lie on our stomachs on the living room rug, and I wait for her instruction.
“Let’s make a butterfly!”
“I love that idea. Big enough to cover the whole screen?”
“Uh huh.”
“You push in the first peg. Do you see how it fits?” I ask, demonstrating without pushing one in all the way.
She picks up a purple peg and punches it through the paper. Her face lights up after seeing it illuminate. “Oooh. That’s pretty. ”
“Isn’t it? What colors are we making our butterfly?”
“All of them!”
We alternate punching in the various pegs, consulting occasionally on placement to keep our insect shape.
When I glance at Emmy midway through, her face is the portrait of concentration, the tip of her pink tongue poking through her lips.
Once the outline of the butterfly emerges, her smile radiates.
“This is so neat,” she gushes. “Let’s make the inside thingies now.”
We begin adding smaller shapes within the wings. Playing with a Lite-Brite after all these years does my heart good, especially collaborating with Emmy.
In that moment, I’m struck by how easy she is to be around. That if I simply be myself, follow her lead, and let things flow naturally, this “parenting” stuff isn’t so daunting after all. She’s merely a tiny human. The only difference between us is I’m bigger, older, and hopefully wiser.
I was relieved by her response to her father kissing me. We’ve mostly stowed our PDA, giving Emmy time to adjust and get to know me, and to not pressure or overwhelm her. But she seems to take us in stride, accepting me like her dad brings women home regularly.
Shit. Has he? Butch already said he’s cautious about who he introduces to his daughter.
“Emmy, may I ask you a question?”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you like me being here?” I fight a wince at how insecure that sounds. Do kids pick up on that kind of thing?
“Mm-hmm. And my daddy likes it too.”
“That makes three of us then. You don’t mind him having a girlfriend?”
She shrugs. “He’s never had one. But he seems happier now.”
I study her face, which stays focused on our butterfly in progress, now lighting up most of the screen. “Was he…unhappy before?”
“He was just Daddy. I think he was lonely. Daddies are literally supposed to have mommies.”
I bite back a chuckle. “You mean a wife?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s nice when people fall in love and get married.” Ideally.
Emmy looks at me now, nodding. “Like Cinderella, when she finds her Prince Charming!”
I flash her a smile. “Exactly. Who doesn’t want to find their prince?”
I may have found mine…in lumberjack form. Because I am definitely, irrevocably in love with Butch Hamilton.
That night after Emmy’s asleep, Butch takes Hemi out for a quick walk, and I tiptoe into the bedroom.
Wanting to sleep in one of my boyfriend’s shirts, I open one of his larger dresser drawers and find a stack, rooting around for a soft one.
I tug one out, shaking my head when I read what’s on it: Mopar or No Car .
I’ve never seen such brand loyalty before.
I strip off my clothes and pull on the shirt, which is comforting two ways: it smells like Butch and the well-worn cotton lays softly against my skin.
Now I’m cold. I open one of the smaller drawers in the middle looking for socks, but it’s more of a catch-all receptacle for his stray items. I barely notice what because my eyes fixate on the photo laying on top…
of us. Someone must have taken it at Thanksgiving without me noticing.
It’s a beautiful shot of Butch and me standing in the living room.
He’s talking and I’m laughing, our expressions bright and happy.
I pick it up and take a closer look. We really are a stunning couple .
And how sneaky of Butch. Why didn’t he didn’t share this with me? I’ve half a mind to steal it.
I momentarily startle when my memory flashes on a picture of Mick, Remy, and me from our Christmas in Half Moon Bay.
We took it before things got X-rated. It’s the only photo I have of the three of us.
Taken with my Polaroid, Remy held the camera aloft, we all squeezed together on the sofa, and he pushed the button. It came out perfect.
That picture is hidden away with other treasures from my days with Mick and Remy…my “Mick’s tape,” a journal, the story I wrote.
I’m about to replace the photo when a piece of paper flutters to the floor. Maybe it was stuck to the back? I bend and retrieve it, unable to miss what’s so plainly scrawled in a woman’s handwriting.
I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want this life. I’m sorry.
I nearly choke on a shocked inhalation as I bolt upright. My eyes widen as footfalls draw closer, but I’m rooted to the spot. Hemi shuffles into the bedroom followed by Butch. He shuts the door and turns to me, assessing my panicked expression.
I’m still frozen in place, the picture in one hand, note in the other, the dresser drawer ajar.
I see the second he pieces it together. The recognition. The flicker of pain. Brows drawing tighter, shoulders sagging.
“I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to pry,” I murmur. “I went to borrow a shirt and then some socks and it just…fell out.” Is he angry? Upset?
He moves closer, takes the note from my hand, then pulls me against his chest. “It’s alright, Sundance. Ancient history.”
I hold him, offering whatever modicum of comfort I can. In the past or not, what’s written on that piece of paper is wounding, horrible… heartless.
“I’m not sure why I kept it all these years. A fucked-up reminder, maybe. It’s a good thing I did though. I dug it up and showed it to my lawyer and she added it to the evidence. I didn’t know what to do with it afterward, so I chucked in here.”
“Butch,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” It’s an awful note, and I’ve clearly dredged up a tough subject, one that he’s mired in dealing with again , this time through the legal system.
“Forget it, okay? Let’s go to bed.”
He undresses and we crawl under the covers and hold each other. I trail my fingers through his hair, along his arm, across his back. Over and over.
“You look good in my shirt,” he mumbles, half asleep.
I smile in the dark as I continue stroking him. Finally, he succumbs, his breathing evening out with Hemi’s soft snores.
It’s a long while before sleep finds me.