“But he’s going to be cold,” she said in dismay. “He needs a scarf.”
“He’s a snowman, dummy,” Felicity scolded. “He doesn’t get cold.”
“Then why would he need a hat?” she said, giving her sister the stink-eye. Then she turned to me. “Mr. DeSantis, could we use your scarf? Then he won’t be cold.”
One look at her big eyes peering up at me, and there was no way I could refuse. “Of course.”
“Yay!” The younger kids jumped up and down as I untied my scarf and tied it around his neck.
“Now let’s make a snow lady,” Winnie suggested. “We don’t want the snowman to get lonely.”
Everyone agreed, so we started rolling a large snowball for the bottom. I was helping to push it along when I heard Keaton yell, “Mom! Come see our snowman!”
I looked up to see Sylvia walking across the lawn toward us, all bundled up with her hands tucked into her pockets. My body warmed despite the cold.
She smiled at me. “Hey, guys. Hi, Henry. Playing hooky from work?”
“Mr. DeSantis gave us his scarf to use on the snowman,” Whitney said excitedly. “Can we have yours for the snow lady?”
“Sure,” she said, laughing as she unwound it from her neck. “That was very nice of him. Did you say thank you?”
“Thank you,” Whitney said to me with a guilty smile. Her lips were neon pink, and she wore eye makeup too. I recalled what Sylvia had said about Whitney painting her face and felt sorry for them both. This was exactly the kind of parenting issue I wouldn’t want to navigate as a single dad.
“You’re welcome,” I said, rising to my feet. “Is this where you guys want the bottom of the snow lady?”
“That’s good,” Millie decided. “Let’s make the middle and top of her now.”
“And then let’s give them some kids!” Felicity shouted.
The kids got busy rolling more snowballs, and I moved closer to Sylvia. We stood elbow to elbow, but not near enough to touch. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Kids have fun at their sleepover?”
“Not as much fun as I had at mine,” she murmured.
I laughed. “They seem like they’re in good spirits today.”
“I think they are. They loved the skiing idea.”
“Good.”
“I booked us a weekend at Boyne in January.”
“Excellent. You’ll have fun. Lots of snow this year.”
She was quiet for a minute, and when she spoke it was nearly a whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”
“That makes two of us.”
She laughed softly. “I wish I knew when we could do it again.”
“Again, that makes two of us.”
She inched a little closer to me. “Maybe I could come by the winery later tonight. Since I’m working in the tasting room tomorrow, I thought maybe you could teach me some things.”
Her sex-kitten tone told me she wasn’t thinking about things like the body profile of our pinot noir. My cock twitched in my pants, and I cleared my throat. “You can come by the winery tonight.”
“The inn is going to get busy with people checking in this afternoon, and I promised my mom I’d help. Then I have to get the kids fed. But after that, they’re going to watch a movie with my dad. Maybe I could come then? Around eight, if that’s not too late?”
“That’s fine.” She could have said midnight, and I wouldn’t have cared.
“I won’t be able to stay too long.”
“I’m a good teacher. We’ll work fast.”
She smiled up at me. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Thirteen
Sylvia
When Frannie came to pick up the girls, she asked if she could talk to me alone.
“Sure,” I said, glancing at the kitchen table, where all five kids were finishing up ice cream sundaes. “Want to go in the family room?”
“Um, let’s go upstairs,” she said, her expression concerned. She lowered her voice. “I really don’t want them to hear us.”
“Okay.” My stomach twisted into knots as we made our way up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, I sat on the edge of my bed and Frannie shut the door, leaning back against it.
“I don’t want you to freak out,” she said, holding up both palms.
“Frannie, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“So, you’d mentioned once before that your kids are not allowed on social media, right?”
“Right. I’ve told them they have to wait until high school.”
“Well, Whitney has an Instagram account.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
Frannie nodded. “She does. She showed it to Millie. And you need to see it.”
My stomach churned. “Oh, God.”
“It’s not terrible—it’s just . . . I think you should talk to her.” Frannie came and sat next to me on the bed, pulling out her phone. It took her only a few seconds to find Whitney’s account.
The profile name wasn’t real, but the photos were—a series of selfies of her in full makeup, pouting for the camera. I scrolled through, relieved not to see anything too suggestive but sick to my stomach to think she’d done this and hidden it from me. I glanced up at the bio: Just a girl who wants to feel beautiful.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back tears. “Shit.”
“It’s not that bad,” Frannie said, taking the phone from my hand. “The account is set to private, and it’s relatively new so she doesn’t have many followers. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks. Now tell me what to do about it.”
She laughed gently. “Sorry, I haven’t dealt with this one yet. But it’s probably coming. Millie is all over Mack about social media, but he always refuses.”
“What would he do if he found out she’d done it anyway?”
“Take her phone away. Ground her for life. Overreact and lecture her about all the creeps and weirdos out there on social media trying to prey on young girls. And then, because the lecture would involve a lot of cursing, he’d probably have to put like twenty dollars in the swear jar.”
I sighed. “Yeah, that’s not really my parenting style. But maybe my style is all wrong. Maybe if I’d been tougher, she’d have respected my rules more. Maybe I deserve this.”
Frannie put an arm around me. “Stop it—you’re a great mother. She’s just been through a lot. And really, this isn’t that big of a deal. Just talk to her.”
“I will.” I stared down at our shoes, swallowing hard. “It makes me so sad that she doesn’t feel beautiful. Is it my fault somehow? Am I fucking up this whole single parenting thing already?”
“No,” Frannie said emphatically, giving me a squeeze. “You’re doing the best you can in a shitty situation. All girls her age go through this—Millie is right there with her. I cannot tell you how many tears she has shed over her hair before school in the morning. Her hair is ruining her life.”