She had everything.
I let those words burrow under my skin, giving me courage.
“Because she never really had me.”
Chapter Twelve
Taz
“Spencer.”
I think I must’ve imagined the whispered name until I feel a shift under the covers beside me. My eyes blink open, and I roll on my side, to find my nephew slipping from the bed and joining his father by the door. He hustles his son into the hallway, throws me a wink, and pulls the door shut, leaving me to get my bearings.
I’d been struck dumb after the bombshell Rafe dropped last night, and had simply sat there staring openmouthed until he finally filled the silence by talking about plans for the summer. It took me a few moments to catch up to what he was saying. Something about making plans for the kids’ upcoming summer vacation, and possibly taking them camping for a week. He asked for my thoughts, but with my brain still scrambled, all I could do was tell him I’d sleep on it.
Well, I didn’t exactly sleep, but lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, mulling over his words half the night. Then around three thirty my door opened and Spencer padded in, mumbling something about a nightmare. Before I could say anything, he’d crawled into bed, his little body curling into mine. I must’ve fallen asleep shortly after.
Now my mind is churning again until I finally flip back the covers and head for the bathroom. No way I’ll be able to get back to sleep.
Half an hour later, with my dreads twisted in a towel on my head, I walk into the kitchen, expecting to find everyone there, but it’s empty. My favorite mug is sitting on the counter with a note underneath.
Fresh coffee in pot. Don’t eat. Bringing home breakfast.
x R
My eye gets caught on the signature. More specifically, the X beside his initial. Is that a kiss? Is that his normal way of signing his name or is it intended for me? He probably signed that way by rote. I’m probably reading altogether too much into this.
Yet I’m still staring at the note when the kids barrel through the front door moments later. Rafe follows at a slower pace, carrying a familiar bag.
“You drove to Winona?” I bulge my eyes and smile up at him.
“We got donuts!” Spencer announces, quite unnecessarily.
There isn’t a person able to hold down solid food that has ever lived in this area, who wouldn’t know what that logo means. Bloedow Bakery has been around for almost a century and is legendary for making the best donuts.
“Grab some napkins, Sofie,” Rafe orders his daughter, dropping the bag in the middle of the kitchen table before turning to the coffeepot.
“Can we eat in front of the TV?”
The question is almost whispered by Spencer, batting his eyelashes at me. I smell a rat and dart a glance at Rafe. “What does your father say?” I can tell from the crestfallen look on his face he’d already asked and been given an answer.
“No TV until after breakfast, Son,” Rafe mutters, carrying his coffee to the table.
I wink at the disappointed boy. “Tell me you picked me out a blueberry donut.”
Spencer nods with a serious face. “We always do. It’s Mom’s favorite, but I guess you can have it.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and bend down to press a kiss on my nephew’s forehead.
“What’s that for?” he asks, and I can’t help smiling as he wipes his sleeve over the spot.
“Bonus kiss. Only special people get those,” I whisper, before giving him a little shove to the table. “Better hurry before all the good ones are gone.”
“We only pick the good ones,” Sofie informs me, her mouth already circled with powdered sugar.
I grab my cup and sit down across from Rafe, who looks at me as he puts the blueberry donut on a napkin and slides it to me across the table. Ignoring three pairs of eyes on me, I take a bite, and moan at the taste as my eyes close involuntarily.
“Is it good?” I hear Sofie ask and I turn to her.
“The best.”
I’m trying to make my way to the checkout lane, with an overflowing cart on a wonky wheel, when my phone rings in my pocket. Rafe calling.
He said he would take the kids to see a litter of pups at one of the farms he visited earlier this week. I immediately have visions of one them upsetting the mom by getting too close. I’ve seen too many ugly injuries left by feral dogs in Central Africa.
“Are the kids okay?”
A brief silence follows before he responds, sounding amused. “Why wouldn’t they be? We haven’t even left yet.”
“Oh.” The air audibly deflates from my lungs.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up, I just got off the phone with Mom. They’re planning to come by tomorrow. She says she’ll bring dinner.”
“I’ll cook,” I blurt out, not entirely sure where that came from.
“Are you sure?”
I don’t need to think about it. I want to. “Positive. Can you let her know? I need to pick up a few more things.”
The soft chuckle on the other side instantly warms me. “Sure thing. I’ll do it before we go. We shouldn’t be too long. See you in a bit.”
“Okay. See you,” I mumble distractedly before ending the call. My mind is already planning tomorrow’s dinner.
I’m not sure what suddenly drives my need to cook for my family, but it seems important to make a good impression. Maybe it’s because it’s the one thing in which I take after Mom, my skills in the kitchen.
Growing up there was never room in the kitchen for anyone other than Mom, so neither Nicky nor I ever felt the need to learn. In college I mostly ate out, but there aren’t any restaurants in the unpopulated areas of central Africa where I worked. If you wanted a decent meal, more often than not you had to prepare it yourself. Cooking was both a necessity and a hobby.
For some reason, I’m eager to show my mother that contrary to popular opinion, perhaps the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree in that respect.
Maybe I’ll introduce them to Moambe Chicken, a Congolese national dish. If I don’t make it too spicy, the kids will probably like it too. The biggest challenge will be to find the proper ingredients in the single grocery store in Eminence, Missouri.
“Excuse me,” I approach a woman wearing a store smock with Manager embroidered on her chest.
She looks up and smiles. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. By any chance do you carry palm butter?”
“I don’t even know what that is,” she says apologetically. “In aisle three you’ll find peanut butter, almond butter, and even sunflower seed butter, but I doubt you’ll find palm butter.”
“I could probably use peanut butter,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. “What about cassava leaves?”
She seems to study me, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her head to the side. “You’re not from here, are you?”
I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. “Actually, I am. Originally. Born and raised.”
“You’re shitting me.” She leans a little closer and whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve lived here for four years and was convinced there weren’t any interesting people living in Eminence. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be wrong.”