Juggling the overnight bag, my purse, Stella, and her elephant with an ease that only comes with practice, I make my way across the small stretch of grass between our houses. Monroe is waiting at the front door with a smile. “I’m glad you’re staying.”
“I’m pretty sure I would have lost my mind if I had to stay in that car any longer.”
“I understand. That long stretch of road after you get off the interstate is killer. This way…” Monroe takes my bag from me, allowing me to shift Stella into a more comfortable position. She snuggles into my chest, her ink-black curls tickling under my chin.
Monroe leads us down a short hallway and then up a flight of stairs. The walls are painted a light gray, and she’s hung canvas pictures of vibrant red poppies up the stairwell. There’s a small table at the top of the stairs where books and candles are carefully staged.
Monroe steps through the first doorway we come to at the top of the stairs, hurrying across the room to flip on a lamp next to the bed.
“Holy hell, did you rob Pottery Barn or something?” The bedroom looks like it belongs on one of the glossy pages of the catalog I used to get and drool over. Pretty, whitewashed furniture dominates the room. The bed is neatly made up with a comforter decorated in a soft green-and-white paisley pattern. More artwork hangs on the walls—long, dirt roads surrounded by fields of wildflowers on each side that make you think of spring.
“It does look like that, doesn’t it? I like to shop,” she confesses with a shrug. “There’s a bathroom right down the hall. I’ll lay out a towel and washcloth in case you want to shower tonight.”
“I want to fall face down on that pretty bed and sleep for a week.”
“Well, don’t worry about waking up early tomorrow. I don’t have anywhere to be, so no need to rush.”
“Stella will be up by six. She’s got an internal alarm clock, and she doesn’t like to waste the day.”
“My kind of girl.” Monroe looks at Stella, and I shift her in my arms again. She doesn’t weigh a lot, but at the moment it’s a dead weight, and I’m ready to lay her down. “Well,” Monroe finally says, “I’ll leave you to it. Have a good night, Tristan.”
She hurries out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It takes me less than a minute to get Stella situated in the middle of the bed. I say a quick prayer of thanks that she sleeps like a rock as I change into the pajamas from my bag. After quickly braiding my thick, black hair so it won’t be quite as knotted tomorrow, I slide in next to her and am asleep within minutes.
+++
“What the fuck were you thinking, Roe?”
The deep, booming voice drifts up the stairs, where I’ve stopped on my way to the bathroom the next morning. I left Stella sitting in bed, reading a book to her elephant so I could splash some water on my face, but the sound of voices down below drew my attention instead, and I find myself drifting to the top of the stairs to hear better.
“Watch your language and your tone. There’s a child in the house,” Monroe snaps in response.
“I don’t give a fuck who’s in the house.”
“I thought that was the whole reason you were over here yelling at me at this ungodly hour. Make up your mind, Owen. You’re either pissed that I let someone stay in my guest room, or you don’t give a fuck who’s in the house. Which is it?” Cuss words in that soft, sweet voice would be comical if guilt for causing dissension between Monroe and her guest wasn’t eating me alive.
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” the deep voice growls. “You let a virtual stranger stay in your guest room. Do you know what could have happened to you?”
“I somehow doubt she was going to leave her child sleeping in the guest room while she came in to chop me into little bitty pieces.”
“You have no idea what kind of depraved people are out there, Roe.”
Whatever response she has is too low for me to hear, but I’ve heard enough anyway. Switching gears, I step back into the bedroom. Stella has stopped ‘reading’ and is standing at the window on the far side of the room. Her little face is pressed up against the glass, her nose and chin smooshed against the pane. “What are you looking at, Stella Bella?”
“Is a puppy!”
“Really?” Of course, I groan inwardly. Of course one of our new neighbors has a dog. Because Stella hasn’t been pestering me enough about getting a dog, now there is a freaking dog right next door. Standing next to her, I look out the window, and together we watch the chocolate lab running around Monroe’s backyard. I tilt my head as I study the dog racing up and down the back fence. I wouldn’t necessarily call him a puppy. He looks like he weighs a good seventy-five pounds. Stella thinks every dog is a “puppy” no matter their age.
“Is mine?”
I run a hand over her wild curls. “No, baby, that dog belongs to Ms. Monroe. She let us sleep in her house last night, but now it’s time to go. Can you grab Phant and your book for me, please?”
Her nose wrinkles in response. “I want a puppy.”
“I know you do.” You only tell me every hour, on the hour. “Maybe soon, okay? Today we move into our new place. Are you excited?”
“Yeah.” Her monotone voice belies her answer. Looking at her disappointed face, I almost give in and tell her we’ll get a puppy. It’s a slippery slope though. You give in on one thing and all of a sudden we’ll have a whole menagerie of animals living with us.
She crawls up into the middle of the bed, grabbing her forgotten elephant and book. She must be serious about the dog if she left Phant behind. It’s not often the two are separated. Every couple of months I have to put my ninja thief skills to the ultimate test by stealing the stuffed animal while she’s sleeping so I can wash him. Once she’s off the bed, I make quick work of straightening up the bedding before shoving our pajamas into the overnight bag.
“Mama, Phant’s hungry. He wants cake.”
“It’s too early for Phant to have cake.”
“Not birthday cake,” Stella says with a sigh. She gives me an exasperated look, and I just know she’s thinking that I’m a complete idiot. “He wants cancakes.”
“Pancakes,” I correct automatically.
She nods her head. “Yeah, cancakes. Phant wants cancakes and chocwate milk. And a puppy.”
I flick a finger over her nose. “Well, the pancakes we can do, and if you’re good, maybe the chocolate milk. The puppy is out, Stella Bella.”
We make our way down the stairs quietly. I know it would be rude to just leave without saying goodbye, but since I can still hear the deep voice of Monroe’s visitor, I give it serious thought. My daughter has other plans.
“Who’s dat?” Stella has no qualms about wandering through a stranger’s house and follows the voices. For having such short, little legs, she’s fast, and before I know it, we’re standing in a brightly lit kitchen.
Once again I feel like I’ve walked onto the set for a Pottery Barn catalog shoot. Dark gray granite countertops pair perfectly with the white cabinets. There’s a small island in the middle of the kitchen, with a woven, brown basket in the middle, holding loaves of bread and bagels. Two bar stools are tucked neatly under the edge of the counter, and a pretty bowl of fruit is situated on the edge of the counter, just begging for you to reach in and grab an apple or a peach. Monroe is standing at the far counter, shoving a mug into place on a Keurig with a little more force than necessary.