There were a couple of enthusiastic, loud clunks each, and predictably some of Mikey’s milk splashed out. Pete quickly caught it with the dishtowel before it spilled onto the floor. A split second later, I returned from the kitchen with a fresh towel that Pete immediately whipped from my hands with magician-like panache.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What for?”
“For cleanin’ up the mess, the sweet toast, stayin’ for cookies, for . . .”—I lowered my eyes to the floor—“bein’ so nice to us.”
Pete chucked up my chin with his finger. “I’m the one who should be thanking you . . . Nobody’s ever made me cookies before.”
“I know you don’t usually eat this sort of thing, so thanks for goin’ along with it.”
“It was entirely my pleasure,” he said, sounding like he really meant it. “But I have to confess something . . .”—my eyes shot wide—“I would’ve come in anyway, even if the cookies weren’t homemade.”
I laughed and bapped him with another dishtowel. “Just so you know . . . these aren’t nearly as bad as say, a donut. I used my mother’s recipe, which is really just a bunch of oats and some dates to sweeten it. The butterscotch chips are a recent addition,” I admitted. “They’re not exactly healthy, but they sure taste good.”
“Well, like I mentioned earlier, I’m not above cheating from time to time. Plus, we all deserve a little something sweet in life,” he said, staring straight into my eyes.
About three cartoons and twenty-one knock-knock jokes later, the boys finally had their fill of cookies and Pete, running off to their room to change clothes and play with the Hummer. It was a little past time to feed the calves, but I found myself stalling, stretching the time out as long as possible, not sure when I would see him again.
I was unaccountably nervous without the boys there as a buffer, so decided to prep dinner to keep my hands busy. As I got to work pulling out ingredients for spaghetti and meatballs, I felt Pete’s eyes on me, although he didn’t say anything. Taking up the slack this time, it was I who jabbered away as I worked. But my progress soon stalled out by an unsuccessful wrestling match with a jar of pasta sauce. I went to the sink to run hot water over it and bang on the bottom. In the midst of this endeavor, Pete came up behind me and removed the jar from my hands. After drying it off with a dishtowel, he popped it open with a simple twist and handed it back to me with a long look.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks. One of the good things about the boys gettin’ bigger than me is they’ll be able to do that.”
“Where’s your father?—off buying more feed at Tillman Mills?”
I pried a glob of cookie dough from the counter with my thumbnail, wondering the same thing. “That’s a good question. He might be back any minute, so . . .” Again, I couldn’t say the words to make him leave.
Pete gave a derisive snort. “I highly doubt it; looks to me like he’s got his timing just about right.”
I tried a smile. “You’re probably right. But I do have to go feed the calves.”
“Can I help?”
“You don’t have to help,” I demurred, setting a pot in the sink to fill with water.
“I know I don’t have to.” He turned off the faucet I just turned on to gaze directly into my eyes. “I want to.”
And I wanted him to, but I had a strong feeling Daddy was going to make an earlier appearance tonight. How could I explain that without sounding crazy? “Um,” I tapped at my lips, thinking, “It’s just . . . we took longer than usual for our snack, so his, ah . . . timing, will be a little off today. And if you’re still here when he comes home . . .”
“I could simply say I came in to give him an update on Andrew,” he pointed out.
“I just don’t want you here when he gets home, okay?” I touched his arm to soften my words. This clash of worlds would remind me too much of the real reason he was here. And I wanted to pretend a little longer, to live in denial for just a while—a gift to myself before he left.
He sighed. “Fine. But before I go, will you do something for me?”
I searched his unfathomable eyes for a clue. “Sure?”
“Show me your room.”
“W-what?” I spluttered. “Why?”
“I want to see where you sleep.” His mouth didn’t trip over the bold words I didn’t have the courage to say. I felt the telling heat that always stained my cheeks, and he smiled down on me wistfully. “I’m going to miss this thing of beauty,” he said, cupping my cheek with his palm.
My heart instantly ached in my chest. I didn’t want to be reminded of his imminent departure just yet. I already felt bereft just thinking about it, and hoped he meant for the weekend and not for good. I debated for a moment, mentally making sure I hadn’t left anything embarrassing out like underwear. For once, I was only grateful for my father’s militant rules.
“Fine,” I caved. “I have to throw on some sweats anyway.” He followed me back, pausing in the hall to inspect the hodge-podge of framed pics displayed there. I called through the boys’ open door, “Five more minutes!”
“Kadee, we’re goin’ outside to dwive my Hummer in the dirt,” Mikey informed me right as Andrew plucked it from his hands and took off. “Hey!” Mikey immediately stampeded after it, his towel cape flapping behind him down the hall. As soon as the back door slammed, Pete sauntered into my cubby of a room, his large frame managing to make it look like a playhouse.
“So . . . this is it,” I said, gesturing. Then watched, mortified, as he took in my old-timey wagon-wheel bed, with the pink and yellow quilt I’d had since I slept with a night-light, the bulbous dresser with mismatched knobs, and the faded wingback chair in the corner that matched nothing.
A quick inventory, and he turned back around. “No teddy bears?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
He ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “Whew!”
I laughed a little self-consciously, and stood there, hot-faced and squirming, studying him studying my room. I wondered what insight about me my room revealed and reassessed my meager décor. Much like my wardrobe, I had kept it stupid simple, figuring less was more when you didn’t have the time or the money to find the right pieces.
On the wall opposite my bed, were three pictures framed in light pinewood. One was of the Eiffel Tower blazing up the night sky, the floodlit metal enhanced and glowing like a fairytale. The one in the middle was a vintage Oscar de la Renta sketch. The caricature of the red-lipped model in her striking LBD had appealed to me for no good reason when I’d run across it at a garage sale last summer. I’d bought it on a whim for two dollars then added black matting to bring out the charcoal lines. The third was a Leonard Afrenov painting aptly name Lovers that I’d copied from an art book in the library and blown up. Something about the vivid colors and romantic silhouette had drawn me in.
After thoughtfully studying my prints, Pete ambled over to my bed and sat down, lightly bouncing on the springs. Seeing him here—in the personal sanctuary of my room, on my childhood bed, looking impossibly handsome—made him seem even more like a fantasy somehow. Like one of my framed pictures had come to life, a prince from once-upon-a-time.