“I’m not used to your stove,” she says by way of explanation, trying to angle her body to hide whatever is happening in front of her.
“It’s just gas.” I bend to retrieve a towel and use it to wrap around the handle of the still-smoking cast-iron pan. The aroma of burnt bacon quickly saturates my T-shirt. Walking the pan to the back door, I set it on the painted concrete porch outside to cool.
“I have gas at home but it doesn’t do that.”
“Doesn’t do what?” I say over my shoulder. “Make fire?”
“It doesn’t make it so hot!”
Closing the door behind me, I toss the towel to the counter and survey the damage. I think she’s been making pancakes. Or at least that’s what the beige liquid running down the front of the lower cabinets indicates. There’s a torn bag of flour and what has to be the contents of my entire pantry scattered across the countertop. There are dishes everywhere. I take a deep, calming breath before continuing.
“It’s a professional-grade range.” I pick up the garbage can to swipe a handful of broken eggshells inside. “It has higher BTUs, so it gets hotter faster and can generate a larger flame.”
She puts on an affected British accent. “Riveting, young sir.”
Winnie sits obediently just outside the kitchen and watches with what I swear is a look that can only mean Do you see what I put up with?
Yeah, Winnie. I do.
“Hazel, what are you doing?”
She holds up both hands. In one there’s a Mickey Mouse spatula she must have brought from her place; the other palm is stained purple. I don’t even want to know. “I’m making breakfast before we go golfing.”
“We could have just gone out for breakfast.” By the looks of things, we’ll have to do that anyway.
“I mean, obviously the bacon is a bit . . . ashier than I normally like,” she says, “but we still have pancakes.” At the stove, she plates up two of the saddest flapjacks I’ve ever seen. Turning back to me, she holds the plate proudly. “How many do you want?”
I’m surprised by the wave of fondness that angles through my chest. Hazel nearly created a fire in my kitchen, I have a bruise on my forehead from her umbrella—and a lock to fix—but I’d still rather choke down a plateful than hurt her feelings while she’s wearing argyle and a beret. “Just the two.”
“Good,” she says brightly, setting the plate on the counter and depositing a bottle of syrup next to it. Ready to start another batch, she reaches for a pitcher of batter and pours it into what I can tell from here is a too-hot pan. “I talked to your sister this morning.”
I look up from where I’m delicately scraping off some of the burnt bits. “Already?” I glance to the clock on the stove. “It’s barely eight.”
“I know, but I texted her last night when I thought someone was breaking in. I had to update her that I wasn’t being murdered in bed, which led to me having to tell her you’re home.”
Great. If there’s anyone who’s going to gloat over this, it’s Emily. She might even throw a party. I return to my pancakes. “What did she say?”
“I didn’t give her any other details. She wants you to call when you’re up.”
“I’m sure she does,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear, but she does.
“You know, you don’t have to tell her everything. Saying you ended things is plenty.”
“How do you think that’ll work?” I look up as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the long line of her neck. “You’d be able to keep from spilling that Tabby was cheating for over a year?”
Hazel looks at me quizzically. “It’s not my story to tell.”
The idea of not having to share the specifics makes relief rush through me, cool and limber. Emily would never run out of I told you sos.
I look down to see a mournful Winnie staring up at me, her brown eyes pleading for me to drop something. I tear off a chunk of pancake and carefully feed it to the dog.
“Don’t spoil her,” Hazel tells me over her shoulder.
“Hazel. The dog you don’t want me to spoil is wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt.”
I hear the click of the burner being turned off, and then she’s there in front of me, leaning on the other end of the counter. “Your point?”
“I don’t have one.” I feed the dog another bite of pancake. “But do I really have to go miniature golfing?”
She tears off a bite of too-hot pancake and eats it. “You don’t have to. Mom and I were going to go, and I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”
As soon as she says it, I know she’s right. But I should also check in at home. It’s been a couple of weeks since I spent any time with my family. “I was going to head to my parents’ place later.”
She shrugs. “Up to you. If you want to come with us, I can go to your parents’ with you after. I haven’t met them yet.”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Hazel.”
She pushes away from the counter and gives me a guilty smile. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being too Hazel-y.”
I watch her wash the dishes and manage to clean up the kitchen quite capably while I pick at my breakfast. She isn’t pouting, and it doesn’t seem like I’ve hurt her feelings—she honestly just seems to have heard something in my tone that I didn’t intend. “What does that mean,” I ask, “ ‘being too Hazel-y’?”
Turning with a dish towel in her hand, she shrugs. “I tend to be too chatty, too silly, too exuberant, too random, too eager.” She spreads her hands. “Too Hazel-y.”
She is all of these things, but it’s actually why I like her. She’s entirely her own person. I reach for her wrist when she moves to leave the kitchen. “Where are we going mini-golfing?”
··········
Hazel looks nothing like her mother, but genetics work in wild, mysterious ways, because I would never doubt for a second that she came from this woman, Aileen Pike-not-Bradford, as she’s introduced to me. She’s wearing a flowing skirt decorated with embroidered peacocks and a bright blue tank top, and not only does she have rings on every finger, her earrings brush the tops of her shoulders. She and Hazel dress nothing alike but they both silently scream Eccentric Woman.
Aileen hugs me upon greeting, agrees with Hazel that I’m adorable but not her daughter’s type, and then apologizes for Hazel’s painkiller email all those years ago. “I knew I should have typed it for her.”
“I still have it printed out.” I grin at Hazel’s complete lack of self-consciousness. “I may actually frame it for the duration of Hazel’s visit in my house.”
“A constant reminder of my charm?”
I take the golf club and a bright pink ball from the guy behind the counter. “Yeah.”
“Speaking of your home,” Aileen begins, “is my daughter trashing it?”
“Mildly.”
Hazel tosses her blue golf ball from hand to hand like she’s juggling it. A single golf ball. “I knocked him out with an umbrella last night.”