My mind can’t make itself up.
Emily hasn’t made an appearance, and I consider the possibility she isn’t here until I see her in another pair of shorts. They look like men’s pants cut off at the top of the thigh, and she’s wearing another T-shirt that has grandpa written all over it. Is she wearing her grandfather’s old clothes? I stare at her attire and realize she’s soaking wet again.
“What happened?” I question with a chuckle.
“That,” she hisses, waving a hand at the sink.
“I think you won, killer,” I tease, but her face is stern today. She looks tired. She’s out of her element, taking care of this home.
“Clearly, the faucet is the victor.” She tugs at her shirt, which lowers the neckline and exposes her cleavage to me, repeating the events of yesterday. Only today her bra is red, and I’m seeing more skin than fabric down the front of the stretched V-neck.
Do not think about her breasts.
Do not think about her bra.
Do not consider red your new favorite color.
Releasing her shirt, she nods toward the sink, dismissive in the way her chin lift to me was last night. “What’s the damage?”
She’s a haughty thing when she wants to be, acting all prim and proper as if she’s better than others here. She came across as so stuck-up when she brought that radio into Sound Advice. I’m actually loving the challenge that thing has presented, but I’m not going to admit that to her.
“I don’t know. This might take a while.”
“Do you have two jobs?” There’s a hint of revulsion in her tone as if it’s not right for a man to work for two places. Not that I owe her an explanation, but I feel the need to defend myself.
“QuickFix is Tom’s original business. He’s a plumber by trade. He’s out this morning, and you’re in a pickle here.” I tip my head to the sink. “But I can always call him and ask if he can come tomorrow if you don’t think I’m good enough.”
My voice roughens, and she shakes her head, dismissing a call to my brother. Her eyes shift to the kitchen table.
“I see you brought a partner with you today.”
I hate that I have to occasionally drag Katie to some of my appointments. My youngest sister, Tricia, is a teacher and had a summer teacher thing today, and my mother had to work. That left my other sister Pam, who also had to work, and Tom is out today. My brother’s good about me sometimes bringing Katie to the shop or along to odd jobs. He understands.
Of course, Katie doesn’t respond to Emily’s comment.
“I know just the thing to keep us busy while your daddy fixes my sink,” Emily says, leaning toward Katie like they are long-lost friends. I don’t get it. Why is she hitching herself to my child? In fact, I need to tell her outright to knock it off. I will as soon as I finish this job and hopefully rid myself of one Emily Post of Chicago.
Emily disappears after telling Katie she’ll be right back, and Katie doesn’t move from her seat. I always travel with a little bag of markers, paper, and coloring sheets. She’s good about sitting still when I need her to, but I hate needing to ask. I should have found a caregiver—the nanny-type—but I don’t want to put Katie under the supervision of someone I don’t know. It’s already bad enough whatever happened to her happened under her own mother’s care.
Emily returns and holds out a hand for Katie without even addressing me. Katie doesn’t blink but accepts the offered hand and follows Emily into the living room off the kitchen. They immediately disappear from sight.
So much for not kidnapping my child.
It’s strange that I trust Emily when I don’t even know her, but I get to work on the sink, checking the valves and then the connections. My initial eyeball assessment was correct. She needs a new faucet, which means she might need a new sink. I don’t think any modern fixture is going to match the angle needed to fit the ancient basin.
Suddenly, the voices coming from the porch behind me distract me. It’s actually only one voice that catches my attention. I’ve been in this house before, a long time ago, and I remember it has a weird connection between rooms. From the living room, you can walk under the staircase leading to the second floor and enter the dining room. It’s all encased in dark wood like a secret passageway or something. The dining room opens onto the screened-in porch, which can also be accessed via the kitchen. I look through the opening from the kitchen and see my daughter sitting close to Emily on a faded outdoor couch under three large windows.
Emily’s voice drifts through the room as she reads to my child, and since I don’t want her to know I can hear her, I tuck into the dining room and press myself against the wall to listen. She calls my daughter Katie bug. It’s too cute, and I can tell Katie loves it. Her voice soothes me as she reads Cinderella to my daughter. Did she just happen to have old fairy-tale books lying around this house? It’s strange how familiar I am now with these stories—and the reality that life does not match them.
“You know what I love about this tale? In the end she gets a prince and a great pair of shoes,” Emily teases, and I try to imagine what it might sound like to hear Katie giggle. Just a little titter, but there’s no sound.
“Those are beautiful shoes,” she coos to my daughter, and I recall Katie is wearing flip-flops with a daisy on the bridge by her toes. Speaking of shoes, I still have Emily’s—some strappy things in silver she could twist an ankle in. How she walked to the Tavern in those I have no idea. I’d still like to know what she was doing with Gabe, but it’s not my concern who he fucks.
The harshness of my thoughts seems like a bit much when I consider Emily as the recipient of his attention. She doesn’t seem like the type to fall for a fool like him, but who knows? I’m certainly not good at predicting what women will go for.
“She’s extra lucky to have a fairy godmother, don’t you think?” Emily carries on, holding up one side of the conversation as needs to be done with Katie. “Of course, a girl doesn’t need a prince to save her. Cinderella actually saves him because he marries the girl of his dreams instead of following his father’s edict.”
What the…? Way to ruin a fairy tale, lady.
“Emily.” I hear her grandmother admonish her. I imagine Emily’s a fiery thing with strong opinions on a woman’s right and a man’s place. Twisting ever so subtly, I hope to catch a glimpse of them without them noticing me. Fortunately, I get a quick look and find Katie practically sitting on Emily’s lap while Emily hugs the book to her chest.
That is one lucky book to be pressed to one ample set of breasts.
What am I thinking?
I scrub two hands down my face and roll back to my covert position.
A better question is why is my daughter sitting so close to this woman? Someone we hardly know. What’s the appeal here? What am I missing, and why is it bothering me?
Temporary. The word filters through my head. I don’t need Katie getting attached to someone who will leave.
“How about one more?” She pauses, and then says, “Do you know this one? Beauty and the Beast? It’s my favorite.” Her voice sounds soft and dreamy, and I wonder if she believes in fairy-tale crap. She doesn’t seem like a woman who would, especially after her comment about not needing saving from a prince.