“Morning,” he said to Madeline. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Madeline, swaddled snuggly in a pink blanket, regarded him with wise eyes.
Penelope swept around the space, bringing him up to speed on all aspects of Madeline’s care. Any sensible single, childless, thirty-year-old man should be daunted at the task he was about to undertake. But he did not appear daunted.
She paused in the foyer before leaving. “Are you two going to be okay?”
“We’re going to be fine.”
“Any questions for me?”
“Nope. I’ve got this.”
Her lips curved. “Funny, that’s exactly what I said to Theo yesterday before I took over with Madeline.”
“But today you feel like you’ve been hit in the face with a frying pan.”
“Precisely. Naivety can be so empowering.”
He lifted a strong shoulder and smiled. “I guess it’s my turn to get hit in the face with a frying pan. You’re needed elsewhere. If Polka-Dot Apron Pies doesn’t open today, we’ll have an angry mob on our hands.”
“My car’s still at the hospital, so I’m taking Theo’s car. Last I heard, Theo’s planning to Uber here around lunchtime to clean up and gather Aubrey’s things. Then he’s going to take Madeline up to the hospital with him in Aubrey’s car.”
He nodded. The air between them thickened.
“Penelope,” he started, “I—”
“Some of Aubrey’s friends are scheduled to watch Madeline tonight. After that, we’ll play it by ear. And now I’m off.” But then she stilled uncertainly halfway through the doorway. “Sure you don’t have any questions?”
“Just one.”
“Which is?”
“When are we going to talk about us? Because that needs to happen—”
“Never?” she proposed.
At the same moment he said, “Soon.”
“Good day to you!”
“Soon,” she heard him reiterate in the split second before the door closed behind her.
•••
When Eli arrived at Misty River’s sports complex that afternoon to coach Theo’s basketball team, he immediately discovered two things. One, the team was called the Sharpshooters. Two, they werenotsharpshooters.
He stood on the indoor court they’d been assigned, guiding them through a warm-up before their game, torn between humor and pity. The boys were small and skinny, uncoordinated and tentative. Typically, on elementary school teams, at least one or two of the kids was an unusually good athlete and the good athletes carried the rest. But all the players on this team only seemed good at dressing themselves in their spotless bright red uniforms and remembering to bring water bottles.
The assistant coach, a preppy dad who’d introduced himself as Creighton, paced along the baseline while talking on his phone.
When the buzzer sounded to indicate that their warm-up had concluded, Eli called, “Huddle up.”
Creighton held up a finger, pointed to his phone, and turned his back in order to continue his conversation.
The boys obediently trotted to Eli. One of them tripped over his own feet and landed on all fours, but he quickly popped back up and continued forward. They circled around Eli, a group of unbelievably short kids.
“Who’s ready to play some basketball?” Eli asked.
