When I inhale the heavenly smell in the air, I swear I can almost taste it.
“Noted,” Margot says. “How about you kidlets?”
Sophie casts another vote for lobster, and Dan opts for a plain old cheeseburger. One day I’ll teach that boy good taste and opportunity.
I untie our rides while they grab the food. The horse and ponies follow me peacefully as we lead them between the stalls.
Judging by the way everyone smiles and moves out of the way, I figure it’s not an unusual sight.
But the sun is shining and Sophie’s grin looks wide enough to split her face.
When I get my lobster roll with its beautiful buttery pink meat spilling out of it, I stop caring about anything.
“Shit,” I groan, biting into it like the heathen I am. “A man could get used to Maine.”
Margot laughs and nudges my shoulder. “That easy? I thought it would take more to win you over than your stomach.”
“I’m a simple man. Food’s only part of the equation, but it’s big.”
She blushes.
The rest of it is her, which shouldn’t even be implied. But I guess good food ruins my filter.
The light catches her hair, turning it to gold as it frames her face. She digs into her lobster tacos like I’m not enjoying the show.
Sophie eats her half sandwich, too, stopping to look around like she’s worried people will judge her for being too into her food.
That’s her mom’s doing, and I hate it.
Daria, always counting calories and reminding everyone to watch their weight, even in public. The kids are perfectly healthy and too innocent to fixate on their image at this age.
Couldn’t tell you how many times we fought about that shit.
No regrets, either.
I’ll defend their right to bekidsall day long until I’m turning blue.
The wolves of adulthood come prowling too soon. For Sophie and Dan, they can fucking wait.
Thankfully, Dan isn’t self-conscious. He eats like he’s starving, finishing his burger and tots before anyone else finishes their food.
He licks sauce from his fingers, and Margot digs in her pocket for a packet of tissues.
“Here,” she says, smiling at him. “You’ve got a little on your face, too.”
“Well now,” a woman’s voice says from behind us. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Margot’s on her feet before I have time to react, her face wreathed in a smile as she turns to face the little old lady. She’s probably in her seventies, wearing a bright print dress and a grin.
“Mrs. Griffith!” Margot says, embracing the lady.
“Margot,” the lady says, “Call me Edith, please.” She gives me a nod and a smile. “Mr. Saint, I presume. We spoke on the phone. Glad to see you made it up here okay. Hope the house isn’t too ramshackle for your stay?”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “And you can call me Kane.”
“I still feel terrible about the mix-up,” Edith whispers to Margot. “I hadn’t realized you were planning on visiting, dear, and it sure sounded like he needed the place.”
“No, no, not at all. It’s fine, honestly. We sorted it out.” Margot smiles disarmingly. “I told you it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
