He closes his mouth. A flicker of something – exasperation? Amusement? – crosses his face. He carefully nudges his snowflake half a millimeter closer to Tabby’s star. “There. Friends.”
Tabby beams. My heart does a funny little flip.
We move the cookies onto baking sheets – Denton arranging his with military precision, Tabby plopping hers down with cheerful abandon. Into the preheated oven they go, filling the kitchen with the addictive scent of baking cookies.
“Now,” I announce, rubbing my hands together. “The fun part. Decorating Headquarters!” I unveil the decorating station: bowls of vibrant royal icing in red, green, white, and blue, and an array of sprinkles, jimmies, nonpareils, and edible glitter.
Tabby’s gasp is audible. “Sprinkles! So many!” She bounces on her toes.
Denton stares at the rainbow explosion. “Wow, that’s… a lot,” he observes, his tone flat.
“It’smagic, Daddy!” Tabby corrects him earnestly.
I hand Tabby a piping bag filled with red icing. “Okay, Tabby. Decorating Rule One: There are no rules. Do you want cookies covered in glitter? Go for it. Make a blue snowman? Why not! It’s your masterpiece.”
“I have some already baked and cooled cookies you can practice on while your cookies are baking,” I say, pulling some cookies out of a container. “Let’s do it.”
Tabby needs no further encouragement. She grabs the piping bag and squeezes with all her might. A thick rope of red icing erupts, engulfing her first star cookie. She giggles then dives for the sprinkles. A cascade of red and green jimmies rainsdown, followed by a generous shower of gold glitter. Her cookie disappears under a sugary avalanche.
Denton watches, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. He picks up a piping bag filled with green icing, holding it like a delicate scientific instrument. He examines the tip. “The opening seems too large.”
“It’s icing, Mr. Blake, not surgery,” I tease gently. “Just go for it. Channel your inner artist.”
He gives me a look that could freeze molten lava. But then he squeezes the bag tentatively. A tiny, precise dot of green appears in the center of one snowflake point. He adds another. And another. Painstakingly slow. Perfectly symmetrical.
Tabby, meanwhile, has moved on to her second cookie, a tree. She’s attempting bright pink icing, but her squeeze is too enthusiastic. The icing blob slides off the cookie and plops onto the counter.
“Oops!” She giggles, trying to scoop it back up with her finger, only succeeding in smearing it further. She looks up at her dad. “Daddy, help! My tree is melting!”
Denton looks away from his meticulously decorated snowflake. He grabs a paper towel, dampens it carefully at the sink, and walks over to Tabby. He crouches down beside her, his large frame folding with surprising grace.
“Here,” he murmurs, his voice low and rumbling. “I’ll fix it for you.” He gently takes her sticky hand and wipes the icing from her fingers with the damp towel.
Then he carefully dabs at the mess on the counter. He doesn’t try to salvage the cookie; he focuses on cleaning her up, his attention entirely on his daughter. The fierce concentration he applied to his snowflake is now directed at removing glitter from her eyebrow.
I stand frozen, holding a piping bag of blue icing, watching them. The kitchen fades away – the mess, the scent of baking cookies, the twinkle lights.
All I see is the tenderness in his eyes as he looks at Tabby. It’s a raw, unprotected love, fierce and deep. But layered beneath it, visible only for a fleeting moment when he thinks no one is looking, is a profound sadness.
He’s not just grumpy. He’s wounded. Deeply. And seeing that vulnerability and that fierce love for his daughter shifts something inside me. The playful friction evaporates, replaced by a sudden, unexpected wave of tenderness so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet.
He finishes cleaning Tabby’s hand, his thumb brushing a stray speck of glitter from her cheek. “There. All clean.” He stands up, his stoic mask sliding back into place almost instantly.
“Thanks, Daddy!” Tabby throws her arms around his legs, burying her face in his apron. He awkwardly pats her back as his eyes meet mine. There’s a flicker of something unreadable – embarrassment? Vulnerability? – before he looks away, clearing his throat.
He picks up his piping bag again, his movements stiff. He adds a few more green dots to his snowflake. He keeps glancing at Tabby, who is now happily burying another cookie under a mountain of blue icing and silver balls.
The cookies finish baking, filling the kitchen with their mouth-watering aroma. We pull them out – Denton’s snowflakes are perfect, crisp, and symmetrical. Tabby’s are… abstract masterpieces, beautiful in their own chaotic way.
They decorate these cookies after they cool and we box them up carefully – Denton arranging his with geometric precision in one corner of the box, Tabby piling hers haphazardly in the other.
The lesson is over. The kitchen looks like a glitter bomb detonated in a flour factory. Every surface is dusted white and rainbow. Even Denton, despite his earlier precautions, has a fine coating of flour on his dark hair and a suspicious smudge of green icing near the elbow of his sweater. He surveys the damage, his expression carefully neutral, but I see the subtle tightening around his eyes again.
Tabby, however, is radiant. She clutches the box of cookies like it contains the crown jewels. “Thank you, Holly! Thank you!” She beams up at me, her eyes sparkling, completely oblivious to the warzone around her.
“You did amazing, Tabby,” I say, crouching down to her level again. My heart feels full, warmed by her happiness despite the lingering ache of seeing Denton’s hidden pain.
Denton helps Tabby into her coat. He picks up his own folded peacoat, avoiding looking directly at the mess. He clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, his voice formal. “For your… time. And patience.” He meets my gaze briefly. The icy accusation from our first meeting is gone. Replaced by something that’s hard to read.
