“Come on, let’s get your hands washed. We have a lot of work to do.”
Rynna sent me a wink when she picked Frankie up from under the arms, turning her attention fully on my daughter when she did. Carefully, Rynna squirted Frankie’s hands with soap and held them under warm water, rubbing and rinsing her hands together, two of them giggling at something silly Frankie said.
“Here we go...you sit right there.” Rynna hoisted her so she was sitting on the edge of the counter, steadying her with a hand against the belly. “Be careful, okay?”
“’kay,” Frankie promised, and Rynna went to work, pulling ingredients from the bags, talking to Frankie the whole time. “My grandma used to sit me right up on the counter when I was a little girl like you. Right up close where I could see and help.”
“Dids you like cookin’ with C’rinne?”
“I loved cooking with Corinne.” Something wistful seeped into Rynna’s tone. “I miss it so much. But it makes me happy that I get to teach you the same as she did me.”
“I likes you teachin’ me. Did you know I’m gonna be a painter? My grammy says I’m such a super good painter, like my daddy.”
Rynna glanced at me with a small smile. No doubt, my daughter was getting ready to spin into one of those conversations that jumped from topic to topic faster than a person could keep up.
“Is that so?”
“Oh yes! And I’m gonna get a puppy. I wants a puppy so bad.”
This time Rynna’s glance back at me was curious, searching, before she slowly turned back to the green beans she was running under the faucet. “You want a puppy, huh?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes, yes, yes.”
I sighed, trying not to show any frustration that was focused solely on myself. “Told you it’s not a good idea right now, Frankie Leigh.”
She started to pout, and Rynna was quick to hand her a bottle of cream and a measuring cup. “Do you think you could fill that up to that line for me?” she asked, running her finger along the one-cup indicator. She purposely redirected my kid like a pro.
“There you go,” she encouraged as Frankie carefully poured the cream into the bowl, and Rynna placed the bowl on Frankie’s lap. She took her hand and showed her how to whip up the mixture before she was back to rinsing something else. It was kind of amazing how the girl juggled three different recipes at the same time. Second nature. Right back to that graceful ease she’d shown me back at her place five nights ago.
I leaned against the far counter with my arms crossed over my chest.
Watching them.
Trying to keep that feeling reined. Trying not to get too far ahead of myself.
But I could feel it. Everything barreling that direction when I listened to the way Rynna spoke softly with my daughter. She gave her instructions, let her help, laughed as Frankie made mess after mess. The entire time, she was completely patient with a child I was well aware required a lot of patience. Rynna’s tolerance never slipped, and I swore, it wasn’t faked.
Swore she wasn’t putting on a show.
Swore this wasn’t some kind of pretense.
And fuck, it was terrifying.
As terrifying as it was perfect.
Because I wanted it.
I wanted her.
An hour later, the three of us were sitting around the table, sharing dinner, the best fucking shepherd’s pie I’d ever eaten.
I told both of them, too.
Frankie grinned, gave Rynna a high five.
“We dids it, Rynna,” she said, my kid so damned happy.
Maybe as happy as I was.
