“How many do we read?” I ask Quinn as I follow her up the stairs.
“The rule her mother set was three, but Lily always talks me into more.”
Her mother. It’s easy to forget that Lily recently lost her mom. They seem like such a tight little family unit that I think of Quinn as her mom. “What’s the limit?”
“Depends how long the books are. I’d say we read to her for about twenty minutes, tops, because it’s getting late and she’s recovering from being ill.”
I follow Quinn into a room with a queen-sized bed covered in a fluffy white coverlet. Prints of lilies and roses hang on the walls. A comforter printed with pink lilies is folded at the bottom of the bed.
It’s a grown-up bedroom, but Quinn has added a lot of childlike touches. Lily’s stuffed animals are in a large basket on the floor, and the bottom two rows of a bookshelf hold children’s books.
Lily climbs into the bed with a stack of books and her raggedy teddy bear. “You get on this side, Daddy, ’cause Auntie Quinn gets on the other.” Lily points to the left of the bed, then pats the right side for Quinn.
Ruffles hops up and makes herself at home on Lily’s lap. Lily grins hugely, making me marvel at her perfect little baby teeth.
She hands meCurious George Goes Camping. “I want you toread this one first, an’ then Auntie Quinn can read this.” She hands herThe Runaway Bunny, then puts her head on my shoulder.
My heart feels like a soft, ripe peach. The sweetness of the moment triggers a memory, and my mind flies back to my boyhood.
Every summer, my family visited my mother’s parents on their sorghum farm in rural Georgia. My sister and I loved to go with Granddad into town whenever he ran an errand, because he’d always stop at a roadside stand and buy some locally grown peaches. We’d sit on the tailgate of his rusty Ford pickup and bite into them, the juice running down our chins, all over our hands, and onto our clothes. The taste was bright as sunshine.
Every time we’d leave the house, Gramma would warn, “Now, Harold, don’t let them get all messy.”
And Granddad would reply, “Some things are worth the cleanup, because they last longer than the moment.”
This is one of those longer-than-the-moment occasions. It’s a summer-peach moment, sweet and pure and juicy with life, and I know I’ll remember it long after tonight. I wonder if Lily will remember it, too. If I move to Seattle, cuddling up to read bedtime stories will be a rare occurrence.
My chest aches like an extracted wisdom tooth. I open the book and begin to read.
—
THIRTY MINUTES LATER,Quinn looks at her watch. I decide to step up and be the bad guy. “Lily, it’s way past bedtime.”
“Just one more?”
“You’ve just-one-mored your way through about four extra books. It’s nighty-night time.”
“Okay,” she says.
Quinn gets up to put the books away, and Lily scoots off the bed. I’m not sure what’s going on until Lily kneels beside the mattress. “Thank you for the day, dear God. Please bless Auntie Quinn an’ Daddy an’ Grams. Get Grams well real quick, an’ give Mommy a bighug an’ kiss in heaven. Oh—an’ bless Ruffles an’ my sister in Quinn’s belly. I hope she’s a sister, but I’ll be okay with a brudder. Amen.”
“Amen,” Quinn repeats.
“Amen,” I add.
Lily crawls back into bed, and Quinn folds down the sheet, tucks the covers around her and her stuffed teddy bear, and kisses her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Lily. I love you.”
“Love you too, Auntie Quinn!”
I lean down and kiss her cheek. “Sleep tight,” I say.
“Okay. I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too,” I say, with no hesitation.
And I do, one hundred percent. It took me forever to say those words to a woman, but with Lily, they just fly out.
“She’s amazing,” I tell Quinn as we go downstairs and head into the kitchen.
