“I’d love to.” I hold the door, and Quinn and Lily walk in. “How old are you, Lily?”
“Nearly four,” she says. Her voice is sweet and high-pitched.
“Wow. Nearly four is a great age.”
“Yes.”
The customer in front of us finishes paying and moves down the counter. A white-haired woman comes into the shop and stands in line behind us.
“May I help you?” the teenage girl taking orders asks. She’s wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron, has dark hair pulled back in a thin ponytail, and is chewing gum.
I look at the board. It has a bewildering number of flavors. I wonder if we need to read all of them aloud to Lily. I look down at her. “Do you know what kind of ice cream you want?”
Lily nods. “Cookie dough with colored sprinkles.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Cookie dough is my mommy’s favorite.”
I’m a little confused by her use of the present tense when talking about her mother, but then, I don’t really know how well three-year-olds talk. “Is that right?”
She nods. “Mommy is dead.”
“Oh. I’m very sorry.”
“Do you think she has ice cream in heaven?”
I have no idea if people eat in heaven or not. I realize Lily’s looking at Quinn. I’m relieved that the theological question isn’t aimed at me.
“I’m sure they do. She can probably have as much ice cream as she wants, whenever she wants it,” Quinn says.
Lily smiles.
“One child-sized cone with cookie dough and colored sprinkles,” Quinn tells the girl behind the counter.
“We can’t put sprinkles on cones,” the teenager says, chomping her gum.
“That’s okay. Put the sprinkles in the bottom of a cup, scoop in the ice cream, then place the cone upside down on top, like a clown hat,” Quinn says.
I can tell she’s done this before. It occurs to me that caring for a child requires more skills than I realized. Even ordering an ice cream cone requires some know-how.
Quinn orders a small cup of chocolate almond ice cream for herself. I order a cappuccino chocolate chunk cone, then pull out my wallet and pay.
“Are you datin’ Quinn?” Lily asks.
The question makes me freeze, my wallet halfway back in my pocket. “No. We’re just friends. I’m, uh, married.”
“Oh.” She sounds somewhat disappointed. “So where’s your wife?”
“She’s on a trip to Seattle.”
“What’s she doin’ there?”
“She’s visiting her parents and doing work stuff.”
Lily seems to find the answer acceptable. “Do you have chil’ren?”
I hesitate. This is a tricky one. I don’t want to say anything that might later seem like I’m not claiming her. “My wife and I want them, but we haven’t had any yet.”
