“How’d you know?” She’s solemn.
“I’m thirty-five and have two sisters. They made me bake a lot with them.”
My explanation garners slouched shoulders, like I’msomehow cheating her of the opportunity to dazzle me with her wealth of knowledge. I look at the speaker. “What are we listening to?”
“Who,” she corrects. “One Direction.”
“Oh, this is them? My sister had dinner with them once a long time ago.”
Her eyes go wide. “What! You’re lying. No offense but you teach P.E. How in the world did your sister have dinner withthem?”
“Maybe you haven’t heard, kid, but in another life, I was a very revered third baseman, thank you very much. And my twin sister is an actress.” I pull up a photo on my phone of the three of us two years ago in Italy, and show her. “There’s Violet, our older sister, and the redhead is Madelyn. She’s the one who had dinner with One Direction.”
“Oh! Yes! She’s pretty. Yeah, that makes sense, then.” She bites her lip and focuses on her butter-softening task as I measure out sugar and oil. I love that in the mind of a ten-year-old, my sister being pretty equals automatic dinner with a famous band.
A second song comes on and she sings along, not missing a word. After a verse, she says, “You’re really lucky you have a twin.”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Because I love that I have Mom all to myself but I think it’d be fun to have a sibling.”
“It was pretty fun growing up together. We fought a lot but we also looked out for one another.”
“Did your parents get mad at you guys for fighting?”
“Uh, well, they did. And then they passed away.”
Her face drops, realizing, for the first time maybe, that we have the worst kind of thing in common. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. We lived with Stella, and Violet inherently took over the motherly role. She’s great like that—Madelyn and I always called her our sister-mom because she’d make sure we had the coolest shoes for school or got our field trip forms signed. You’re lucky you have your mom, though. She loves you a lot.” I sneak a glance and she agrees to that with a nod.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.” This seems like an invitation to hear something inappropriate or out of my wheelhouse as the fake member of the family.Again, what are the rules?I wonder and brace myself.
“Mom’s been more fun since you showed up.” Emma’s features soften and she smiles, as if recalling something specific that made her decide this. “I think she likes you for real. Do you like her for real?”
I can’t even lie to her, and I’m only a little embarrassed I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Yeah, kid, I do.”
Half an hour later,Nola walks through the back door into the kitchen and takes in the two of us busy at work, making frosting and scooping the last of the cookie dough onto the baking sheet. One Direction’s still going strong. Lucky for me, they have a lengthy back catalogue that doesn’t stop. Nola’s in a monochromatic sweatsuit and her hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, wavy strands breaking free. There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite place but she’s not mad. That much I can tell.
“What do you two have going on here?” she asks.
“Mom!” Emma lights up. “Did you know that Coach once hit a grand slam and to celebrate, he drank too much juice and backed his car into a garbage truck? Isn’t he funny?” Shelaughs just as hard sharing the story as she did hearing me tell it ten minutes ago.
“Juice, huh?” Nola smirks and raises a brow. “Your Land Cruiser?”
I give her a half smile. “No, my brand new Toyota Tundra.”
“That’ll teach you to drink ‘juice’”—she puts the word in air quotes and chuckles. “Sorry about how long that took, monkey.”
“What happened this time?” Emma asks.
Nola picks up a cooled, unfrosted cookie and takes a bite. “Mr. Johnson fell again and Mrs. Johnson couldn’t lift him alone.”
“Is he okay?” Emma’s face contorts in worry.
“Yeah, we got him in the recliner and their daughter rushed over. She’s a nurse, so she’ll figure it out from here.” Nola takes another bite. “These are good.Reallygood. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a baker.”
