Wiping down the kitchen table, I glance through the doorway to the living room and smile at the sight that greets me. Gale flashes me a pleading look, so I hurry back to the stove to avoid the guilt that comes with direct eye contact. Dogs, I’ve learned, excel at manipulating emotions.
No matter, though. She’ll be freed from her obligations as soon as the big man I spot out the kitchen window, lumbering up the walkway, comes through the door. The hinges creak, and the familiar sound of weighty footsteps against the hardwood floor makes my heart do a little somersault. It’s the most comforting white noise in the world.
“Daddy!” a delighted squeal in the living room shouts with the same exuberance I feel in my chest. Our daughter’s greeting is followed by the frenetic excitement that is the language of all toddlers. “Lookshe’ssopretty!She’s a princess!”
I chuckle softly, wondering if Chris thinks the word‘pretty’was delivered as demonic-sounding as I do. Scrubbing the frying pan, I keep my ear trained to the exchange.
“Delia…what did Daddy tell you? Gale’s too old to play dress up, honey. You can’t be hanging on her like that.”
Like clockwork, our little impressionist switches to her sugary sweet logical tone. “But I made herbeudfal.”
Ah, the price we pay for vanity.
“I know she’s beautiful, but she doesn’t need a crown or a cape to be beautiful. Wait…are those my sunglasses?”
The sound of Gale’s nails clipping down the hallway tells me she’s found her chance for escape. Poor old girl. A conspiratorial murmur of conversation closes in, laced with undertones of doting and affection. Oh, how the Mighty fell again three years ago when she came along, as well as the grandparents. At least Delia’s arrival stopped Grandma Rose from tormenting Gale with bandanas. She instead showered her generosity on her granddaughter in the form of all things frilly. That child has enough tutus to clothe a ballet troupe.
“Sorry,” I call, knowing I can’t hide from my crimes now that he’s found me. “I tried to stop her but gave up after the fourteenth warning.”
“Softie,” he teases, giving me a peck on the cheek. Delia smacks her palm against her lips and blows a kiss to me from her perch on one of his forearms.
“I don’t have the magic touch that you do. You know this.”
I lean in, however, and fake gobble the poofy sleeve of Delia’s nightgown, unable to resist hearing one more of her giggles. Chris flashes me a suspicious look and then directs his gaze to Delia.
“Mhm. Well, how about the baby whisperer puts little miss here to bed?” The way he puts jubilant emphasis on the wordbedas though it’s the equivalent ofDisney Worldworks for him in ways it never works for me.
Delia throws her arms up and cheers, “Yay! The Hoppy Song!”
The ‘baby whisperer’ loses all signs of smugness. I choke to keep my snort from coming out in full force. Too little, too late.
Wow…what a salty baby whisperer.
“Hey, remember what I said?” he warns Delia. “You’re never supposed to tell anyone Daddy sings you that.” To me, hemutters, “Don’t judge my methods. It works. She’ll be out in ten minutes.”
“Hey, no judgment here.” I extend my arm to the doorway regally. “By all means, Hoppy King.”
He leans in to let me give Delia her goodnight hugs before carting her off to tuck her in. I finish stowing the leftovers in the refrigerator and cover the plate I left for Chris on the table before heading into the living room. Delia’s accessories litter the place on the floor in front of Chris’ recliner. I set to picking up her plastic dress-up heels, a sparkly wand, and a tea set, tossing them all inside her toy box by the bookshelf. Seeing the children’s books that have been added to the shelves makes me smile. It reminds me of a conversation four years ago when Chris asked if I thought we were too old to have children. I think the man reverted to being ten years younger when we adopted her a year later.
The floor creaks behind me, and I feel the life force that is my person soothe my soul. He wraps his arms around me, and I lean into his chest, turning my head for a kiss.
“Nine minutes,” he declares proudly.
“You haven’t lost your touch. How was practice?”
“Sam and Marcus head-butted each other with their helmets for a solid five minutes. Rudy chased a rabbit while he was holding the ball, so the entire team ended up joining in,” he informs me with mirth in his voice, turning me around to face him. “It was great.”
I kiss the smirk on his face, wondering what Vince thinks of the irony that his son did get involved in coaching after all. Junior Peewee football, but coaching, nonetheless.
Chris’ hands slide down to my hips. The grimace he makes gives me a feeling of dread. I know that look.
“So…I have to fly to Denver next Friday.”
“Nooo,” I groan, dropping my forehead onto his shoulder.
I knew he said he might have a speaking engagement coming up there, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be so soon. He just went to one in Tennessee last week.
He gives my hips a squeeze and tries to root my face out of the crook of his neck with his own. “Hey, you, me, Delia, and the great outdoors this weekend. Remember?”
