“Is it a secret?” I ask her.
“Daddd.”
“Okay, okay. I believe it’s over this way,” I say, taking her through the other opening in the dining room and across the hall. The door is closed and locked. “We have to wait a minute.”
I spot a bottle of air freshener behind the thin hallway decorative table. Maybe my ideas aren’t the best, but I’m not giving up until I make Melody smile.
The door finally opens to the bathroom, and Melody looks flush and splotchy. “Air freshener?” I ask, handing over the bottle.
She smiles. Not a full-fledged smile, but aI’d-like-to-punch-in-you-the-facekind of smile. “You’re so sweet to offer.” Again, she folds her arms over her chest.
“I’m kidding. Girls don’t do those sorts of things in the bathroom, right, Parker?” Two birds with one stone, I see. Parker has also crossed her arms, and she’s giving a very similar look to Melody’s.
“Dad,” Parker groans.
Melody steps out of the bathroom and stands to the side, so they can switch places. She’s quick to close the door, leaving Melody and me in the hallway in a stare down. “Girls get easily embarrassed about bodily odors,” Melody schools me on the etiquette of talking to a girl. I’ve been given the lectures many times by a child, so I’m not new to what she’s saying. However, I have to toughen my daughter up somehow. If she goes through life embarrassed about poop, I’ll be allowing her to act in a way her mother would never approve. Abby had a mouth on her, and there was no filter, no secrets. If she had a stomach ache, I got descriptions while she was in the bathroom. She was essentially my guy friend in a woman’s body.
“I’m aware, but I need to toughen her up a little too, right?” I slip my hands into my pockets and roll onto my heels while offering a charming smile to smooth her over.
“No, girls should believe they always smell like roses.”
Melody takes a step closer, looking up at me as if she had something more to say, but I quickly realize she’s moving to the side to walk around me. During the short moment of seeing her eyes up close, I notice a hint of thin, red veins, fogging up the vivid green hue. She has a smudge of black makeup beneath her eye, and I have the urge to wipe it away, but I keep my hands to myself. As she takes another step by me, I stop thinking and grab her shoulder, forcing her to turn back around. “Are you sleeping at night?”
“She seems confused by my question as her eyebrows knit together. “A little,” she says, squinting her eyes with a questionable look.
“You look exhausted.” I don’t mean it to be offensive, but I know what can happen when someone goes for long periods without sleep. It breaks down the body and mind.
Melody glances down at her carpet runner that we’re standing on and sighs. “You know, it’s another one of those things a woman doesn’t want to hear from a man.”
I’m not trying to win her over. Well, I’d like to, but now isn’t the right time. I’m just concerned. “Well, I’m worried about you. That’s all.”
When she looks back at me, her mouth turns down into a grimace, and stress lines deepen on her forehead. “Why? We don’t know each other anymore, not after life has had its way with both of us.”
I’m not sure there is a response suitable enough to explain a reason for caring for this woman, other than the fact that I once had feelings for her, and now that I’m in her presence again, I realize those feelings are still inside of me. They were just buried beneath the years of hardships that I, and evidently she, have lived through. I understand why she thinks I have no right to be concerned about her, but she doesn’t understand what’s been going on inside my head all these years.
Being late to dinner made it so we sat directly across from each other at the table. The arrangement was likely set up, but I’ll happily enjoy the view while we eat.
The small talk doesn’t allow for much other than ordinary conversation or anything more than questions about The Barrel House. I know Mrs. Quinn never spent much time working behind the scenes at the shop, but she enjoyed being there and greeting customers. Her questions about sales surprise me, but I guess she is trying to gather a report to bring back to Harold. I’m sure he would like to know how things are going.
With a break in the conversation, Melody stands, announcing: “I’ll clear the dishes,” but Mom argues with her to sit down, insisting on doing the dirty work.
“Really, I could use a minute to clear my head,” Melody continues.
Mom seems taken back by Melody, pushing back and concedes. “Of course, sweetie.”
Melody scurries around the table, grabbing as many empty plates as she can manage to stack up on top of each other.
I should stay here and mind my own business. I should. But I’d be rude if I didn’t offer to help in the kitchen, especially after my bathroom jokes earlier.
I excuse myself from the table, trying to be inconspicuous to avoid any looks or chit chat behind my back from our mothers. They have been eyeballing both Melody and me all night as if they’re trying to trap us into their secret plan of matchmaking. I’m no stranger to flattery, and the way Mrs. Quinn was talking to me in the hospital last night; it was clear she and Mom had discussed a future unbeknownst to Melody and me.
When I make my way into the kitchen, I find Melody elbow deep in the sink full of water and suds, but I also see a newer-looking dishwasher right beside her. “Is the dishwasher broken?”
“No,” she says, quickly responding.
“Cleaning dishes always calms me down too,” I tell her. It’s a lie, but I’m waiting for a look to call me out on my fib because I don’t think any person in the world enjoys washing dishes.
“Oh, yeah?” she asks, squinting an eye at me.
