Page 43 of Talk Wicked to Me

“That makes sense. And do you feel safe outside your cottage?”

“Yes. I love walking Ollie on the trails and at the beach, and I’m excited to get into a routine and find a new coffee shop where I can bring Brennan and do my work.”

“I’m glad to hear that, and I know just the place. My friend Gabe owns a coffee shop called Common Grounds. It’s where we hold our annual Suicide-Awareness Rally to honor Ashley. I think you’d like it. It’s a great atmosphere. I’ll take you there as soon as you’re up to it.” He was leaving for his trip the week after the rally, but suddenly he wasn’t quite as excited to go.

“That would be great.” She gazed down at Brennan. “I know I made the right move coming here, and I found the right place to raise him.” She looked at Baz, conflicting emotions swimming in her eyes. “I just wish he could have known his grandparents.”

“He can know them through you. Through pictures and memories and stories you share.”

“I know, and he will. I want to be the kind of parent they were to me. I could talk to them about anything, and we laughed a lot. Gwen and I used to talk about how great my parents were all the time, because her parents were not like that. And it’s weird, because our parents had been best friends for years. Our dads had gone to law school together, and they were business partners in their practice, but they were so different. We never understood how they worked so well together.”

“Sometimes that’s why people work well together.”

“I get that, but they were different in every way that mattered. They both made a lot of money, but Gwen’s house was like a museum, with rooms you didn’t enter, and her parents always had an agenda. They had strict schedules and active social lives, and they traveled often, leaving Gwen with the housekeeper. And while we lived in an expensive brownstone, nothing else about our lives was fancy. Our house always looked lived in, with blankets and dog fur on the couches. It was comfortable. Inviting. The recliner in the living room was my dad’s favorite chair. I could cuddle up on it with a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies and not worry if I left crumbs because our dog, Sammy, would get them. She sat on the couches and slept on my bed, like part of the family.”

“Like Ollie.”

“Exactly. And my dad was all business when he was at work, like Gwen’s, but the minute he walked through our door, he was just Dad.” She teared up but kept talking. “He’d get home and holler something silly like, Time to trade in my business suit for my superhero cape or Who ordered a pizza with a side of bad dad jokes?”

“He sounds great, and a lot like my old man.”

“Then you’re lucky, because he was the best dad. Anytime I did anything special or had a bad day, he’d bring me daisies.”

“That explains the pot out front.”

She nodded. “Some people say their fathers are their rocks. Mine was more like a tree because he was big and stable and strong, like you. When he’d wrap his arms around me, they were like thick branches, and his head and shoulder were like the umbrella of a tree. In his arms was the safest place I’d ever known.”

“That’s the mark of a great father.”

“Yeah. My mom used to say he was our biggest fan because he was always making a big deal over the things we did or said. She and I used to bake all the time. Whether we were having a good day or a bad one, baking always made it better, and my dad would go crazy for our cookies. He even taught Sammy to spin in circles when we gave her a homemade dog biscuit.”

“Ah, your passion for human and puppy treats started early.”

“It did, thanks to my mom. She started baking because of the cravings she had when she was pregnant with me. She said I helped her bake from the minute I was born, which really meant I was her excuse for eating cookies.”

He chuckled.

“I remember standing on a chair, helping her when I was little, stealing chocolate chips, and licking the spoons and the bowls.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of wonderful memories.”

“I do.” Brennan stopped nursing, his eyes closed. “Is it just me, or does he look drunk after he nurses?”

“Little dude knows a good thing when he’s got it. Give him to me. I’ll burp him while you tell me more about those memories.” Baz put Brennan on his shoulder.

“My mom and I were always trying new recipes for dog biscuits and cookies. Every week we’d drop a batch off at my dad’s office. We’d bring biscuits to the dog park and the animal shelter, and we’d give cookies to friends and shop owners. My mom sent her editing clients cookies to congratulate them on their publications, too.”

“She was an editor, too?”

“Uh-huh. She’s the main reason I went into it. It helps me feel closer to her.”

“And I bet you send cookies to your clients, too.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” she teased.

“I might have to start writing.” He patted the baby’s back. “What do you think, Little B?”

Brennan burped loudly, and they both laughed.