Page 114 of For Her Own Good

Lowry

The sun is beating downon this perfect spring day. No, not beating. Definitely more like beaming. As though it’s rather pleased with how everything has turned out and is bestowing its glory upon us to tell us so. I happen to agree.

I do have to shade my eyes to see down the lengthy driveway, but then I see her. Hair flying behind her helmet, pedaling like mad with a goofy smile on her face as her streamers blow back. Glorious.

“Look, Ava,” I say, pointing in Starla’s direction. I had the good sense to put a sun hat on her, so unlike me, she doesn’t have to squint to see down the ribbon of pavement. “Here comes Mummy on her bike. When you’re a little older, we’ll teach you how to ride a bike. Would you like that, jelly bean?”

She holds out her chubby fists, reaching for Starla even from this far away. I am most definitely a second-class citizen in Ava’s big blue eyes. Maybe because she sees me more I’m old news? I cut down to half-time at Harbinson when Ava was born eight months ago while Star took a few months leave and didn’t take on new consulting clients but meets with Jerome regularly. Keeps her busy, happy, feeling capable and satisfied, and she still spends plenty of time with our daughter.

Ava loves me, I’m sure, falls asleep in my arms most nights as I read her stories or sing, and she’s got the sweetest baby gurgles when I reach into her crib to pick her up in the mornings. But she adores her mother. Will choose Star every time if she’s got a choice. I don’t blame her. I’d choose Starla over most anyone else too.

Finally Star comes to a stop in front of us, her cheeks pink with the exertion of riding up and down, up and down the drive. It’s hilly out here at her father’s house. Which I really ought to start thinking of as ours since we moved in over six months ago. It’s an enormous place, we don’t occupy even a third of it, but with the way Star looks at Ava, I wouldn’t be surprised if given a few years another bedroom or two are occupied.

“That was fun! I think I’m getting faster, what do you think?”

“I think you’re right. And Ava agrees. Don’t you?”

Ava is trying to wriggle out of my arms and into her mother’s. Starla takes pity on her and puts the kickstand down on her bike to take the tiny girl into her arms, perching her on her hip like she’s carried babies all her life.

“Bah,” Ava says, which I’ll assume is her concurrence. And then shoves her fist almost entirely in her mouth to gnaw on it. Poor thing’s teething and she hasn’t been happy about it.

Starla smiles down at the little mischief-maker. “How old does she have to be to ride in a bike seat? Or in one of those little trailers? I think she’d like that.”

Starla’s started what we call the baby sway, which must be hardwired into our brains somewhere because unless you’re extraordinarily awkward with infants, everyone does it when they pick up a baby.

“I bet she would, the little speedster. At least then we’d know where she was. She scooted into the closet again today, couldn’t find her for a couple of minutes.”

“Oh, Ava! Did you scare Papa to death? You know he doesn’t like it when you wander off. He likes to know where his girls are at all times. Take pity on the man. You shouldn’t be giving him heart attacks until you’re sixteen and driving.”

Oh, dear God, she’s going to be a menace on the roads if her early mobility is any indication. She can’t walk yet but it’s not far off and already she’s climbing on things, crawling under things, generally making it difficult to keep an eye on her. At least one of them is well-behaved.

“Take pity indeed.” I have to scratch my jaw because while my impulse is to clutch my chest, Star worries when I do. I’ve tried explaining it to her—it’s not that I’m ill or having some sort of cardiac episode. It’s that my heart is so damn full when I look at the two of them it feels swollen, as though I couldn’t possibly fit any more love inside and if I tried, it would likely burst. “If you’re done training for the Tour de France, shall we have some breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs?”

“Omelet, please. With those diced potatoes and onions. Ava liked those yesterday, didn’t you? Just big enough to get in your chubby little hand and smash into your hair, huh?”

So true.

Inside, I set to work in the kitchen, chopping the veggies, mixing up the eggs, heating the pan. It’s a pleasure to cook in and an even bigger pleasure knowing there’s someone to clean up after me. I tend to make a bit of a mess in the kitchen, but I think my enthusiasm makes the food taste better. Besides, Corinne complains if we don’t give her anything to do. She’ll be here in bit to make lunch and put together Ava’s dinner.

Starla leans up against the counter while Ava beats a wooden spoon and a spatula together. She’s got no rhythm to speak of, but she clearly delights herself. While the baby is occupied, Starla looks up at me from under her lashes and gets a certain kind of expression on her face. A look I like very much and makes my stomach tighten because I know what it means. Especially as she rolls her lips between her teeth before she speaks as she’s doing now.

“Roseline is coming tonight.”

“Is she, then?”

I know damn well she is. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.

“Yes.” Star sticks her tongue out at me and I have to purse my lips to keep from laughing. “I’d ask if you’ve planned anything, but apparently you forgot.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say I forgot…”

I spoon some of the egg mixture into the pan, enjoying how the bacon grease makes it sizzle.

“So you did make plans.”

“Aye, I may have. Hopefully I got the tickets for the right night.”

Starla perks up and Ava turns at being jostled. Not distracted from her kitchen drum kit for long, she snags a whisk from a container on the counter and drops the spoon on the floor.

---