Page 89 of Ardently Yours

“Are you guys ready for lunch before we climb some sand dunes?” I ask.

Henry nods. “Yes, please.”

Bronnie lowers her voice into an odd cadence and rasps, “PizzaPizza.”

Gabriel sings, “Oh, yeah.”

Charlotte smiles.

I park across the street from a place with a sign declaring Al’s Pizzeria.

One by one, the kids climb from the backseat onto the sidewalk to join Charlotte and me. I glance toward Reese where he stands ten feet away.

They’ve already scoped out the place. What we’re doing may feel unscripted to the kids, but very little has been.

An aromatic spring breeze ruffles our hair, and Charlotte and all three children whip their heads to the side in an almost comically orchestrated move.

“I smell . . .” Henry breathes deeply in delight.

“Chocolate!” Gabriel and Bronnie both cry.

A silver-haired woman walking her yappy terrier smiles at the children’s exclamations, points to a sign three doors down and laughs. “We’re famous for our fudge here. You can’t come to Lake Michigan and not eat fudge.”

Ninety minutes later, westand on the hot sidewalk while I contemplate the state of these children. I may need to buy another car.

“Dad,” Henry pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles blissfully. “Michigan isfamousforfudge.”

I eye the boys’ once-pristine white shirts. All three kids have chocolate smeared around their mouths, on their clothing, their arms, and melted on their fingers. Bronnie has chocolate on the end of one of her pigtails and pizza sauce on her earlobe.

It’s a sign of how high on sugar Henry is that he isn’t freaking out at the mess. I give it less than three minutes before he comes off his cocoa-coated oblivion and realizes he’s covered in something sticky.

I pass him a wad of napkins, and he wipes his mouth with less than stellar results.

“So, I should have led with fudge, instead of cabins and pontoons, huh?” My napkin dabbing has similar unimpressive results on Gabriel. This stuffsmears.

Henry’s expression looks almost drunk. “I love Michigan.”

Charlotte smiles. “Is this your first time?”

“Yes. Dad said, ‘Men, we’re going to Michigan,’ and I said, ‘Why?’ And he said, ‘There’s a lake and a cabin and a boat.’ And he didn’t say a word about fudge.” Henry’s last sentence sounds like an accusation.

Charlotte bumps me with her hip and smirks.

“I didn’t know about the fudge,” I say.

She digs around in her purse and produces a plastic packet of baby wipes, proceeding to scrub all traces of residual chocolate and pizza sauce from Bronnie’s person. Bronnie squirms under her thorough washing, but generally cooperates. When Charlotte steps back, stains remain, but Bronnie is no longer what I’d refer to ascontaminated.

Charlotte moves on to Henry with another wipe. He stands perfectly still, but when she’s through, he says with dignity, “Thank you, Miss Charlotte, but next time, please allow me to clean myself. I’m not a baby.”

Charlotte blinks, then looks down at the wipe in her hand. “I’m so sorry, Henry. I don’t think you’re a baby. I shouldn’t have done that without your permission. I’m used to cleaning up Bronnie and didn’t think.”

“You can wash me.” Gabriel lifts his face to stare at her adoringly. Charlotte gently removes the chocolate from his face and hands.

When she’s done, Gabriel grabs her around the waist and hangs on. She squeezes him back and doesn’t release him until he makes the first move to step away. When he does, he reaches to hold her hand, and she takes it casually, giving it a squeeze and my six-year-old a little smile.

The moment blindsides me. Neither of my boys has any memory of what it is to be mothered by someone not paid to do so.

It’s patently obvious that Gabriel has been starving for a woman’s attention. I hadn’t realized he felt any lack within our little family.

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