Page 25 of The Lake Escape
I see Brody readying a tube of green glitter like a mortar round. I lunge forward with a quickness that belies my lack of athletic ability. Although I retrieve the glitter tube before any more is released, the damage has already been done. Not only do the children look like an art canvas gone awry, but the table and floor are strewn with a sea of clingy gold flakes that are insidiously small, as if designed specifically to torment me.
Fearing Fiona might emerge in a tizzy, I usher the children into the bathroom off the kitchen. A trail of glitter follows them like a map of my mistakes. Thank goodness, the glue is not only nontoxic but also washable. The sink isn’t ideal for cleaning them, but it’s effective enough. Luckily, the laundry facilities are also in thisbathroom, so I find a quick change of clothes for both kids before plopping their messy pajamas into the machine.
Crisis averted.
In a cheery voice, I suggest they sit with their breakfast and watch a show on Netflix. While the kids are occupied, I scrub down the kitchen and bathroom, doing my best to remove the remaining evidence. Though I’ve listened to hundreds of true crime podcasts, I’ve given little thought to how hard it is to clean up a crime scene. If blood were glitter, it would be downright impossible.
I’m fighting a losing battle with the dustpan when Brody, of all people—the same little twerp (I mean love) who dragged me out of bed and created this mess—comes to my rescue. He sneaks up from behind, startling me with a tap on the shoulder.
“Just use Play-Doh,” he says. His voice is so soft and tender, any lingering frustration I feel melts away on the spot.
“Play-Doh?” I repeat. It’s a good thing we have a ton of it.
Soon enough, Brody, Becca, and I are crawling on our hands and knees, pressing the moldable clay onto any surface covered in the shiny stuff. We even make up a song while we work, which we sing in whispered voices. As luck would have it, nobody comes downstairs, and the glitter disappears. Mostly. I spot one last clump of gold flakes on the kitchen counter, but unfortunately, we’re fresh out of Play-Doh.
No worries. I wet a paper towel and set to work. As I’m dabbing away, the front door opens and David walks in, lathered in sweat and breathing hard. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, stained dark in the front, and sweatpants as mud-spattered as his Nike sneakers.
The kids come running like Santa Claus just showed up. It’s a heartwarming scene. I try to give them a moment of privacy, but everywhere I look, I see their shiny, happy reflections in the windows. I can’t seem to adjust to all this glass. It’s like living in a weird art installation.
The kids don’t care that Dad is sweaty from what I assume was his early morning run. Good for David for taking care of his health. I run only if chased.
Soon, the magnetic pull of sugary cereal, chocolate milk, and cartoons lures the children away from their father. Meanwhile, I try to act nonchalant, like I don’t have a care in the world. I’m just the happy-go-lucky nanny, picking up this and that, ensuring my eager beavers are busy and well cared for. I’m hoping I’m somewhat invisible, but David takes notice of me anyway.
He saunters over with a self-satisfied smile, maybe on a runner’s high. He makes a beeline for the fridge. Out comes a carton of orange juice. He’s mere moments from putting said carton to his lips, something my mother would have objected to sternly, when I thrust a glass in front of him.
“I’m sure you were about to ask for one,” I say with polite professionalism.
David runs a hand through his tousled wet hair, fixing me with a lopsided smile. He approaches, his eyes stamped to my face. A nervous pulse spikes through me. He inches closer, using a clean dish towel to dry his hair. He strips off his shirt right before me, exposing his torso with the ease of peeling a banana.
I’m in shock, trying not to look, but it’s hard to avert your eyes when your boss is half-naked in front of you. He’s a shirtless man who clearly likes his physique. No big deal, right? He rubs the towel over his chest and abdomen. A gnarly blanket of chest hair cushions a thick gold chain that belongs around the neck of a rapper.Eww.
“Great run,” David says.
Of course he doesn’t notice—or maybe even likes—my uneasiness, how I’m bouncing on my feet, trying to inch away. He leans his hand on the counter, taking long, purposeful sips from his glass of OJ.
He tosses his sodden shirt and towel into the hamper in the bathroom.
“What’s on your face?” he asks. He leans in close, giving me a strong whiff of his musky odor.
He touches my cheek. I try not to gasp. He shows me flecks of glitter on the tip of his finger, the same gold color as his chain.David surveys the counter, and I see now that my cleanup job could have been more thorough.
“What happened here?” he asks, brushing the area with his palm. Sweat makes the glitter stick to his skin.
“Oh, we had a minor mishap.” I try to laugh it off.
“Ah,” says David, his dark eyes brightening, “I bet anything that was Brody’s doing. He’s a rambunctious one.” He says this lightheartedly, with no indication of reprimand.
“I’ll get it cleaned up straightaway,” I tell him.
David’s gaze lingers on me a beat too long. “It’s no problem, I got it. Glitter patrol wasn’t in the job description.” He grabs a paper towel off the roll.
I stand there feeling pointless as he sets about the near-impossible task of cleaning up the remnants of our morning fun.
“How do you like the lake so far?” he asks. He’s totally relaxed and seems geared up for a lengthy conversation. Meanwhile, he’s standing so close I can count his chest hairs.
“It’s peaceful here. I just love it,” he adds, turning his body so that he’s either admiring the view or his reflection in the towering picture window in front of him—probably both.
Thank goodness Becca summons me from the TV room. Whatever she wants, she can have it.
