Page 5 of Tempting the Single Dad
The casual mention of Elisa and my mother makes my heart twist. Diana rarely speaks of either of them so openly.
Miranda's response is perfect. "I'd love to see them. What's Day of the Dead?"
As Diana explains the holiday, I watch Miranda's face. There's no pity there, just genuine interest and warmth. She asks thoughtful questions, drawing Diana out in a way no one has managed since the funeral.
"We put up pictures and marigolds," Diana explains, cutting out her cat's eye. "And Dad makes dead bread."
"Dead bread?" Miranda's clearly curious.
"It's sweet bread," I explain. "My mother taught me how to make it. We eat it to remember those we've lost."
"That's beautiful," Miranda says softly, her eyes meeting mine. "Honoring memory through food and flowers."
Diana puts down her carving tools. "Want to see my fort now? I put all my drawings there."
"Lead the way," Miranda says, wiping her hands on a towel.
I start to follow, but Diana turns with unexpected firmness. "Just Miranda first, Dad. It's girls only."
I raise my hands in surrender, ignoring the tightness in my throat. "I'll start dinner then."
Through the kitchen window, I watch them kneel by Diana's fort, a small hollow where pumpkin vines create a natural shelter. Diana disappears inside, then emerges with papers clutched in her hands. She speaks animatedly, pointing to her drawings, and Miranda listens with complete attention, nodding and smiling.
When they return to the house twenty minutes later, Miranda's eyes are suspiciously bright, and Diana is holding her hand.
"Dad," Diana announces, "Miranda likes my pictures of the stars."
"They're really good," Miranda adds. "She has a natural eye for patterns."
The kitchen is warm with the scent of pumpkin soup and fresh bread as we gather around the old farmhouse table.
Diana, usually so quiet at mealtimes, chatters between spoonfuls about her school's upcoming science fair, her words tumbling out as if making up for months of silence. Miranda listens intently, asking questions about volcanoes and solar systems, her eyes bright with genuine interest.
I can't remember the last time she spoke this much, this freely. We'd tried everything after Mom died—grief counselors with gentle voices and offices full of stuffed animals, art therapists who promised drawing would help her process emotions she couldn't verbalize, even a child psychiatrist in Burlington who specialized in selective mutism. None of them could break through the wall Diana built around herself.
Yet here she is, laughing and talking with a woman she's known for barely two days, as if the floodgates have suddenly opened.
What is it about Miranda that makes her different? Maybe it's that she doesn't try too hard. Or perhaps it's something more elemental, the way she smells like cinnamon and autumn, how she kneels to meet Diana at eye level, the genuine interest in her questions.
Whatever magic Miranda possesses, I find myself profoundly grateful for it, even as a small voice whispers that we shouldn't grow too attached to someone who's only passing through our lives temporarily.
After dinner, as twilight deepens outside. Through the window, the sky has transformed into a watercolor of deep purples and fading oranges, stars just beginning to emerge against the darkening canvas. Diana sits with her elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, eyelids growing heavy despite her obvious determination to stay awake.
I catch Miranda's eye across the table, and something unspoken passes between us, a shared recognition of this simple, perfect moment.
"Bedtime for pumpkin farmers," I say, and she nods without protest, another small miracle.
"Will you come back?" she asks Miranda, her voice suddenly small.
Miranda glances at me, then back to Diana. "If it's okay with your dad, I'd love to."
"For the festival," Diana clarifies. "Dad's bringing pumpkins for the contest."
"Sure, I wouldn't miss it," Miranda promises.
When I return from tucking Diana in, Miranda is standing on the back porch, her figure silhouetted against the darkening sky. Stars are beginning to appear, pinpricks of light in the velvet darkness.
"She showed me her drawings of her mother," Miranda says quietly as I join her. "And told me how you point out the brightest star and say that's where she's watching from."
