Page 28 of Only Mine
When I finish, I slide the plate away discreetly, unsure of the protocol.
Saint glances back, nods once as if confirming I completed the task, then returns to his work. No further words are exchanged. I slip off the stool, feeling the familiar urge to make myself small and invisible.
“Thanks again,” I say quietly to his back.
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts a hand in a half wave of acknowledgment. I find my own way out, pushing through the doors back onto the quaint street, the scent of herbs and butter clinging to my clothes, the taste of peppery arugula lingering on my tongue, and the weight of his attentiveness settling somewhere deep inside me.
SIX
WRENLEY
The school pickup line is shorter this time.
I spot Ivy immediately, her mermaid braid slightly looser now, leaning against the brick wall with her head down while all the other kids talk animatedly with each other.
Miss Erin stands nearby, clipboard in hand. She sees the Range Rover and her professional smile thins almost imperceptibly.
No words are exchanged with me this afternoon, just a curt nod as I step out and open the passenger door in preparation for buckling Ivy into her space-age car seat.
“Miss Wrenley!” Ivy looks up and launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my legs. “Guess what? We painted!”
“Awesome! Did you paint a shark?” I smooth her hair back.
She pulls back suddenly. “You have boo-boo stickers like me!”
“I had a disagreement with a rosebush,” I say, not entirely a lie.
“Did you win?”
“Not really.”
Ivy pats my arm sympathetically. “Bushes are sneaky fighters.”
I bite back a smile. “So, what did you paint?”
“I painted Papa’s restaurant. Miss Erin said it was very detailed.”
I glance at Miss Erin, who offers a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ivy is quite the artist,” she says.
“Ready to go, Picasso?” I take Ivy’s hand and her backpack.
“Can we get ice cream?” she asks as I buckle her in, the process marginally faster this time.
“Maybe after we check in at home,” I hedge.
Saint’s car and Saint’s child are both my responsibility. The thought of deviating from getting both safely home makes my palms sweat.
“Papa never lets me get ice cream on a school day,” Ivy says matter-of-factly.
“Well, maybe today is special,” I say, catching her eye in the rearview mirror as I slide into the driver’s seat.
Her grin is instantaneous.
We drive toward the edge of town, Ivy chattering about paint colors and playground drama. As we turn onto the quieter road leading to Saint’s property, she points toward a small roadside farm stand. “They have flowers!”
“They do,” I agree, slowing slightly.
