Page 54 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
“No need for spiders to sit on Miss Muffet’s tuffet,” I say tenderly. A stray lock of hair has blown across Kate’s face, and I long to brush it away, but there are too many people watching.
Kate smiles at me. “Speaking of Miss Muffet…any chance we can get some curds and whey?”
“Maybe not curds and whey, but there’s a row of food trucks on the other side of the house. We could get something to go and bring it back up to the mostly finished part of the house. What do you think?”
She smiles. “That sounds good. It would be nice to have some quiet time and adult conversation.”
I can’t help teasing her a little. “Doesn’t talking with Grace count as adult conversation?”
To my surprise, Kate wrinkles up her nose and says, “Not as much as you might think. I swear, sometimes she doesn’t seem any older than Cece.”
I laugh. “I have noticed that her speech seems to be liberallysprinkled with, ‘James says . . .’ and ‘Do you think James would like this on me?’”
“Exactly,” Kate says. “My brother has his good points, but he is certainly not a saint. Nor does his opinion guide my every waking moment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I comment. I want to ask whether my word guides her day, but I’m not sure I’m secure enough to hear the answer. As her boss, my word could guide her day. As her…what? Lover? Boyfriend? Illicit and guilty affair? I’m not sure what role I play in her life, other than she is becoming increasingly important to me. Her words might not guide my every waking moment, but her opinion counts.
I ponder this while we purchase tacos, boxes of something Asian or oriental, buffalo wings and cake pops. We get two liters of clear soda and cups from the last truck in line, then trudge up the rather steep slope to the house entry.
The straw bales are neatly stacked between custom-ordered square beams of oak that hold up steel beams salvaged from a warehouse at the edge of Spindizzy. It was originally part of the old farmer’s market and is one of the few buildings that I was sure no one would have regrets about its demise.
I’m not entirely sure what was going on with the construction. This is James’ baby. He is starting a second one for me, Cece, and an undetermined number of other people. If things go in the direction I hope, Kate will be included.
I can see that part of the roof is on, and a fireplace is installed. The brick flooring around the fireplace is complete, and a double wall on either side of the fireplace and chimney is mostly laid. A picnic table sits in front of the fireplace, mute testimony to this being a favorite lunch spot.
“Oh, wow!” Kate exclaims. “James is really doing it. That looks like a hip roof, with this fireplace as the center of the house. Is he planning a living roof?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “But I love the smell of this place. Most construction sites stink of glue and formaldehyde. This smells like a hayfield.”
“Maybe because the walls are made of hay?” Kate’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as she bites into a taco, not waiting for me. “Mmmm, so good. I’m so busy these days, it is hard to find time for a good, sit-down meal.”
I make a mental note to put a stop to that as soon as possible, even if it means hiring another person to help with the house. Kate makes everything seem so seamless that it is easy to forget that a lot of hard work goes into preparing meals, keeping the drafty cracker-box of a house clean, and preventing Cece from endangering herself.
“Maybe I should capture you for lunch more often,” I say, picking up my own taco.
“Yeff, pheef,” Kate returns, her mouth full of taco. She chews, swallows, and says, “I’m sorry. Not very polite of me, but these are so good! Yes, please, capture me for lunch. I would love to see more of what is going on.”
“I’m glad to be your tour guide anytime,” I say, scooching a little closer on the picnic table’s bench seat.
“That would be lovely.” Kate scoots over and leans into me as she reaches for one of the cartons of food.
I put one arm around her. She leans into me, while expertly using chop sticks to scoop noodles, vegetables, and tiny shrimp into her mouth. When she realizes that I am not eating, she holds up a large bite toward my mouth.
Obediently, I open up, savoring the moment more than the Americanized cuisine. Together, we polish off both cartons of food, then each pick up a cake pop.
“Odd sort of thing,” I say, looking at the iced pastry on its popsicle stick.
“Country fair food,” Kate explains. “Easy to hang onto while you walk around. Try it, you’ll like it.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “My name is not Mikey, and this does not look like green eggs or ham.”
Kate giggles. “Nope. But try it anyway.” She takes another bite of her cake pop.
I bite into mine. Mmmmm…it was good! Orange zest icing over marbled vanilla and chocolate cake. “What kind is yours?” I ask, after I have cleared my mouth.
“Red velvet,” she says. “Try a bite?”
“Sure,” I reply. Then trade her a bite of mine. It is a moment almost more intimate than having sex. Her warm body presses against me, trusting, confiding, while we trade food.
