Page 23 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
“Yes,” I nod. “I don’t know where things are or what is supposed to happen when.”
Manuela gave me a rundown on how to use the dishwasher, the laundry facilities, and where all the cleaning supplies were kept. She also listed off the labor saving devices, such as the bread maker, Cuisinart salad maker, and some other kitchen appliances that were completely new to me.
“I keep all the manuals filed in a drawer beneath the serving island,” she says, “right along with my day book. But if you get stuck, feel free to call me at any time. My granddaughters and I aren’t going anywhere. Thanks to Mr. Charles, we have a state-of-the-art entertainment and phone system. We can even let the girls play together on the computer while we talk.”
“I’m sure Cece would like that,” I say. “She is bound to get lonely since we can’t go to the day care center.”
After a few more polite exchanges, we sign off, and Mr. Emory breaks the connection.
I frown at the screensaver landscape, biting at the cuticle of my thumb. It is a nervous habit that betrays my emotions when I’m puzzled or disturbed by something.
I’m startled out of my reverie when Mr. Emory asks, “Do you bite your thumb at me?”
I recognize the quote from Romeo and Juliet. I giggle, feeling my face grow warm, but return the quip in kind. “I do bite my thumb, but not at thee.” Then I add, “It’s a nervous habit, really. When I was a kid, my hands would chafe in the winter, and my cuticles would get rough. They caught oneverything, so I would bite them off. I do it when I’m thinking hard.”
“Good to know I’m not being insulted. Why are you thinking so hard?” Mr. Emory fixes his full attention on me. I am uncomfortably aware of the intensity of those storm-cloud gray eyes, framed with those ridiculously long eye-lashes. His expression is grave and expectant.
“Um . . .” That was me. Always ready with a literary quote, but slow to come up with a diplomatic way to express my thoughts. I go with just blurting it out. “Why would Manuela say that it is due to you that she has a state of the art system?”
“Ah. Easy to explain. She does most of our household ordering since both Em and I are . . . that is, we’re busy with careers. There were times when we needed to send material back and forth for approval, signatures, and so on. Plus, her daughters were going to college then and needed good computers and network access. I added some bells and whistles for her pleasure and that of her family, and made the bill for it part of my communications package.”
“But that isn’t all of it, is it?” I ask, watching his face.
“No,” he admits. “She’s been with us since Cece was a baby. Neither Em or I knew much about kids. She was hired as the cook, but she didn’t mind helping out with Cece or pitching in with other parts of the house. It’s my thank you to her for the good care she takes of us.”
My opinion of Charles Emory ratchets up a couple of notches. “I’m glad I can call on her to ask questions. I could probably have figured some of that out by exploring — like the field manuals — but it’s good to know without having to rummage through things.”
“Would you like for Manuela to continue doing the ordering? She has a virtual file of all the companies and knows what we usually get. You might want to talk somethings over with her, since she did a lot of cooking from scratch.”
A man who understood that shopping takes time and knowledge! Could anything be hotter?I smile at him with relief. “That would be great. She might have to dial back on anything fancy. I can boil beans and chop vegetables, but I’m not great at sauces or even at cooking pasta.”
He smiles at me, increasing his attractiveness tenfold, as the corners of his eyes crinkle up and the sad lines around his mouth smooth away. His strong features seem to soften without losing a shred of their masculinity. “Manuela could probably coach you through some of that. She was teaching Sherry to cook.” His tone lets me know that teaching the maid might have been an uphill battle.
“I’ll ask her,” I say.
Just then a corner of the monitor lights up, displaying Cece sitting up and stretching.
“Looks like it’s time for both of us to get back to work,” Mr. Emory says. He stands up and opens the office door. “We’re in here, Cece!” he calls.
There is a pattering of little feet, and Cece runs through the door and leaps at her father. “Daddy!” She crows.
Mr. Emory catches his daughter in mid-leap, before she can bump against the big desk. “Did you have a good nap?” he asks.
“I did!” she says. “Now I’m hungry!”
I stand up. “Then let’s go find something for you to eat,” I say.
“There’s a video telephone arrangement in the kitchen,” Mr. Emory says. “I’ll walk out there, and show you how it works. That way you can call Manuela to ask questions, and let Cece talk to her and her granddaughters without tying up the office phone.”
“Good idea,” I approve, noticing he did not demure at theidea of finding a snack for his daughter.Maybe I had been wrong about his child rearing practices?“Then we can take Gidget for walkies around the patio.”
“Ok,” Cece says, pulling her father by the hand toward the kitchen. He obediently goes with his daughter, leaving me to follow along behind.
I feel a worry in my middle unclench. It is going to work. I can do this; we will be alright.
Chapter ten
Charles
