Page 31 of Second Start: Family
While it cooled, he washed the bowl and utensils they’d used. She dried.
They hadn’t talked much making the cake and they didn’t now, but there was comfort in this silence.
After a couple false starts, he found a footed cake plate and took it down from a high cabinet. He washed and she dried that, too.
Then came the time to turn out the layers.
She watched his hands — big hands, showing the wear and tear of his occupation. Also competent hands — holding the rack over the pan, flipping it smoothy. She would have used hot pads. He didn’t seem to feel the need for them. Moving fast enough to avoid the heat. Or else his skin was toughened up by the hard, physical work he did.
She remembered the thread of blood on his thumb after he’d removed the splinter from her hand.
Barely a scratch.
Or he simply refused to feel pain.
What a useful capability that would be.
“What do you think? Lost some of that edge—”
“That’s fine,” she assured him. “You did great. They came out in one piece and no divots the frosting can’t fill. Now, some bakers say to chill the layers for two hours in the fridge.”
“Two hours?”
He looked so aghast, she chuckled. “It does cut down on crumbs in the frosting, but we don’t have to be that careful, we’ll wait a few minutes.”
“My kids are all for crumbs in the frosting,” he said. “It’s what they want above all else.”
“Kids want — need — security.” She regretted the seriousness immediately. She should have followed his lead.
Instead, his mood dipped to meet her words. “I know,” he said grimly.
“Not that kind of security. That’s not the most important kind.”
“Having food on the table’s pretty damned important.”
“It is. But not as important as the security of the child feeling loved. You could have a big, impressive house, chandeliers in nearly every room, the luxury car, and still not have a child who knew he was loved. Maybe no amount of reassurance would have—” She looked away as she broke off. “Anyway. They’re two separate things. And financial security can’t ever make up for the other kind.”
Slowly, he said, “You sound like you’re talking from some experience.”
She glanced at him, startled, then immediately away. It took her a beat before she said, “I do have some experience. My father died when I was very young. Later, my Gran, who lived with us. Then my mother at the end of my junior year in high school. But my older brother was there. Always there for me and Mom. Even after Mom died, I always knew I was loved.”
“You haven’t talked about him before.”
“No. No, I haven’t. He and I … Well, we haven’t always gotten along. He took the big-brother bit entirely too much to heart. Although that approach wasn’t just with me. Anyway, as I grew up — a bona fide adult in all ways except in my brother’s eyes — it became an issue. We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
“I’m sorry.”
She grimaced, but clearly meant the next words. “Yeah, me, too. Siblings can be hard. You don’t have any siblings?”
She asked it like she already knew the answer.
“Yeah. Get along fine. But I saw Annie — my wife — and her sister. Loved each other, I guess, but nobody could get under the other’s skin faster and hotter. I look at Molly and Lizzie and hope they never get that way.”
“They might. At least in their teens. But they also have a strong bond — all your kids do.”
“Can’t take any credit for that,” he said dryly. “Annie’s doing.” Clearly struck by a thought, he added, “And their own, I suppose.”
She nodded. “That’s what will carry them through. So don’t worry if there are teen strains. They’ll come back together.”
