Page 15 of Molly
As if she were a cat herself, Chloe wormed her way between my legs and under the book, then proceeded to make herself comfortable on my lap. I smiled down at her and rearranged my arm at her back to give her support in her cuddled position.
Pete the Cat sang a song in the book about his groovy buttons. Did I know the tune the author had in mind when he wrote the book? No. Did I make something up on the spot as I read/sang to Chloe? Darn tootin’. Chloe answered appropriately when the book asked if Pete should get upset over losing a button, then I repeated the little song. She took the book from my hands when it ended then handed me the next.Piggie and Gerald.
We settled back in against the comfy sofa cushions. As I got to the point where Gerald revealed to Piggie how he’d broken his trunk, Chloe reached her fingers up and stroked my cheek.
My voice stumbled over the words as I read. Being petted felt weird but also nice. Her fingers rubbed from my temple to my jaw throughout the rest of the stories. I closed the cover of the last book and she laid her head on my shoulder, her palm pressed against my cheek.
“Your beard is soft.” Her breath tickled my neck. “Not scratchy like Daddy’s when he doesn’t shave.”
My throat closed around a puff of air and I sputtered.Oh, Chloe. How did that saying go? Out of the mouths of babes?
My hand inched up to lightly touch along my jawline. Baby-soft hairs moved with my manipulation, but beard? Really? Maybe I should pick up some wax at the store on my way home and say adios to the peach fuzz sideburns.
Pulling Chloe’s hand from my cheek, I managed to force a smile down at her. Definitely time for one of those redirects Mrs. Bardawski always said I should utilize more. “I think maybe it’s lunch time, hmm?”
She jumped from my lap and ran to the kitchen. Before I rounded the large island, she’d flung the refrigerator door open so wide I feared it would fall off its hinges. Thankfully the stainless-steel door didn’t ricochet back around and knock her in the head. After Ben’s panic this morning at seeing me at the hospital, a call informing him I’d let Chloe give herself a concussion probably wouldn’t go over so swell.
I reached for the jar of strawberry jelly beside a half gallon of milk. Thankfully I’d already settle on PB&J for lunch, because there didn’t seem to be a lot of variety sitting on the appliance’s shelves. “How does peanut butter and jelly sound?”
“With chips!”
I slid the vegetable crisper open and grabbed a bag of baby carrots. “With chips and carrots.”
“Yay!” Chloe raced under my arm and pulled out a chair from the eat-in kitchen table.
The jelly, carrots, and a loaf of bread went beside her plate, then I opened the pantry in search of peanut butter. Little flies didn’t buzz at me like in the cartoons when the door opened, but there also wasn’t a whole lot of food on the shelves. Not exactly old mother Hubbard, but closer to that than the food stores of a doomsday prepper. I grabbed the peanut butter, quickly slathered a layer and some jelly onto slices of bread, and slid a sandwich over to Chloe.
I remembered the tired bags under Ben’s eyes. The slope of his shoulders. He’d mentioned long shifts at the hospital, so he probably hadn’t had time to do much grocery shopping lately.
“You know what we should do, Chloe?” I said around a sticky mouthful of PB&J.
“What?” Her teeth crunched into a carrot.
Household chores like cleaning and cooking hadn’t been a part of the deal Ben and I had struck up—after all, he hadn’t advertised for a Mrs. Doubtfire—but determination to help him with more than just Chloe ground in me with conviction.
I pushed Chloe’s juice box closer to her so she could reach it. “We should do something special for your dad. Wouldn’t it be fun to surprise him with a nice dinner when he comes home from work?”
Her eyes grew round. “Yeah.”
“After lunch, let’s go to the store and buy the ingredients to make something really yummy.”
“Okay.” She munched on a chip. “What kind of 'gredients are we going to get?”
Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. “What do you think we should make for dinner?”
“Cake!”
Served me right for asking a four-year old. “Maybe we can make cake for dessert, but that probably wouldn’t be good for the whole meal.”
She shrugged and took another bite of her sandwich.
“What else do you like?”
“Pizza!”
At this rate I might as well buy a piñata and have a kid’s party. Note to self, don’t ask a child what to make for dinner. But Ididwant to cook something the whole Reed family would enjoy. Cooking a dinner that Chloe would turn her nose up at wouldn’t alleviate much stress from Ben’s shoulders.
This predicament called for advice from an actual parent. And since dinner was supposed to be a surprise, I couldn’t call Chloe’s dad. I pulled out my phone and dialed Nicole.
