Page 33 of Sew Matcha in Love
Performing for my girls and their dogs and being rewarded with hysterical giggles was the very definition of fatherhood joy.
The alarm went off too soon, and I’ll give them credit; they were determined to stick to their plan. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink when they ran to the downstairs bathroom, and we were ready for the dance party at five twenty-nine.
“Where’s the party?” I asked.
Isla shrugged. “In the front room?”
“Isla,” Amelie chastised, “Wynnie isworkingin there!”
“Let’s ask.” Isla ran out of the kitchen, Amelie hot on her heels.
I followed them across the vestibule and into the living room that Arwyn called the front room. A row of open trifold project boards propped up by stacks of books and ottomans separated Arwyn’s work area from the rest of the room. Laffy and Vennie scratched at them, barking and jumping.
Arwyn rose from the chair at her machine and faced us, gesturing to the makeshift fence. Wringing her hands, she apologized. “I hope you don’t mind. I had to keep them away from my work.”
“Not a problem at all. I should have anticipated that. I’ll order a gate tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that. I?—”
I held up my hand. “I want to.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Daddy, the schedule!” Amelie protested.
I grinned at Arwyn. “Want to join us for our dance party?”
“I’d love to. If your dad doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all. I can teach you my best moves.”
“Your moves are so bad, Daddy. But we’re glad you’re home,” Amelie said.
Home.Here, at 87 Idlewild Way, it felt likehome.Like I’d always imagined it.
On a rare occasion, Viki would drive the girls up to the cabin, but it was never like this: the homecoming my teammates who had families talked about and looked forward to.
This was the homecoming I’d been missing.
The homecoming I wanted.
The homecoming I couldn’t keep.
CHAPTER 11
Arwyn
Zaki took the girls with him to practice Saturday morning after their ballet class, and the house was so quiet I almost didn’t know what to do with myself. Penny wasn’t due until ten for her first fitting, so I decided to strip the beds and wash the sheets and towels. I turned the television on to the classical music channel and donned my nineteenth-century housekeeping apron.
Chores were more fun in character.
The washer and dryer were downstairs, so I removed the sheets off my bed and grabbed the bathroom and kitchen towels for the first load. I headed upstairs next and paused on the landing. The girls’ play space was immaculate. Every toy was on a shelf or neatly arranged in the window seat. The chairs were pushed in at the table, and there wasn’t anything on the floor for me to pick up or step on. We’d cleaned up last night—and every night—before bed, but I didn’t expect this level of tidiness after all the noise I’d heard while they were getting ready this morning.
Their room was just as neat. As I pulled back the comforter and blanket to remove the sheets and shook the pillows out of their cases, I thought about how easy these first two weeks hadbeen. Sure, we were busy, but it was agoodkind of busy. We’d settled into a routine and had even had some impromptu ballet practices to sharpen their skills for their first lesson since their recital in Denver last spring. With my experience, I was able to adjust and critique their positions and movements.
I gathered the linens in my arms and added the towels from their bathroom and walked to my dad’s—now Zaki’s—room. The door was open, so I dropped the girls’ linens outside the doorway and crossed to the bed. I hoped he didn’t mind that I was intruding.
I repeated the sequence of pulling back the comforter and removing the sheets and pillowcases. When I bundled them into my arms, I caught the faint scents of mint and eucalyptus mixed with something I couldn’t place, but it felt masculine. Aftershave? Beard balm? Whatever soap he was using, it smelled really nice, and familiar. Did he always smell like this and I just hadn’t noticed?
