by Staci Hart
I unwrapped another muffin. “Gee, Hannah, I’m not sure how having you around will work out for my waistline.”
She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Oh, I think you’ll be all right.”
Hannah hadn’t said a single salacious thing, but I couldn’t help feeling like there was some underlying meaning to her words. Maybe it was something in her voice, the hint of softness, or maybe it was the way she looked at me, like I meant something, like I was special. It made me feel like more, made me wish I were more.
Maybe I was high off her crack cakes.
More likely, I was just stupid.
“Do all the Dutch bake this well?” I asked, eager to halt the train of thought I’d found myself riding.
“I’m sure quite a few do. My grandfather owned a bakery, and my grandmother, mother, and aunt ran it after he died. Baking has just always been in the family, I suppose.”
“Do you enjoy it?” I asked as I took another bite, slowing down.
When she turned with the pan, her cheeks were high and rosy. “Oh, I love it. To take bits of things and turn them into something whole, something more. The time and care that goes into making something that brings someone else pleasure. The routine of it—measuring, stirring, kneading. The smells and the warmth of the oven … all of it. I love it.”
“Think you’ll take over the business?”
“No. My eldest sister and eldest cousin have taken over in our mothers’ places.” She sounded a little sad, and the thought that she couldn’t have what she wanted sent a bolt of irrational anger through me.
I frowned. “Well, that’s not fair.”
She opened the oven and met my eyes as she slid the pan in. “You sound like Sammy,” she teased.
“The kid’s got a point.”
“It would be nice, but I’m happy. And I’ll find a job that makes me happy. I’m sure of that.” She set the timer.
“Hannah, can we have cake tonight too?” Sammy asked.
She used her towel to wipe off his hands before dusting his nose. “Not tonight. It won’t be cool and ready to eat until you’re far away in dreamland.” She lifted him off the counter and set him down, picking up Maven. “Come, come. Let’s go take a bath, yeah?”
Sammy cheered, and Maven clapped again.
Hannah was still smiling when she looked back at me. “I’ll be back to clean up, okay?”
I nodded, feeling like I should step in, take over. But in the end, I just said, “Thanks, Hannah,” and watched her disappear.
The moment I was alone in the quiet kitchen, I was struck by a realization. I wasn’t miserable. For a minute, I wasn’t tired or angry or remorseful. I’d almost call it happy.
The moments had been so few and far between, and they always seemed to come with a price. Playing with the kids made me feel ashamed for not playing with them more. Talking with Katie reminded me of how alone I was. It was always something.
For a minute, for a little sliver of time, I felt like my old self, the old version of me who had thought he was happy, who had felt like he was enjoying life, who’d joked and laughed, and who hadn’t felt like scum, even if I was. I might have been in denial back then, but at least I’d found some semblance of joy in my life. The sight of my children happily helping Hannah bake, topped with Hannah’s easy smile and peaceful presence, made me forget all about the rest.
Of course, I still let Hannah take the kids upstairs, momentarily paralyzed by doubt in my abilities, the product of months of avoiding my responsibilities out of fear and guilt, which only made the guilt worse and the fear stronger. The cycle I found myself in was vicious, and I wanted out. I just had to figure out how to get out.
With a sigh, I looked around the mess in the kitchen. I might be a coward, but I was still a gentleman, goddammit. And so I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Hannah
I gently closed Sammy’s door, waving at him until the crack was too small for us to see each other anymore. Maven had gone to sleep easily after a book in the rocking chair, but Sammy had required three books, a drink of water, and a trip to the bathroom before he let me go. I waited a moment longer outside his door, just in case. And, when I was fairly certain he wasn’t coming back out, I headed downstairs.
It had been a good day, a fun day, but a tiring one. And it wasn’t over, I realized, as I remembered the mess in the kitchen. But when I turned the corner, the kitchen was quiet and spotless.
“Huh.” I smiled, hands on my hips.
And then I went in search of Charlie to offer my thanks.
He wasn’t in the living room, and a glance upstairs told me he wasn’t in his room. So, down the stairs I went to the ground floor, heading for his office. But when I passed my room, I found him in the last place I’d expected, kneeling in front of my fireplace, arranging logs.
The surprise at seeing him in my room, uninvited, sent a shock through me, buzzing over my skin, raising the hair on my arms and the back of my neck.
He smiled when he saw me standing in the hall outside the doorway, but when he noticed that I was rooted to the spot, drowning in unkind memories, his smile faded.
“Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.
“What are you doing in my room?” I asked, my voice quavering just a little, just enough to betray me.
He heard my fear and bolted to his feet with wide eyes. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here without … you know, without your permission, without asking you. I was just going to bring some wood to your door, but it was open, and I thought … well, I just thought it would be nice for you to come in to a fire since I knew you wanted one, and you’ve done so much for me. Plus, the flue is a little dodgy, and I just … I should go,” he rambled, running his hands through his hair as he started for the door.
But as I looked him over, I knew he meant every word he’d said. Nothing was written in his body and face and eyes but apology and concern.
I reminded myself that he had no idea about Quinton, who would have advanced on me with single-minded determination, not keeping his distance, like I was an animal set to bolt.
It wasn’t so far from the truth.
But I wasn’t afraid of Charlie. I was afraid because of Quinton, and the difference between those two sentiments settled into my mind and heart.
I stepped into the room, palms out, voice soft. “No, I’m sorry. That was kind of you to help.”
He stopped, looking unsure. “Of course. I’m just … I didn’t mean to overstep.”
I offered a smile, and he relaxed, smiling back.
“It’s all right. Thank you for cleaning up after me, too.”
He shrugged and glanced into the fireplace. The light was dim, but I thought he might be a little flushed. “I could say the same. The kids go to bed all right?”
“Just fine.”
“Thanks for sending them down to say goodnight. Jenny never did that.” Some thought passed behind his eyes but slipped away.
“Of course.”
“Let me show you how this works.” He waved me over, and I walked to him, kneeling by his side as he lit a log covered in a paper bag. “I use these starter logs because I’m lazy.”
I chuckled.
“There’s a whole stack of them in the shed with the wood. I’ll leave you some matches, but it’s pretty straightforward. Put this one on the bottom, stack wood on top, light the starter, and voila.” His smile fell when he saw my face. “Wait, do you know how to do this?”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. “I’ve started a fire or two.”
“I bet you have.” His voice had a wondrous, velvety sheen on it. When I met his eyes, he looked away with a snap. “Not that it’s all that complicated. Anyway, here’s how the flue works. It’s right here.” He showed me a small lever. “Open to the right, closed to the left. But it won’t really move unless you jiggle it downward first. Otherwise, it’s easy as pie. Or kwarktaart.”
I laughed again. “Thank you, Charlie.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll bring in some more wood for you tomorrow. That way, you can make a fire whenever you’d like.”
He stood, dusting off his hands, and I stood, too. We’d been close when we were kneeling, putting us almost too close, but neither of us stepped back, leaving us just inside of what should be comfortable. It was enough of an invasion that my nerves triggered in succession down my back and arms to the tips of my fingers—not with warning or danger, but unexpected desire.
A moment hung between us, just a few heartbeats with our eyes on each other.
And then he looked away.
I took a step back, embarrassed and confused.
“I’ll … ah,” he stammered. “All right. Well, um, sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight.” My cheeks blazed, and I was thankful the room was fairly dark.
He nodded, and I thought he might be blushing too as he stepped around me.
I watched him go and let out a breath.
He didn’t go upstairs but back into his office. I heard the door close down the hall. The thought that he was still so close made me anxious, made me wonder, sent the questions zipping around my head like hummingbirds. He hadn’t intended for … whatever that was to happen. He’d honestly been trying to be thoughtful, and he was. He was thoughtful and handsome and charming, and he wasn’t Quinton.
And I’d wanted him to kiss me. For one brief, careless moment, I’d thought he would, wished he would.
That admission left me reeling.
So I closed and locked the door and changed my clothes, slipping into bed with a book to set my mind to rights while the fire crackled, hoping to turn my thoughts to anything besides the man sitting on the other side of my wall.
6
So Simple
Charlie
The next morning, I was up and in my office before anyone was awake, attacking my work with newfound enthusiasm and a plan in mind. Because I wanted to feel like I’d felt the night before in the kitchen again, and there was only one way to get that back.
Today, I would take a few breaks and be present. Today, I would change, work be damned. Today would mark the first real attempt. Because change wouldn’t happen on its own. I had to make it happen. And to make it happen, I would have to put boundaries in place, starting with my weekends.
I checked the clock around eleven that morning and closed my laptop, pushing away from my desk and heading up the stairs in search of my children.
When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I found them sitting at the table with their lunches. And when they saw me, their smiles validated my grand plans with unwavering certainty.
“Hey, guys,” I said, smiling back as I walked over to them, ruffling Sammy’s hair when I passed him.
“Hi, Daddy,” he said.
Maven’s mouth was full, so she just waved, and Hannah smiled at me from the island where she was setting up a spread for sandwiches.
I snagged a grape off Maven’s plate and popped it into my mouth. She handed me another, which I accepted.
“Thanks, pumpkin.”
“Are you done working?” Sammy asked hopefully.
“’Fraid not, bud. But I thought I’d come have lunch with you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah! Want a Nilla Wafer?”
“Psh, obviously. And I thought we could play for a little bit before I have to get back to work. What do you say?”
He nodded, grinning. “We can play trucks! You be the bulldozer and I’ll be the tractor and Maven can be the monster truck and Hannah can be the ambulance because she helps people.”
“Perfect,” I said on a chuckle.
A burst of color caught my eye. A vase on the windowsill behind the table held a spray of red and orange tulips.
“Those are beautiful,” I said, gesturing to them. “Where did they come from?”
“Oh, I picked them up this morning,” Hannah said with that ever-present smile.
“Feeling homesick?”
“Always a little. But I love having fresh flowers in the house, something bright and delicate and alive. Well, maybe not alive anymore, but it feels alive, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I said as I moved to her side.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” Hannah asked.
“Nah, I think I can manage, thanks. How’s it going this morning?”
“It’s good. We went to the park.”
“I rode my bike!” Sammy crowed.
“Did you? No bumps or scrapes?”
“Nope!”
“I’m impressed. Maybe next time I can come too,” I said, hoping it was something I could deliver as I reached into the bread bag for a stack.
Hannah turned to the cupboard, returning with a plate for me.
“Thank you.”
She was still smiling, standing at my side, assembling her sandwich. It was so mundane, something completely and utterly boring, but like the weirdo that I was, I found myself watching her hands as she folded cold cuts. We worked around each other—not that it was complicated, but there was a sort of rhythm between us, a natural pace wherein I used what she wasn’t and finished just as she needed what I had. I wasn’t sure why I noticed it, but I did, and I appreciated the simple synchronicity of the moment, a breath where things were easy.
I passed her the mustard as she handed me the ham. “So, I was thinking …” I paused.
“Oh, were you?” She glanced over at me with a hint of mirth at the corners of her lips.
“I know. I almost sprained something.”
Hannah laughed gently.
“If it’s okay, I think I’d like to try to handle bedtime tonight.”
“Of course it’s okay; they’re your children.” That time, her laughter was sweet.
“Do you … would you … do you think you could maybe …”
She shifted to face me, her eyes full of encouragement.
“Would you mind … helping me?”
Hannah nodded, her smile opening up. “That’s what I’m here for. Just let me know what you’d like me to do.”
I smiled back. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds stupid. I just … I haven’t done this much on my own, but I’d like to start.”
Her eyes softened, caught by slanting light, lighting up with sunshine. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said simply.
I didn’t speak.
“There’s no right or wrong, and they don’t care about anything other than you being there. It’s simple enough; you only have to try.”
“Is it really that easy?”
“It really is. You’ll see.” She reached for my arm and gave it a squeeze that wasn’t meant to be anything but friendly but held something more, something in the pressure in her fingertips and the depths of her eyes.
It was something I did my very best to ignore. But I felt the heat of those fingertips long after they were gone, even as we sat across the table from each other eating lunch, the tulips in the vase behind her bowing their long heads as the sunlight illuminated them, exposing what was hidden within their petals.
7
The Devil in the Details
Charlie
Over the span of the next two weeks, Hannah taught me more about parenting than I’d learned in five years, and at the heart of it all was the simple truth she had offered.
I only had to try.
The kids didn’t notice when I fumbled; they only noticed that I was there.
On the weekends when I was home, I would take over bedtime duties with Hannah by my side. I learned how to wash Maven’s hair without getting soap in her eyes. I knew how to match their pajamas and what their favorite books were. I even memorized Where the Wild Things Are and Pete the Cat since Sammy insisted on reading any book three times in a row—at minimum. I knew their favorite toys to sleep with and how long it would take to rock Maven before she fell asleep.
It was a wealth of knowledge that made me feel rich and full and satisfied.
My old
nanny hadn’t cared like Hannah did. Don’t get me wrong; Jenny had loved the kids but in a no-nonsense way. But it just seemed to be in Hannah's nature to love freely and easily.
The thought sent a fresh flash of guilt through me. Because my wife hadn’t even been able to care, not like Hannah did.
Our children had been an inconvenience to her, too loud and noisy and demanding for someone such as her. No baths had been given or songs sung, no books read or kisses goodnight. She’d put that on her sister instead.
When I’d imagined my life, my family, my future, I’d imagined something like it had now become and with someone like Hannah. I didn’t mean Hannah herself, but the idea of her—the idealistic, innate happiness she sparked in my children, in me, in the air.
Before I’d been old enough and experienced enough to know better, I’d turned down a path that led to so much pain and unhappiness. I’d chosen unwisely, and while that union had brought me my children, I’d missed the full extent of what could have been. It underscored my shortcomings, as if the universe wanted me to see all I’d lost and acknowledge it.
I saw it. I saw it, and it was so tangible, so real, it was staggering.
But that pain was balanced by the utter rightness of having Hannah there, of seeing someone, anyone, bring joy into my children’s lives, someone to give me peace of mind for their welfare with an instant, satisfying certainty.
And then there was Hannah and me.
The night I’d made a fire in her room was the first of many long, drawn out moments, moments I began marking time by over the course of those two weeks. She always seemed to catch me by surprise—the way she smelled, like vanilla and sugar; the blueness of her eyes, speckled with midnight, like a robin’s egg; her smile, easy and soft. So many times, I’d found myself close enough to her that I was stunned still and silent, and like a fool, I didn’t always pull away.
There were signs of her presence everywhere. Artwork she’d done with the kids covered my cubicle walls in a riot of color over the drab industrial gray. The vase on the window ledge in the kitchen always held fresh-cut flowers that she’d brought home. That morning, they were pink peonies, their buds still closed. The house always smelled like a bakery now too; she’d taken up baking almost every day when the kids were at school and then with the kids on the weekends. More mouth-watering pastries had come out of my kitchen than in the history of the hundred-twenty-year-old house, I’d be willing to bet.