Casey giggles. “Nooo!” She tugs at her loose hair.
With a sideways glance, I head into the kitchen. “Just checking.” I peer around at the clean countertops and the empty sink. Colton managed to find time to clean. “How about we make something for breakfast?”
She grins. “Can we have waffles?”
“Of course we can.” I feel confident with this promise, knowing I can make batter from scratch if they don’t have any. I step into the kitchen and wash my hands. “What’s your favorite meal of the day?” I ask. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner . . . or dessert?”
“Dessert!” she cries.
“Me too.” I rub my hands together and lick my lips like I’m ravenous. “My favorite is ice cream.”
Casey pushes a dining chair up to the counter and uses it to crawl up and sit on the edge, out of the way, and clearly a place she’s sat many a time. “Chocolate ice cream?” she asks.
“Ah! Yes! Chocolate, Rocky Road, Mint Chocolate Chip . . . I don’t discriminate.”
Her face contorts and she blinks at me. “What’s that?”
“It means I love all ice cream.”
“Me too!”
I reach for the refrigerator door and pause when I see that Friday, December 12, is circled on the princess calendar that hangs on the front of it. Daddy’s Bday is scribbled across three boxes in Casey’s hand.
“Umm, Casey? Is your daddy’s birthday tomorrow?” I can’t stop the ideas from forming.
Casey’s mouth widens into a huge grin. “Yes. We should make him a present!”
I’m nodding, pulling out milk and butter and eggs. “Yes, we should. How about a big pink birthday cake, too?”
“Really? You can make one?”
I nod. “Darling, I’m the queen of baking. We can even cover it in frosting.” I pull a mixing bowl from one of the cupboards.
Casey watches my hands. “Those are pretty,” she says, pointing to my nails.
“Why, thank you. Do you like purple?”
Casey tries to peel a banana from the fruit bowl beside her. “Yeah, but I like pink and green and brown, too.”
“Brown, huh? Cool.” I crack an egg into the bowl, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she formulates her next question.
“Can you make mine pretty?” She looks down, analyzing her own tiny fingernails.
Uncertain if there’s a little-girl age limit for getting fingernails painted, I stall. “Well, I don’t know. We should ask your dad first, I think.”
“Okay,” she says sadly, then she brightens. “Are we going to take his cake to him?”
I love this kid. “Why, Casey, I think that’s a fantastic idea. We’ll take his big pink cake to the shop so he can blow out his candles. He’ll be so embarrassed,” I confess, giggling the last part.
Breaking another egg into a bowl, I realize something. “Hey, Case, do you guys have Christmastime at your house?”
She nods and peels her banana further down and takes a small bite. “We have a tree at Mommy’s house.”
I glance at her. “Why don’t you have a tree here at Daddy’s?” I exchange the banana in her hand for a wrapped stick of butter. “You’re in charge of that. Unwrap it and put it on this butter dish, please.” Setting her peeled banana on the counter, I search for a whisk.
“Daddy says we’ll get one soon.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he wasn’t expecting you to be sick, huh?”
She shakes her head.
“Well, it’s good that he’s waiting for you to get better. Picking out a tree is the best part.” She looks up at me and nods, but I highly doubt shopping for Christmas trees trumps her joy in opening presents. “Well, you’re better now. He’ll probably get you one soon. My friend Sam has a place we can go and cut down whichever tree you want.”
“Can we make orn-ments,” she struggles to say, “like the ones I made in school?”
The list of things to do today seems to be piling up faster than I can even finish breakfast. “I don’t see why not, but we’ve got a lot to do today, so we better get busy.”
“Okay!” she chirps, and I can’t help the tiny tug in my chest as I remember my first memory of Christmas, when David and I spent an entire day baking clay ornaments with our mom.
Thirty-Three
Mac
After nearly a half hour of trying to figure out Casey’s car seat situation, she helps me get the correct belts latched and tightened, and we’re on the road. She’s wrapped warm and tight in her snow clothes, diligently watching the cake on a plate in the seat beside her as I drive as carefully and smoothly as possible to the shop.
“We can’t let it fall, Case. If it even looks like it might, tell me and I’ll pull over. Okay?” I watch her in the rearview mirror, her eyes fixed on the cake. I smile. “Do you think it turned out okay?”
She finally looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “It’s so pink!”
I grin. “Perfect, right? But you can only have a small piece right now, while you’re sick, okay? I probably let you eat way too much frosting as it is.” She looks like she might burst out in tears. “But,” I say quickly, “we’ll save you a big, giant piece for later. Sound good?”
She purses her lips and finally nods. Tears averted.
“Okay,” I breathe, strategically pulling into the shop parking lot to avoid potholes and snow-covered debris I might not be able to see. I turn the Jeep and heater off and climb out. “I’ll come around and unbuckle you. Hold on.”
The cold wind is unyielding today, whooshing past me, trying to throw me off balance, but I power through. When I get to Casey’s side of the Jeep, I open the door and make sure her hat’s on, her ears are covered, and her scarf is wound around her nice and protective-like, then I help her out of her seat. “Okay, now you’re in charge of holding the candles,” I say, handing her a bag containing the assortment I could rustle up between her house and Nick’s. She peers inside the bag at a half-empty carton of Cookies ’n’ Cream from Nick’s freezer. “It’s not much, but we’ll make it work, right?” Time only allows so much when you’re baking with a kid whose question-asking rate averages a dozen a minute.
She nods, something I’ve come to rely on and expect. “I like hanging out with you,” I say as I pick up the cake plate and we cautiously make our way to the front door. “You agree with everything I say.” She nods again and I smile. “Alright, careful steps. If you fall, your dad will hate me.”
I stop at the glass door and Casey is already wrestling to open it. “Why, thank you.” I hold the cake on the plate as evenly as I can so as not to tip or drop it. Casey finally manages to haul the door open enough for me to squeeze past. She grunts and groans and lets it swing shut after she steps inside. The door buzzer goes off, but knowing the guys, I doubt anyone heard it.
After setting the cake down on the counter, I remove a layer of warmth so I can function properly. “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”
“It’s warm,” Casey says, and I lift her up onto my desk to stand there and help me.
“God, you’re heavy,” I mutter.
“Here’s your crap,” Casey says, handing me the bag.
I snort a laugh but try to swallow it away. “I shouldn’t have used that word earlier, Casey. Don’t tell your dad, okay? You can’t say it anymore.”
She nods, again, an impish smile creeping its way across her face. I’ve come to realize she likes secrets. I think it makes her feel more like a big girl.
I give her a quick wink and we pretend like it never happened. “Okay, we have . . .” I pull out a half-melted white and green striped candle, then a sparkly pink one. “Two regular candles and, let’s see, a large number three.” Flattening my palm, I hold them out to her. “You can stick them wherever you like.”
Thoughtfully, Casey stares at the cake, deciding where on its uneven pink surface she wants to put the candles. It’s the worst-looking cake I’ve ever baked, but it was the most fun to make. As I wait for
Casey, I peer around my office. Although the lights are on, they didn’t bother turning my computer on today. I hear the compressor and air guns going off in the shop, remembering Jesse’s reaction and worried it’s too loud in here.
“Does this place hurt your ears, Casey?”
She shakes her head, distracted. “There!” she sings, setting the number three in the middle. She doesn’t push it in hard enough and it falls over. “Uh-oh,” she says and picks it up.
“Shove it in with a little more gusto this time,” I say, realizing she probably has no idea what the hell that means. But she shoves it in alright, nearly a quarter inch into the top of the cake. I watch with amusement as she decides where to put the other two candles.
My father’s shadow precedes him as he steps into the office, wiping his hands off on his grease rag. “What’s going on in here?” he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I thought you were off today.” He glances from the pink cake to me. “Who’s turning five?”
I laugh. “Colton. It’s his birthday tomorrow, apparently, and these are all the candles we could find.”
“Thank God it’s not for me,” he grumbles and takes a step closer, his mustache moving as his mouth widens in a smile. “And you must be Casey?”
She nods, suddenly bashful.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says. I’m starting to think I was the only one who didn’t know about Casey.
“Casey,” I say. “This is my dad.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Casey.” He offers her his giant hand. “How are you feeling?”
She takes his hand without a second thought and shakes it. “Good. My throat doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Well, I’m glad. Now you can have some cake.” He looks at me again. “Do you need some plates?”
“Yes, please, and rally the guys over to Colton’s stall, please. We’ll meet you over there.” I look at Casey. “You ready?” I help her off the desk and onto the ground. “Watch for him, we don’t want him ruining the surprise.”
She’s filled with uncontainable excitement, jumping up and down as she diligently keeps an eye out for her dad. “I think he’s coming,” she says urgently, just as I’m finishing lighting the candles. She stands on her tiptoes and peers around the door. “Never mind, he turned around.”
As carefully as possible, I pick up the plate and walk toward the door. I peer outside, watching as Reilly, Bobby, Felix, and my dad—all grinning like buffoons—make their way over toward Colton. They’re going to razz him and give him so much shit, it’s going to be fantastic. We head out there and Colton notices my dad first. He’s about to say something when he sees the rest of them. He looks pensive.
“You weren’t going to tell us,” my dad says, and Colton looks completely baffled. Then he spots us girls, Casey jumping like a bean at my side, and then he registers the cake and sparkling candles. At first he just stares at us, processing, then his cheeks turn beet red.
“Great,” he mutters, embarrassed but smiling as we all start singing happy birthday to him. His hands are on his hips as he patiently waits for us to finish singing, and then, finally, he blows out his candles.
“Happy birthday, Daddy.”
Colton kneels down and wraps his arms around her. “Thank you, Casey baby. What a nice surprise.” He glances up at me, but my grin begins to wane. There’s a hint of something in his eyes I wasn’t expecting, and I get a stomach-churning feeling it’s not good. He pulls away and smiles for Casey. “You know my birthday isn’t until tomorrow, right?” he says.
“We wanted to surprise you.”
Trying to keep things jovial, I force a smile and walk back to the parts counter where my dad set all the paper plates and forks.
“Pink is a good color on you,” Reilly says, and I hear him chuckle.
“Thanks,” Colton says as they come up behind us. “It’s my favorite color.”
“So, how old are you now?” Felix asks.
When I look at them, Reilly’s clasping Colton’s shoulder. “I was just wondering the same thing. I noticed some gray hairs the other day.”
“Twenty-eight,” he says. “Though sometimes I feel a helluva lot older.”
“After an accident like the one you had, it could be worse,” my dad says, and I try not to be curious about any of that right now. I have an awkward lunch hour to get through yet.
The guys laugh and banter back and forth while my dad and I carve up the cake. “Dad, can you grab the ice cream out of the office, please?”
“I’ll get it!” Casey chirps and runs back inside.
Colton steps up to the counter, and I hand him a piece of cake before he can say anything. “This piece is for you.” His eyes linger on me and to my surprise he smiles a little. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m definitely surprised.”
I wave my hands over the cake. “Casey made it special.”
Her tiny footsteps grow louder as she pads closer. “Here you go,” Casey says. She looks up at her daddy. “I can only have a little bit, because I’m still sick, but Mac says we can save some for later.”
He lifts Casey up into his arms. “I think that’s a good idea. You sure made a pretty cake, Case. Good job.”
“Mac taught me. And she’s going to paint my fingernails later, too.”
Helping or hurting, Casey? I’m not sure. I fumble to get another slice of cake onto a plate for the guys before I glance up at him. “I said we have to ask you first,” I clarify.
His eyebrow raises.
After everyone has what they want, they disperse with mouthfuls of sugary greatness, all of them complimenting Casey on baking the best pink cake they’ve ever had—in their entire lives.
“We made waffles,” Casey tells Colton, dropping her empty plate into the trash can. “We listened to Christmas music—oh, Daddy!” Casey skips over to him, the sugar making her excitement more jubilant than usual. “Mac is going to get us a Christmas tree!”
Colton doesn’t say anything at first, but simply looks down at his daughter. “I see.” He doesn’t even bother looking at me; he doesn’t have to. I can tell by the stiffness in his voice that he’s not happy.
“Can we do it today, Daddy, please?”
When he finally peers over, his brow is puckered and his expression hardens around his eyes. He’s scowling at me again.
“I didn’t say I would get one, I just said you could probably cut one down on Sam’s property since Christmas is almost here.”
“Can we, Daddy?”
“Can we what, Case?”
“Can we go with Mac to cut down a tree?”
“Not today, sweetie, but we’ll get a tree soon, okay? I promise.”
“I’ll—ah—clean this stuff up and get her back home,” I say quickly and begin collecting the dirty paper and plastic and dump it in the trash.
When Casey begins to whine and I feel a tantrum coming on, I know I’m in for it. I head into the break room to find some plastic wrap or a container to put the rest of the cake in. Just as I’m finishing up, I hear deliberate, familiar footsteps.
I ignore Colton at first, but when he doesn’t say anything, I turn around.
He’s leaning against the lunch table in the center of the room. “What are you doing, Mac?” he asks, the gaping distance between us a sure sign I’ve muddled all of this up.
“What do you mean?”
“I appreciate everything you did to help me this week, but you can’t make Casey promises and plan play dates. We’re”—he gestures between us—“not a thing.”
I recoil. “I know that,” I say. I can hear the wobble in my voice, the false certainty, and I know he can too. His words sting, even if I know they’re true, and I slam one of the drawers shut. “I just wanted to help.”
A flash of something even darker flashes across his features before his face hardens into a stony mask. “Well, stop helping. Please.” His voice is flat and he stares at me a moment longer, making me feel almost
nauseous, before he walks away.
I might’ve overstepped, but I’m not sure it warranted such a harsh reaction. It’s clear I’ve grown too comfortable around him these past couple days, and I forgot what an asshole he is.
Thirty-Four
Colton
“Daddy?”
I set another impeccably folded T-shirt on the laundry pile and glance at her. I smile. She’s holding her tongue between her lips as she colors in her animal book, very concerned with staying in the lines. “Yes, munchkin?”
The instant she looks at me, she starts laughing and points to my head.
“What?” Shrugging, I pretend I don’t realize there’s a tiny person’s shirt hanging off my head.
“That’s mine.” She laughs and tries to reach for it, but I duck out of the way.
“What are you talking about?”
She giggles and snorts and reaches for it again.
I duck away.
“The shirt on your head!”
“Oh!” I snatch it off and stare at it, flabbergasted. “This one with all the spaghetti sauce stains on it?”
She nods and yanks it out of my hand. “Yes.”
“Well, you touched it last. Now you have to fold it.”
She willingly accepts the terms of our biweekly game, and she starts folding it—the Casey way. When she’s finished, she sets it on my pile.
“Looks like we need to practice more,” I mumble, but I leave it there.
I eye her carefully as she chews on her fingernails, surprised how quickly she seems to be recovering. “Are you sad you’ll be out of school for a couple weeks for Christmas, Case? You won’t be able to play with your friends as much.” I know I’m looking forward to not having to drive thirty minutes in traffic to and from Benton every day to drop her off and pick her up.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 53