A Cowboy in the Kitchen by Meg Maxwell Page B

stir-fry, po’boys, cold or hot chicken sandwiches and—” She stopped, realizing that he was staring out the window...at nothing she could see. He was definitely preoccupied. His gaze moved to the sink, where Annabel could see a cup with cartoon monkeys on it. “West? Are you all right?”
    He paced to the window, then over to the refrigerator, where he stared at the photographs and watercolors his daughter had painted. Then he titled his head back and closed his eyes for a second.
    Whatever was complicated about chicken salad was tearing West apart.
    â€œThis is what it’ll feel like,” he finally said. He paced the length of the kitchen. “This goddamned silence is what it’ll be like if they take her away from me. The lack of her, the weird quiet that comes from not hearing her voice, her saying ‘Daddy, look,’ every two minutes.”
    He grabbed an apple from a basket on the island and hurled it into the sink so hard it bounced back and landed on the floor. Daisy came over and sniffed it, then stared up at West. He kneeled down beside the dog and buried his face in her brown bristly fur, picking up the apple and tossing it in the trash. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
    Annabel froze, then kneeled down across from him and put her hand on his shoulder. “If who takes who away from you? Are you talking about your daughter?”
    He stood up and walked across the kitchen, then back to the other side of the counter, bracing his arms on the sides. “Lucy’s maternal grandparents. Raina and Landon Dunkin. They think I’m unfit to raise Lucy. They say they’re going to fight for custody.”
    She bolted up. “What? But anyone can see you’re a great father. I can see that and I’ve been back in town for three days. Even the little things—the way you played thumb war with her at Hurley’s tonight. Six times until your meals came. Letting her make a sundae out of her piece of cake.”
    He dropped down on one of the chairs and took a slug of his wine, gesturing for Annabel to come sit. “The Dunkins would say she shouldn’t have had that piece of cake, that it’s too much sugar. But then I let her add whipped cream too. God, maybe I don’t think. Maybe I don’t know how to do this, how to be a good father.” His jaw was set hard, his expression grim as he leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.
    She moved over with her own wine and sat down across from him. “Come on, a slice of cake? What could they really think is so terrible?”
    â€œThey came over earlier today when I burned my attempt at French toast—the kitchen was all smoky, the smoke alarm blaring. And before that someone at the pediatrician’s office tattled to them that Lucy was there today after falling out of a tree. She scraped up her leg pretty bad.”
    â€œI’ve had a few smoky kitchens in my day, and I’m a chef,” she said. “It happens. And tree scrapes? That’s childhood.”
    He seemed to calm down a bit, but then he stood up and started pacing again. “They think I’m unfit. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not the best dad. I know I’m not exactly a mother. But I love Lucy more than anything in the world. They can’t take her from me.”
    Suddenly she understood why making scrambled eggs and chicken salad was worth a thousand bucks. He wanted to be a better father to prove to the Dunkins that he could take care of his daughter.
    â€œShould I stop her from climbing trees? Should I make her wear dresses like Raina wants? Should I hire a housekeeper and cook even though the last one told Lucy she was a bad girl for leaving her action figures on the rug instead of putting them away? Another one forgot Lucy was allergic to soy and made her some supposedly healthy smoothie and Lucy ended up in the ER. I’m doing my best and it’s not good enough.