Turning Thirty-Twelve by Sandy James Page A

me.”
    She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Can we order pizza now? Please?” She turned back to me and gave me a smile that showed all of her silver braces with tiny purple rubber bands. “What do you like on your pizza, Ms. Delgado?”
    “Pepperoni.”
    “Me too!” She turned back to her father. “That’s your favorite too, isn’t it, Daddy?” Her attention flipped back to me. “Daddy likes the same stuff you do. Pepperoni pizza.” She stopped, laying her index finger against her cheek as if in deep thought. “Oh! And he likes biology, too.”
    It suddenly occurred to me that Carly was matchmaking. She was a budding Yenta straight out of Fiddler on the Roof . God love her, she wanted me to like her father. That wasn’t something she needed to worry about. I already did.
    He reached up and ruffled her hair.
    She threw him a disgruntled glare and tried to comb her bangs back into place with her fingers.
    “I’ll go call Domino’s,” she announced. She started to run out of the foyer, but quickly whirled back around. “Breadsticks, too? And some cinnamon sticks?”
    Mark nodded.
    Carly was practically skipping when she left.
    “Sorry.” He took my hand and started to pull me out of the foyer.
    “Why? She’s wonderful.”
    He chuckled. “And a little too enthusiastic. She likes you. A lot. And she... Well, she misses her mother.”
    I’d forgotten all about his late wife. Didn’t Suzanne say she passed away because of breast cancer?
    A wave of sadness washed over me. I had a habit of absorbing other people’s emotions, and I could tell exactly how much the subject was still haunting Mark.
    “I’m so sorry about her mother.” Tears stung my eyes.
    “I still…” He swiped his hand over his face. “I miss her sometimes.”
    His long sigh sounded mournful to me. He must have loved his late wife a great deal. I wanted to pull him into my arms, stroke his hair, and tell him I would make it all better.
    But I couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that—because I wasn’t capable of making this better for him. Life could be so cruel sometimes. I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and fought my own tears.
    It was the best I could manage.
    Mark shook off his melancholy and he favored me with a weak smile. “Let’s go see what kind of junk food she’s ordered. Maybe we can pick a flick before she chooses something lame.”
    The house was beautiful. He led me through a dining room, a den, and a formal gathering room that looked like a damned museum. The carpet still bore the marks the vacuum left in its wake.
    I was about to make some smart-aleck remark concerning whether he suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder when it dawned on me that with Patrick and Nate gone there were probably several rooms in my house that I never set foot inside anymore. They were probably exactly like this room. I bit my tongue and enjoyed the rest of the tour.
    We settled in the kitchen. Mark pulled out a long-legged wooden barstool that was sitting next to a large island of cabinets. I took a seat while he poured soft drinks for the three of us. Carly scooted onto the barstool next to me, leaned her elbows on the counter, and stared at her father.
    He raised an eyebrow at her, held up his wrist, and pointed to his watch. She smiled and nodded.
    I realized I’d missed something. These two communicated well without words.
    Carly bounced off the stool and held out her hand. Mark pulled out his wallet, set a twenty-dollar bill on her palm, and shoved the wallet back into his pocket. She frowned, narrowed her eyes at him, and began to tap her toes on the tiled floor. He let out an exaggerated sigh before he fished his wallet back out of his pants. He pulled another twenty out and held it out to Carly. She snatched the bill from his fingers, kissed his cheek, and headed back toward the front of the house.
    The doorbell rang only a moment or two later.
    Mark smiled at my confused star. “She gets to keep the