side for several minutes while he scrambled for something to say.
“I hope the kids were good today,” he came up with finally. “I’m sorry about being late again.”
“Your kids are always good. They’ve never been a bit of trouble.”
He put the dishtowel down and looked askance at her. “Are we talking about the same kids?”
That musical laugh again. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I think we get to see kids at their best because they’re not tired or hungry or being told to do their chores. Kids are pretty good at playing Mom and Dad against each other. They know they won’t get away with quite so much in an environment like the daycare setting.” She sounded like a professor giving a lecture on childhood development, and he scrubbed hard at an already-dry frying pan, trying to keep a straight face.
She seemed not to notice but rinsed the last dish, setting it in the drainer. “Where do you keep your dishtowels? Mine’s a little soggy.” She held it up as if he’d need proof.
“Oh, they’re in the laundry room. Here…I’ll get you one.” Heducked through the doorway of the enclosed porch that served as the back entry and utility room, praying he could unearth a not-too-wrinkled dishtowel from the clothes dryer.
“Who’s the artist?” Her voice behind him startled him. She’d followed him to the door and stood looking past him at the easel with his half-finished canvas perched on it.
He shook his head. “That would be me—using the term artist very loosely. I thought I wanted to try my hand at oils. Took some art classes Jack Linder was teaching last fall. Discovered I probably wouldn’t want to quit my day job.”
She laughed, and he appreciated that she didn’t try to dispute him—or comment on his work at all. He didn’t know why he’d told her all that anyway. She probably didn’t give a rip.
He brushed past her, and she followed him back to the sink. Together they finished drying the dishes and she wiped off the few empty spaces on the kitchen counters. He desperately needed to recruit the kids to clean this place up. Maybe Saturday.
Harley toddled into the kitchen, looking cherubic in footy pajamas a couple sizes too big, thumb suctioned to her mouth. She popped her thumb out, though, when she saw Mickey, and came at her with her arms up.
He quickly intervened. “Here, Harley, let Daddy—”
But Mickey lifted the baby into her arms as if she were on daycare duty. “Well, don’t you look cozy. Are you all ready for bed, sweetie?”
Harley started wagging her head back and forth. “Uh-uh. No bed. No bed.”
“We’ll see about that,” Doug said, reaching out for her.
“Uh-oh, I guess that was the wrong thing to say.” Mickey gave Harley a hug before she handed her over to Doug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie. You’d better go to Daddy now. Miss Mickey needs to go home.”
Harley came to him happily, and Mickey looked thankful for a graceful exit.
He walked her to the door, suddenly embarrassed that she had to pick her way through a minefield of toys and junk in the living room. Six kids— five kids—could mess up a house in nothing flat, but Kaye would never have let things get this bad. Saturday, for sure. They’d get this place whipped into shape.
“Landon, turn down that TV. Are you done with your homework?”
“I have all weekend, Dad.”
Doug held the door for Mickey with one hand and snapped his fingers at Landon behind Mickey’s back. “See what I mean?” He gave her a sheepish grin.
She shrugged. “They’re angels for me.” Then looking uncomfortable, she took a step backward. “Well, good night.”
“Yeah, good night. Thanks again. For bringing the kids home…for helping with the dishes. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you for supper.” She waved over his shoulder. “’Bye, kids.”
They turned away from the TV long enough to return her wave. “’Bye, Miss Mickey.”
Doug waited at the open door until she was safely off the
“I hope the kids were good today,” he came up with finally. “I’m sorry about being late again.”
“Your kids are always good. They’ve never been a bit of trouble.”
He put the dishtowel down and looked askance at her. “Are we talking about the same kids?”
That musical laugh again. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I think we get to see kids at their best because they’re not tired or hungry or being told to do their chores. Kids are pretty good at playing Mom and Dad against each other. They know they won’t get away with quite so much in an environment like the daycare setting.” She sounded like a professor giving a lecture on childhood development, and he scrubbed hard at an already-dry frying pan, trying to keep a straight face.
She seemed not to notice but rinsed the last dish, setting it in the drainer. “Where do you keep your dishtowels? Mine’s a little soggy.” She held it up as if he’d need proof.
“Oh, they’re in the laundry room. Here…I’ll get you one.” Heducked through the doorway of the enclosed porch that served as the back entry and utility room, praying he could unearth a not-too-wrinkled dishtowel from the clothes dryer.
“Who’s the artist?” Her voice behind him startled him. She’d followed him to the door and stood looking past him at the easel with his half-finished canvas perched on it.
He shook his head. “That would be me—using the term artist very loosely. I thought I wanted to try my hand at oils. Took some art classes Jack Linder was teaching last fall. Discovered I probably wouldn’t want to quit my day job.”
She laughed, and he appreciated that she didn’t try to dispute him—or comment on his work at all. He didn’t know why he’d told her all that anyway. She probably didn’t give a rip.
He brushed past her, and she followed him back to the sink. Together they finished drying the dishes and she wiped off the few empty spaces on the kitchen counters. He desperately needed to recruit the kids to clean this place up. Maybe Saturday.
Harley toddled into the kitchen, looking cherubic in footy pajamas a couple sizes too big, thumb suctioned to her mouth. She popped her thumb out, though, when she saw Mickey, and came at her with her arms up.
He quickly intervened. “Here, Harley, let Daddy—”
But Mickey lifted the baby into her arms as if she were on daycare duty. “Well, don’t you look cozy. Are you all ready for bed, sweetie?”
Harley started wagging her head back and forth. “Uh-uh. No bed. No bed.”
“We’ll see about that,” Doug said, reaching out for her.
“Uh-oh, I guess that was the wrong thing to say.” Mickey gave Harley a hug before she handed her over to Doug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie. You’d better go to Daddy now. Miss Mickey needs to go home.”
Harley came to him happily, and Mickey looked thankful for a graceful exit.
He walked her to the door, suddenly embarrassed that she had to pick her way through a minefield of toys and junk in the living room. Six kids— five kids—could mess up a house in nothing flat, but Kaye would never have let things get this bad. Saturday, for sure. They’d get this place whipped into shape.
“Landon, turn down that TV. Are you done with your homework?”
“I have all weekend, Dad.”
Doug held the door for Mickey with one hand and snapped his fingers at Landon behind Mickey’s back. “See what I mean?” He gave her a sheepish grin.
She shrugged. “They’re angels for me.” Then looking uncomfortable, she took a step backward. “Well, good night.”
“Yeah, good night. Thanks again. For bringing the kids home…for helping with the dishes. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you for supper.” She waved over his shoulder. “’Bye, kids.”
They turned away from the TV long enough to return her wave. “’Bye, Miss Mickey.”
Doug waited at the open door until she was safely off the
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