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“You’re good enough.” I run my finger over the shell of Maisie’s ear. “This sweet girl is lucky to have you as a mom.”
“This is hard work, Beau. The hardest I’ve ever worked in my life.”
I cup her shoulder and give it a squeeze, gliding my hand to her neck to give it a quick massage. She moans, eyes rolling to the back of her head as I work my fingers. “There. Your pat on the back. I’ll be giving them to you often from now on.”
“Single-mom seducer,” she says, eyes still closed. “That should be your new nickname.”
“Making coffee and breakfast would probably send you right over the edge, huh?”
Bel cracks open an eye and grins. “You spoil me.”
“Only what you deserve.” I lean in for a quick kiss. “Still like your coffee with cream and sugar?”
“Oh, yeah. Thank you, Beau.”
I put on a pot of coffee, then open the fridge. I had it stocked the day Annabel drove up to the mountain, so I know she’s got eggs, butter, and bread.
I get lucky and find some blackberries, too, along with heavy cream and leftover caramel sauce that looks like it went with a dessert someone took home from the restaurant.
“Bread pudding,” Samuel says when I call him for some ideas. “Cube the sourdough, throw in the cream, eggs, and some sugar, top with the berries and sauce, and you are good to go. Bonus points for whipping the rest of the cream and putting a dollop on top. PS, fuck you for waking me up at this ungodly hour.”
“Fuck you right back.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I grab the ingredients from the fridge. “And thank you.”
“Anytime.” He groans, and I imagine him sitting up in bed for a big stretch. “So you and Annabel getting married now or what?”
“Nothing’s changed.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily. “We’re just enjoying the time we have together before she heads back to Charlotte. She’s got a life there, you know.”
“Yep. And your life is ending. Blah, blah, blah. Aren’t y’all tired of those excuses?”
“Nope.”
“I give it a week.”
“What?”
“It’ll be a week before y’all realize you’ve got your heads up your asses. What’re you gonna do then? When you realize you’re head—which is now out of your ass—over heels for each other?”
My gut seizes. I feel disgusted with myself all of a sudden. Maybe that’s why I’m honest about my feelings for the first time since Bel got here.
“She’ll be okay,” I say, setting the carton of eggs on the counter. “But me? I’ll die, probably. Live forever knowing I missed my chance at happiness.”
“Christ, that’s bleak.”
“Life is bleak when you’ve got a brain injury and a family history of mental illness.”
Samuel lets out a breath. “Keeping Bel out isn’t gonna change your circumstances. But letting her in? That just might help you face those circumstances with a little more grace, a little less darkness, and a lot more hope.”
I drop the half gallon of cream on the floor, curse, and pick it up. Luckily, it didn’t spill. I’m gonna need a good bit of it for Samuel’s recipe.
“What do I do with the berries again?”
“Start by making the custard. Grab a saucepan…”
I’m able to focus as Samuel walks me through each step. But once the bread pudding is in the oven, my mind predictably wanders.
What he said about letting Annabel in, it makes me think of the farmhouse for some reason.
Maybe because I’ve been hanging out with Maisie lately. She’s gonna grow up somewhere. Create memories there with her mama and whatever siblings come along. Just like I did.
It hits me. The realization that I’ve assumed I’m done making memories of my own. Part and parcel of preparing for my slide into the dementia and depression that claimed Daddy’s life.
That is bleak.
My heart wants none of it.
It wants more of this. The savory-sweet smell of the bread pudding baking in the oven. The sound of Maisie’s giggles and Annabel’s teasing, merry enough to float in from the bedroom.
Sunrise in my eyes, making me blink as I stare out the window above the sink.
All day.
I have all day to spend with my best friend and her sweet baby, eating good food, enjoying good spring weather, having good sex.
I sip my coffee, and I can’t help but think that this is it.
The good life.
Thirty-six fucking years of searching, and I’ve found it. Just when I’ve given up on life in general.
The universe is one sick bastard.
Annabel breezes into the kitchen. She’s in a robe with her baby on her hip and hair in a messy knot on top of her head. She’s smiling, all white teeth and flashing eyes, and for a handful of heartbeats, I can only stare.
“You okay there, killer?”
When I hand her a steaming mug of coffee, our fingers brush. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
