“Can we bring her some?” Hannah asked.
I didn’t answer. I rinsed the grapes and put them on the table.
They each sat, still watching me.
“Why can’t I take guitar lessons?” Bethany asked.
She’d brought up the subject before. I could say I was too busy, she was too young, they were too expensive. But she was old enough to dig deeper. Not long ago, Wren and I had sold the Kinkade farming and ranching operation to one of my old classmates. I hadn’t wanted to give up the life, but she’d seen that after the divorce, I couldn’t balance the workload with being a single dad. She’d worried. She’d already lost her dream of retiring with Dad. I had to give her something to look forward to.
I’d bought the old Dunn place. It was smaller, more manageable, and I didn’t need employees. One wise investment took the pressure off production. I could relax and raise my kids.
Thanks to the sale, I could afford a lot of goddamn guitar lessons.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I finally said.
She grinned. I’d said maybe and they’d inferred yes.
“What should we bring her?” Hannah asked. “Can you make her cookies?”
“What about some sandwiches?” Bethany added.
“Fine. Whatever.” Guess we were going to the cabin.
My mood lifted and the day felt less dour.
No fucking way was I excited to be around June again. But I could gut through one more time seeing herbefore we went our separate ways for another fifteen years.
The girls threw themselves into making cookies. I monitored their progress, but as I helped them with each pan that came out of the oven, pressure built behind my skull. What if June was vegan or some shit? What if she’d cut out all sugar? Wasn’t she just interviewed about how she didn’t eat dairy or something?
Mymaybeshould’ve been ano. I was staying out of June’s life.
But what if she didn’t have food and was too stubborn to tell her family?
Irritated, I made some sandwiches, going off what I used to know about June. Details from high school. She liked real mayonnaise, lots of lettuce, a shitload of lunch meat, and one slice of cheese. I prepared two and shoved them in a Ziploc bag.
“I’ll get some fruit, Daddy.” Bethany grabbed a baggie.
“A basket!” Hannah sprinted up the stairs and came down with a wicker basket that they usually hauled their dolls in. Bethany was growing out of playing with dolls, much to Hannah’s heartbreak.
“We need something at the bottom.” Bethany ditched the grapes and rummaged through the drawers. She withdrew a cornflower-blue dish towel my ex had detested because it hadn’t matched the rest of our decor.
Once the towel lined the basket, the girls loaded their cooled cookies into baggies. They arranged the cookies, sandwiches, and fruit. Hannah got a can of sparkling juice and added it too.
A picnic basket. This would be a romantic gesture if I didn’t have two kids with me.
Whatever. It was their idea.
“Load up.”
They darted out the door and left me to carry the food. I set it on the front seat and started for the cabin.
Tension threaded through my back and shoulders. June’s car was gone from where it had broken down. Tenor had said they were towing it. One of the guys working for their ranch was a mechanic.
By the time we reached the cabin, my shoulder was cramping. My posture was too rigid. I rolled my arm and parked. Tracks from Tenor’s pickup were in the mud, but the dirt had dried quite a bit. The cabin was quiet and it was a couple of hours until dark. Was June inside?
The girls didn’t hesitate. They ran up the few steps of the porch and knocked. I hefted the basket and dragged my feet toward the door.
“Is she home?” Bethany went to the window and peered inside.
