As I buckle Junie into her car seat this morning, I get a “tank you, Daddy,” which is a pleasant change. She’s been fighting me about going to school the past few weeks. She loves school, and it’s good for her to be with kids her own age, but she loves the ranch and my family too.
The reason I don’t put her in full day preschool or daycare—right behind the fact I can’t afford the cost—is that she needs the lessons she learns at home as much as the socialization she gets from preschool. But making it all work takes a coordinated effort with my entire family. And most of the time, that coordinated effort looks a lot like juggling.
Except I’m not a juggler. I don’t like things up in the air, even when I know I’ll probably catch them. I like certainty, notprobability.
As I drive the dusty road surrounded by our avocado groves to the highway that leads to Flamingo’s, Junie calls from the back seat, “Can I have choco chips today, Daddy?”
“Sure, Bug!” I’m too happy to deny her something she loves.
Over the past week, Flo’s pancakes have become a part of Junie’s and my daily routine; not only because of her preschool’s later-start summer schedule, but also because it’s harvest season at the ranch and Mom’s too busy to help me out in the morning.
But mostly because of Frankie. She’s become a part of our routine, too.
Junie looks forward to seeing her as much as she looks forward to eating Flo’s pancakes. I’m only partial to one of the two, and it’s not pancakes.
Something shifted after our day at the cove and Hank’s. We can’t get enough of each other. When I’m at Flamingo’s, there’s no hiding the feelings growing between us. Pearl’s made more than one comment under her breath about us acting like “damned love-sick teen-agers.”
The Oatmeal Mafia has been more supportive, Gerry most of all, giving me all kinds of advice when Frankie’s out of earshot. Not all of its bad, but I’ll probably pass on their idea to take her on a “moonlit cemetery picnic,” no matter how quiet and romantic they think it would be.
But I’ve got to think of something good before I officially ask her out. Also, cheap because I’ve got about a dollar that’s not allocated to paying off my debt. And at a time Frankie’s not working and Mom and Dad can watch Junie for me.
So far those conditions have made steep obstacles, but I’m not giving up. Frankie’s the first woman I’ve even thought about since Kayla died. I rushed things with Kayla. I don’t want to make the same mistake again with someone like Frankie who’s the complete package: funny, kind, great with Junie, pretty.
Scratch that.
She’s drop-dead gorgeous.
She’s a freaking celebrity, after all.
Which may be the biggest reason I’m stressing about asking her out.
Junie breaks into her ABC’s at top volume, and I smile at her in my rear-view mirror as she kicks her feet almost in time with her uneven rhythm.
She pauses long enough to yell, “sing with me, Daddy!”
I sing along with her, both of us at the top of our lungs by the end. Then she demands we do it again.
I sometimes wonder what kind of Dad I’d been if Kayla were alive. I’d still be a single dad—she was moving out the day she died. I have no idea what custody would have looked like between us or if I’d even be back here in Serenity.
I do know Kayla would be proud of Junie, and I often wonder what Junie’s life is going to look like without her mom. My family is so good with Junie, especially Mom and Cassidy. They love her like she’s their own, but Mom’s already raised five kids and has a ranch to run. And Cassidy’s not around as much now that she’s gone back to Cal Poly.
Will I be enough for Junie as Mom gets older and Cassidy moves on with her own life?
A call interrupts my thoughts and my singing. I glance at the name on my phone and clench the steering wheel tighter in anticipation of bad news.
“Can you teach Daddy how to hum your ABC’s, June Bug?” I glance at her again, crossing my fingers that she’ll agree.
She presses her lips together, starts humming—still loud, but not as loud as she was singing. I let out my breath and take the call.
“This is the doctor.”
Even though I have a clinic in town, all my clients have my personal number because most of my work is house calls. In fact, everyone has access to my cell number since it’s postedright on the door of my clinic. I don’t want any animals going without care if I can help.
This call, though, is Donna Stevens, our closet neighbor who also happens to have enough experience taking care of her animals that she only calls a vet as a last resort.
“Hey Doc, think you could come out today?” Donna asks. “I’ve got a pink eye breakout with my cattle. I’m running low on antibiotic and could use some help administering it. Kids didn’t come home for the summer.”
Donna’s a single mom whose two boys are grown and off at college. They plan to come back to the ranch after they earn their degrees, but she’s on her own until then and doesn’t have extra income to hire help.
