Good grief, this child. “You threw up into a mixing bowl.”
The hallway was an apocalyptic scene with blankets and soiled clothing everywhere. Lightning flashed through the foyer windows as I reached the door and opened it.
Winnie stood on the porch beneath a black umbrella, dressed head-to-toe in dark layers with rainwater clinging to the edges of her coat.
I nearly fell to my knees and wept. Instead, I laughed. I was so glad to see her, I wanted to kiss her.
“Good morning,” she said gently.
“You came,” I said, and immediately felt like an idiot. Of course she came. She worked here.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said.
A loud crack of thunder reverberated through the house, and upstairs, Billie shrieked.
Winnie stepped inside smoothly, closing the umbrella with practiced efficiency. Her eyes narrowed. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I did look terrible, but that was what three vomiting children and no sleep did to a person. I also smelled gross.
Winnie handed me a thermos before removing her gloves.
“What’s this?”
“Tea.”
I unscrewed the lid. Peppermint and ginger steam drifted upward, the scent soothing me.
“You’re an angel sent here to save me from the madness,” I muttered.
“What’s going on? How are the children?” she asked.
“Alive. All three of them have a stomach bug. The situation remains tenuous.”
“Mm.”
Another crash of thunder rattled the windows.
“The storm is hungry!” Billie yelled.
Without missing a beat, Winnie called, “Then we shall not let it into the pantry.”
A brief silence, then Billie’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Smart.”
I stared at Winnie. She looked entirely unbothered. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Speak fluent Billie.”
“She’s quite articulate once you accept that every sentence sounds like a prophecy.”
That startled a laugh out of me before I could stop it.
Winnie glanced toward the stairs. “Why don’t you take a shower?”
