Page 14 of Speak from the Heart

It’s strange that I trust Emily when I don’t even know her, but I get to work on the sink, checking the valves and then the connections. My initial eyeball assessment was correct. She needs a new faucet, which means she might need a new sink. I don’t think any modern fixture is going to match the angle needed to fit the ancient basin.

Suddenly, the voices coming from the porch behind me distract me. It’s actually only one voice that catches my attention. I’ve been in this house before, a long time ago, and I remember it has a weird connection between rooms. From the living room, you can walk under the staircase leading to the second floor and enter the dining room. It’s all encased in dark wood like a secret passageway or something. The dining room opens onto the screened-in porch, which can also be accessed via the kitchen. I look through the opening from the kitchen and see my daughter sitting close to Emily on a faded outdoor couch under three large windows.

Emily’s voice drifts through the room as she reads to my child, and since I don’t want her to know I can hear her, I tuck into the dining room and press myself against the wall to listen. She calls my daughter Katie bug. It’s too cute, and I can tell Katie loves it. Her voice soothes me as she reads Cinderella to my daughter. Did she just happen to have old fairy-tale books lying around this house? It’s strange how familiar I am now with these stories—and the reality that life does not match them.

“You know what I love about this tale? In the end she gets a prince and a great pair of shoes,” Emily teases, and I try to imagine what it might sound like to hear Katie giggle. Just a little titter, but there’s no sound.

“Those are beautiful shoes,” she coos to my daughter, and I recall Katie is wearing flip-flops with a daisy on the bridge by her toes. Speaking of shoes, I still have Emily’s—some strappy things in silver she could twist an ankle in. How she walked to the Tavern in those I have no idea. I’d still like to know what she was doing with Gabe, but it’s not my concern who he fucks.

The harshness of my thoughts seems like a bit much when I consider Emily as the recipient of his attention. She doesn’t seem like the type to fall for a fool like him, but who knows? I’m certainly not good at predicting what women will go for.

“She’s extra lucky to have a fairy godmother, don’t you think?” Emily carries on, holding up one side of the conversation as needs to be done with Katie. “Of course, a girl doesn’t need a prince to save her. Cinderella actually saves him because he marries the girl of his dreams instead of following his father’s edict.”

What the…? Way to ruin a fairy tale, lady.

“Emily.” I hear her grandmother admonish her. I imagine Emily’s a fiery thing with strong opinions on a woman’s right and a man’s place. Twisting ever so subtly, I hope to catch a glimpse of them without them noticing me. Fortunately, I get a quick look and find Katie practically sitting on Emily’s lap while Emily hugs the book to her chest.

That is one lucky book to be pressed to one ample set of breasts.

What am I thinking?

I scrub two hands down my face and roll back to my covert position.

A better question is why is my daughter sitting so close to this woman? Someone we hardly know. What’s the appeal here? What am I missing, and why is it bothering me?

Temporary. The word filters through my head. I don’t need Katie getting attached to someone who will leave.

“How about one more?” She pauses, and then says, “Do you know this one? Beauty and the Beast? It’s my favorite.” Her voice sounds soft and dreamy, and I wonder if she believes in fairy-tale crap. She doesn’t seem like a woman who would, especially after her comment about not needing saving from a prince.

I listen as she reads, and when she finishes, her voice rises on the words at the end—happily ever after.

Emily sighs loud enough I can hear. “I just love the Beast. He’s all rough on the outside but gooey in the center. Do you know anybody like that?”

She’s asking Katie, who she knows damn well won’t respond, but I reconsider the hitch to her voice. Is she implying she knows someone like that? Could she mean me? How would she have any idea? She doesn’t know me. I am rough on the outside . . .

And how are you in the middle, Jess?

I demand my brain shut off.

“I also love Belle. She’s pretty and smart. She’s tough toward that old Beast and she doesn’t take any of his sh—”

“Emily.” Her grandmother cuts her off before I need to intervene. I’m no prude when it comes to profanity, but I try not to swear in front of my child.

“Stuff, Nana. I was going to say stuff.” She’s teasing. It’s in her voice, and I hate that I recognize it so easily.

“Okay. Snack.” I hear the book tossed to the glass table before them. “And I should check on the Beast.” I should move. She means me. This is my warning, but I’m frozen in place. She rounds the corner and nearly plows into me against the wall.

“Jesus, Jess,” she hisses, glancing back at the porch and then stepping before me, both of us now hidden by the wall from the other room.

“Why are you doing this?” I blurt, trying to keep my voice low.

“Doing what?” she whispers, leaning toward me. My breath catches. She’s so close. She smells . . . like lemon cleanser and soiled water. It isn’t horrible, but it isn’t sweet either. My eyes lower to the water stains on her clothing, imagining how she must have fought with that water handle before it popped off. Another makeshift rain shower.

“Why are you being so nice to her?” My voice drips with a harshness I shouldn’t be using because she is being kind to my child.

“Should I be mean to her?” she mocks, twisting her lips while she addresses me. She shrugs as she crosses her arms. “She’s sweet.”

“How do you know? She doesn’t speak.” I hate the frustration in my voice and the way it sounds like I think something’s wrong with my child. There’s nothing wrong with her, she just no longer speaks.