Page 32 of Sterling Clay

“For the winner of this morning’s race,” I announce.

Dutton sits upright on the couch, leaning forward a bit, and tilting his head, like he forgot about my promise only this morning. He’d win something if he picked up the pace, like Mavis asked.

“I won?” Dutton whispers, as if suddenly remembering our deal.

“I won,” he says louder, with more confidence.

“I was the fastest.” He shifts his body so he’s facing me. His dark eyes are wide like his mother’s. His face incandescent.

“What do I win?” The enthusiasm in his voice causes me to chuckle.

“Your choice of ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” He practically yells. “We never get ice cream unless it’s a special occasion.”

My gaze lifts to Mavis who is standing behind the couch, waiting out this moment.

“Well,” I begin. “Today feels special. Your mama made a bunch of important decisions. And you won the morning rush.”

For an average Tuesday, the day feels surprisingly special.

“So, your choices are chocolate swirl, which has caramel and chunks of chocolate. Or pink surprise.”

Dutton sits as tall as a six-year-old can. “What’s pink surprise?”

“I think it’s strawberry ice cream in disguise.”

“I like disguises,” Dutton admits. “Strawberries are my favorite.” He’s nodding emphatically. “And I love pink.”

“Somehow, I guessed that.” I meet Mavis’s eyes once more, only I’m not prepared for what I see in them. A storm of emotion swirls within the darkness. Sparkles crackling like fireflies in the night amid a depth too black to decipher. She anxiously runs her hands down the length of the robe-belt, then releases the sash.

“Why don’t you head to the kitchen and grab some spoons? And your mama and I will be right there.”

Dutton flies from the couch, literally springing himself forward and leaping over the ottoman where we’d had our legs outstretched.

As he rounds the couch, running for my kitchen, I cry out. “Seven point nine-nine for the dismount.”

His laughter carries back to the living room, and I turn toward Mavis. “What’s wrong, butterfly?”

Without thinking, I reach out for the end of the sash around her waist, holding her robe closed. A peek of her skin where the material slips open leads to a hint of her breasts.

“Don’t do that,” she whispers, dropping her gaze and running her fingertips along the top edge of the couch.

“What? What’d I do?”

“Don’t spoil him.”

Feeling strangely chastised, I shift on the couch, climbing up to my knees and leaning the front of my thighs into the back cushions to face her. I spread my arms, bracing myself on the top of the couch, leaning slightly toward her. “And how am I spoiling him? It’s ice cream.”

“It’s pink, and you know it.” Her eyes lock on mine.

“So?” I shrug, lowering my gaze to the belt around her waist. “I took a gamble.”

“You didn’t need to even buy it.”

“It’s dessert, not a crime.” I don’t understand where she’s going with this. Why she seems equally worked up and worn down.

Glancing up at her again, I tug at the knot of the robe-sash, and keeping my tone playful, demand, “Talk to me.”