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“What’s that smell?” Bailey asks.
I’m pulled from my memory to find Bailey standing in the kitchen doorway. She looks irritated standing there in a chunky sweater—a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, her purple-streaked hair caught beneath its strap.
I smile at her, my phone cradled under my chin. I have been trying to reach Owen, unsuccessfully, the phone going to voice mail. Again. And again.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” I say.
She doesn’t respond, her mouth pinched. I put my phone away, ignoring her perma-scowl. She’s a beauty, despite it. She’s a beauty in a way that I’ve noticed strikes people when she walks into a room. She doesn’t look much like Owen—her purple hair naturally a chestnut brown, her eyes dark and fierce. They’re intense—those eyes. They pull you in. Owen says that they’re just like her grandfather’s (her mother’s father), which is why they named her after him. A girl named Bailey. Just Bailey.
“Where’s my dad?” she says. “He’s supposed to drive me to play practice.”
My body tenses as I feel Owen’s note in my pocket, like a weight.
Protect her.
“I’m sure he’s on his way,” I say. “Let’s eat some dinner.”
“Is that what smells?” she says.
She wrinkles her nose, just in case it isn’t clear that the smell to which she is referring isn’t one she likes.
“It’s the linguine that you had at Poggio,” I say.
She gives me a blank look, as though Poggio isn’t her favorite local restaurant, as though we weren’t there for dinner just a few weeks before to celebrate her sixteenth birthday. Bailey ordered that night’s special—a homemade multigrain linguini in a brown butter sauce. And Owen gave her a little taste of his glass of Malbec to go with it. I thought she loved the pasta. But maybe what she loved was drinking wine with her father.
I put a heaping portion on a plate and place it on the kitchen island.
“Try a little,” I say. “You’re going to like it.”
Bailey stares at me, trying to decide if she is in the mood for a showdown—if she’s in the mood for her father’s disappointment, should I snitch to him about her fast, dinnerless exit. Deciding against it, she bites back her annoyance and hops onto her barstool.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll have a little.”
Bailey almost tries with me. That’s the worst part. She isn’t a bad kid or a menace. She’s a good kid in a situation she hates. I just happen to be that situation.
There are the obvious reasons why a teenage girl would be averse to her father’s new wife, especially Bailey, who had a good thing going when it was just the two of them together, best friends, Owen her biggest fan. Though, those reasons don’t cover the totality of Bailey’s dislike for me. It isn’t just that I got her age wrong when we first met. It comes down to an afternoon shortly after I moved to Sausalito. I was supposed to pick her up at school, but I got stuck on a call with a client—and I arrived five minutes late. Not ten minutes. Five. 5:05 P.M. That was what the clock said when I pulled up to her friend’s house. But it may as well have been an hour. Bailey is an exacting girl. Owen will tell you that this is a quality we have in common. Both his wife and his daughter can decipher everything about someone else in five minutes. That’s all it takes. And in the five minutes Bailey was making her decision about me I was on a telephone call I shouldn’t have taken.
Bailey twirls some pasta onto her fork, studying it. “This looks different than Poggio.”
“Well, it’s not. I convinced the sous chef to give me the recipe. He even sent me to the Ferry Building to pick up the garlic bread he serves with it.”
“You drove into San Francisco to get a loaf of bread?” she says.
It’s possible that I try too hard with her. There is that.
She leans in and puts the whole bite in her month. I bite my lip, anticipating her approval—a small yum escaping her lips, in spite of herself.
Which is when she gags on it. She actually gags, reaching for a glass of water.
“What did you put in that?” she says. “It tastes like… charcoal.”
“But I tasted it,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
I take another bite myself. She’s not wrong. In my confusion over my twelve-year-old visitor and Owen’s note, the butter sauce had transformed from its slightly malted, foamy richness into actually just being burnt. And bitter. Not unlike eating a campfire.
“I gotta go anyway,” she says. “Especially if I want to get a ride from Suz.”
Bailey stands up. And I picture Owen standing behind me, leaning down to whisper in my ear, Wait it out. That’s what he says when Bailey is dismissive of me. Wait it out. Meaning—she’ll come around one day. Also meaning—she’s leaving for college in two and a half short years. But Owen doesn’t understand that this doesn’t comfort me. To me, this just means I’m running out of time to make her want to move toward me.
