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He smiles, easing his way around to the oven. “Looks like you got it all this time.”
“Hmm, that smells divine. What did you make me?”
“Sausages and bacon with tomato and eggs.”
My favourite.
“Your favourite.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, pushing onto my toes to kiss his cheek. “Go and sit down. I’ll dish it up.”
“It’s your birthday. I can dish—”
“Dad,” I warn.
He looks down at me with a stern glare that quickly softens.
“Go and sit down. Please. I want to do it.”
He sits at the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his still-firm chest. A protest he’ll never win. He knows he should be taking it easy, and the fact he cooked is more than I like to see him do.
I lay our plates and cutlery on the counter, pour fresh lemon water from the fridge, and then take the tray of food from the oven. My eyes roll as I inhale the heavenly smell of pork and apple sausages. I place the food in the middle of the kitchen island and then open the middle drawer. “I’ll be two minutes, don’t wait for me.”
My father tuts as I slip from the room, but my smirk only widens.
I walk to the entrance of the house and slide on my boots at the front door. I rush outside, my stomach churning as I make my way across the terrace and down to my mother’s garden.
The grass is long and overdue a trim, and I consider doing it later this afternoon with the weather being so good.
“Hey, Mum.” I kneel on the ground beside her grave and take out the scissors I slipped into my pocket before. Lifting the heads of the barely thriving periwinkle that sheaths her, I snip their stems close to the ground and lay them beside me. “It’s getting warmer out. These should do better soon.”
I look up as the sun passes through a cloud and then emerges again, a little stronger.
“Thank you,” I whisper softly, standing and backing away and out of the garden.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Dad devouring the mouth-watering breakfast he’s cooked for me.
“I waited… for about two minutes.”
“I told you not to.” I smile, fetching a small mason jar from the pantry and running it under the cold tap, filling it a quarter of the way. I drop the flowers into the water and place them on the island in front of us. I spot the present on the table and pick up my fork, looking across at my dad. “Taste good?”
“Delicious.” He grins.
Every year, my dad will buy me a first-edition copy of one of my mother’s favourite novels. Over ten years of filling our library with what are now my favourite books. (Dad doesn’t know about theotherlove stories I read, and I plan to keep it that way—I can do both.)
“Do you have plans for the day?”
My eyes drop to my plate, and I swallow as I reach for my drink. “I’m going out for lunch with Mase.”
“You are?” he says, surprised, his brows pulling together.
“He invited me into the city this afternoon.”
His smile grows, but I know it’s for me, not his soul. “Good. Good. That’s wonderful, Scarlet.” He points his fork at the gift, a way to change the direction of the conversation. “Open your present.”
“Would you like to come?” I reach for the book-shaped gift as he bites off a piece of toast before looking back at me, his face sad despite all the effort he put into hiding it.
“Did Mason ask for me to come along?”
