Page 5 of Twice in a Lifetime
Avett and Adeline were old enough now to appreciate sleeping in on weekends, so it was just me, my girl, and Doc as I cooked up a breakfast fit for a king. The only sounds in the sleepy house were the crackle of the bacon on the stove, the wheezy snores coming from where Doc was curled up in his kitchen dog bed—because the spoiled K-9 was too delicate to lie on the bare floors, there was a fluffy dog bed in every room of the house—and the occasional chatter from Ainsley. Her favorite pastime was peppering people with ridiculous questions such as:If you were a dragon what would be your favorite: spittin’ fire or flyin’?orWhy don’t dogs go potty in boxes like cats?orAre Avett’s farts so stinky ’cause his guts are rotten?
That last one was a scientific anomaly, and I couldn’t blame her for her curiosity. My son could clear a room in a matter of seconds.
Eventually, the cozy little bubble was broken when my brother came waltzing through the front door. He’d taken after our stepdad, Trick, and was a detective with the local police department. He’d been working odd hours lately because of a case, so it wasn’t unusual for him to crash at the station for a few hours instead of coming home. At the sound of his daddy’s key scraping into the deadbolt, Doc had burst out of the kitchen to greet him.
“Smells great in here,” Tristan called through the living room seconds before he appeared in the kitchen, cradling his dog in his arms like a baby. Only his baby’s legs were pointed straight in the air since they were too stubby for him to bend, and Doc’s head hung backward over Tristan’s bicep.
“Uncle Tris!” Ainsley shouted excitedly at the sight of my brother. With her level of enthusiasm, you would have thought Ains hadn’t seen her uncle at lunch the day before, but I had a feeling that was due to them not getting to spend much time with him until recently.
I loved that they were so excited to be close to their uncle and Nana and Pop-Pop, but that also came with a heaping dose of guilt at the knowledge that they’d only just gotten close to my side of the family because of my own issues.
I’d had my reasons for wanting to escape Hope Valley when I was younger, and they were good enough reasons, but I never should have stayed away as long as I had. This wasn’t a bad place, it just held unpleasant memories for me, so when Elliott and I were deciding where we wanted to start our life together after I graduated from college, I’d been all too agreeable when he suggested we move back to his hometown in Indiana.
My family had made the trek to see us countless times over the years, but I’d never returned the favor, and it took coming back here after Elliott died to realize how unfair I had been.
Tristan managed to put Doc down just in time to catch Ainsley as she Superman-ed off the barstool.
“Hey, squirt. What are you up to?”
“Me and Momma are makin’ waffles,” she announced proudly. “To feed the monster in my belly.”
Tristan’s eyes scanned the kitchen, growing wide before they landed on me. “Jesus, sis. You plannin’ on feeding the entire neighborhood or something?”
I followed his line of sight, taking in the stack of fluffy Belgian waffles at least a foot and a half high, along with an entire package of bacon that I’d fried up, two different kinds of sausage—link and patty, because my children were picky eaters, even when it came to the shape of their food—scrambled eggs, home fries, and whipped cream I’d made from scratch.
Okay, so I might have gone a little overboard.
I waved him off, “It’ll be fine. You’ll eat at least half of this, and ever since Avett turned eight, it’s like one of his legs hollowed out. What doesn’t get eaten, I’ll freeze for later.”
My brother’s brows lifted high on his forehead as he set Ainsley on the ground. “Squirt, why don’t you and Doc go watch that annoying cartoon you love so much with those dogs shaped like rectangles.”
Ainsley scowled up at Tristan with a murderous look on her face. “Blueyisnotannoying!” she declared offendedly.
“My bad, baby girl.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and spun her in the direction of the living room. “I’ll give you five bucks to go watch it without arguing.”
That was all it took for my girl to forget her uncle had just pissed her off. She skipped out of the kitchen, calling for Doc to follow her, and a minute later, the strains of the opening credits to her favorite show carried into the kitchen. Who knew a four-year-old could grasp the concept of a smart TV and its remote better than I could?
I turned my back on Tristan, picking up a dish towel to wipe down the counters that were crumb free and spotless, just so I had something to occupy myself and didn’t have to see the apprehension on his face. I had a sneaking suspicion why he wanted privacy, and that suspicion was confirmed when he finally spoke.
“You’re stress cooking.”
Damn it.
Most people could hide their emotions easily enough, but I’d been cursed with an annoyingly obvious tell I’d gotten from my mom. Nona was a stress baker, had been for as long as I could remember. And while I didn’t have her gift with pastries and sweets, I was a damn good cook. Unfortunately, when I was carrying a lot of anxiety, the only way for me to burn it off was to cook it out.
“I’m not stress cooking,” I lied, though I knew it was pointless. “It’s just that Ainsley wanted waffles, and it’s a huge pain in the ass to get the waffle maker out, so I made enough to freeze so the next time she asks, I can just pop them in the toaster.”
He looked at me exasperatedly. “B, between the lasagnas, the chicken pot pie, the tomato bisque, the white bean chili, and thesevendifferent types of bread you made from scratch, you can’t possibly get anything else in that freezer.”
Since the kids and I had moved in, I’d stress cooked to the point that Tristan’s freezer was so packed with soups and casseroles I’d run out of room and had to start stashing leftovers in my mom and Trick’s freezer.
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “It’s not seven loaves of bread. You’re exaggerating.”
He let out a chortle. “I’m not. I actually counted. It’s seven. Would have been eight, but I went overboard on that rosemary focaccia. You keep this shit up and I’m gonna have to buy a deep freezer to keep in the garage.”
I gave him a look and tried for that mother guilt our mom had perfected and I’d been trying on my own kids more recently. “Well excuse me for trying to take care of the people I love.”
The face he made told me my attempt failed. “Oh please!” He let out a scoffing laugh. “You can’t guilt me. Maybe that would work if you wereourmother, not the brat who shaved off the inner half of my eyebrows my sophomore year of high school.”