Pocketful of Sand(46)

Nice, Eden. Nice. Good, solid parenting.

“Come here, baby,” I tell her, holding my arms open. She rubs her eyes sleepily as she trots across the living room and launches herself into them. She’s up a little earlier than usual, probably because of her nightmare.

I can feel her craning her neck around me to look at Cole, who has backed away a few feet. He has an innate feel for not making her uncomfortable, an intuitiveness that must come from having been a father once upon a time.

“Are you hungry, monkey?” I ask, stroking Emmy’s silky hair.

I feel her nod.

Just then, I hear a click and the lamps come back on. “The power’s back on!” I tell Emmy. “Are you a magician?” I ask, tickling my fingers up her side. She flinches and I hear a tiny giggle, but she’s still draped over my shoulder. Probably watching the mesmerizing man behind me. “Cole came to fix us breakfast. How about we get your belly full and then go make a snowman out in the yard. Sound good?” Emmy pushes away from me, her bright eyes shining happily into mine. She nods again.

She looks past me to Cole. She doesn’t have to say a word to convey her thoughts perfectly. Her expression and body language say it all. Her eyebrows are raised, her eyes are wide and she’s practically vibrating with excitement.

I glance over my shoulder at Cole, who is now sitting on the edge of the chair. “I think that means hurry,” I loud whisper.

He stands, a smile playing with the edges of his gorgeous lips. “Who likes French toast?” Emmy raises her hand enthusiastically. “Can you show me where your bread is?” he asks. He’s not pushing her to talk, which is good, but he’s engaging her in a casual manner, which is also good.

Maybe Cole will just be good. For both of us. Only time will tell. And time is something we have plenty of.





TWENTY


Cole



I EXPERIENCE A collision of emotion when Emmy steps cautiously out of her mother’s arms and walks toward me. At first, every feeling is the soft kind, the kind that decent people feel toward a child. But when she puts her thumb in her mouth, knowing what causes her to do it brings on a fresh stab of rage. It cuts through my sternum and goes straight into my heart like a sharp spear. In this moment, if I could find him, I would gladly rip apart the man who did this to her. I’d tear him limb from filthy, disgusting limb.

But then another shift happens. When Emmy reaches me, she curls her tiny fingers around mine and pulls me with her toward the kitchen. Rage is immediately forgotten, replaced by the soothing comfort that this little girl brings to the battered parts of my soul. Looking down at her, it’s almost like having Charity back. At least a little bit. And I can’t help thinking that maybe I can do right by Emmy, that I can somehow make up for what happened with my own daughter by saving someone else’s. But it will never undo what I did. It will never bring back the life I stole.

I’m aware of Eden’s soft gaze on us as we walk together into the kitchen. It’s a warm feeling, as though her happiness and security shine out from her like rays of heat from the sun. I glance back over my shoulder when Emmy steps in front of me and points up to a cabinet. Eden’s smiling, like I expected she might be, but even from here I can see the tears in her eyes. It makes me realize that I never want to see any pain or sadness in them. Never again. Only contentment. Or desire. Or love.

Turning back to the task at hand, I open the cabinet and pull out the bread before squatting down in front of Emmy. She takes a step back, but just one. I figure that’s probably something like progress.

“Do you wanna help? Be my mini sous chef?”

She looks shyly from me to her mother and back again. She doesn’t answer; she just takes off running toward Eden. She tugs on Eden’s hand until she bends so that Emmy can whisper in her ear, and then she races back to me.

“When Emmy and I cook together, we always listen to music,” Eden explains as she flips on the television and finds a music station.

“Then let’s get to it,” I say to Emmy, slapping my hands together and then holding them open. “Can I put you up here so you can help me better?” I ask.

At first Emmy just looks at me, her little lips pursed around her thumb. Music begins playing softly in the background as she watches me. I’m just about to make an excuse to let her off the hook when she slips her thumb out of her mouth and spreads her arms.

Something burns in my chest when I reach for her, cupping her gently beneath her arms and hefting her up onto the countertop. She’s light as a feather. So small and delicate. Fragile. How could anyone even think of hurting her?