How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [89]
“Yes,” she says definitively. “And you should wear the sandals with those jewels on them.”
“Oh! Good idea!” I scramble in the hall closet through the forty thousand shoes that live in the darkness there, breeding. Someday I have to find some time to declutter this house. Maybe I can get to it in 2042. Sliding my feet into the shoes, I clip-clop over to the table and sit down with her. “Thanks.”
“This is the guy who brought Merlin back? You’re going on a date with him because he returned the dog?”
“Um … no. Here’s the thing—don’t say anything to Lily or to the aunties if they’re here, but he’s somebody I knew a long time ago.”
“Wow. That’s kinda weird. Merlin went to his house. Just like he came to me.”
I blink at her. It’s true. “How weird.”
She rubs her foot over his back. “I don’t think he’s really a dog.”
“Really?” I laugh. “What, then?”
“I dunno. Maybe an angel or something.” She looks over the top of the picture. “Why would they care about you going out with that guy?”
“They won’t. I will. This is my secret.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Okay.”
“You sure you’re going to be okay?”
She raises those droll eyebrows, her eyes with too much knowledge. “Seriously? I’m almost fourteen. And it’s not like I’ve had highly supervised environments.”
I laugh. She’s so old for her years sometimes. “Well, I’ll have my cell phone, and you have your dog angel to protect you. And my mom can be here in ten minutes.”
She focuses too intently on cutting out a photo of a cactus dahlia the color of a baby’s fingernail. “Whatever.”
Still wounded, then. I wonder if I should address it or let it be.
Leave it. Her defenses are up and prickly.
The clock reads four forty-five. He won’t be here for another fifteen minutes. I fold my arms. “Did you write your dad another email?”
“Yes. And Sofia wrote me back. She said to tell you she’ll call when they get more information.” She smears purple glue over the back of the photo and sticks it on a notebook page, smoothing the wrinkles out neatly, then writes Cactus Dahlia in colored pencil beside it.
I think of my book of breads, and just as I am about to tell her about it, the doorbell rings downstairs. Widening my eyes in Katie’s direction, I put my hand to my throat. I whisper, “That’s him.”
Leaning over the table, she whispers back, “You should probably go let him in.”
I grab my purse, swipe lipstick over my mouth, and drop it in the bag. “There’s plenty to eat and drink. And you can reach me—”
“On your cell phone. I got it.”
Laughing, I unthinkingly drop a kiss on the top of her head. As if she is my own. She gives me a look over her shoulder, and I waggle my fingers, not taking it back. “Have fun,” she says, her green eyes unreadable.
I fly down the stairs, my hair a wild flying cape behind me, and halt at the foot. Jonah is on the porch, framed by the old glass in the front door. Behind him is the thick dust-gold of late-afternoon sunlight. His jaw is clean and he’s looking toward the west, and for one long second I let myself fill up with the pleasure of just looking at him. Then he turns and sees me through the door and smiles.
I open the door to him and step out. “Hi.” It sounds breathless.
“Hi.” A wistful sort of smile touches his mouth. “Hope I’m not too early.”
“No, I always get ready too early, since I have a tendency to be late for everything. It used to drive my ex-husband crazy.” I look up at him. “Oh, sorry. I’m really not one of those people who talk about their exes all the time. I mean, not that we’re … uh …” My hand flutters up, then down. I will myself to shut up.
He takes a step closer to me, picks up my hand. “Are you nervous?”
I laugh ruefully. “What was your first clue?”
He lifts my hand, carries it to his mouth, and kisses the palm. It