Page 43 of Dust Storm

Cassandra didn’t pay them any mind as she plucked a mug from the cabinet, inspected it, and deemed it worthy of holding her coffee. “Teddy Crenshaw. It’s from his little atelier on Seventh Avenue. He’s a designer who used to dress a client of mine and we hit it off.”

“You know fashion designers?” Bree squealed, one word tumbling out on top of the next.

Cassandra grimaced like the sound of my daughter’s voice was an ice pick to her eyeballs. “It is far too early for that much excitement.”

With the girls distracted by breakfast, I grabbed the handle of the coffee pot and held her caffeine hostage.

I kept my voice just low enough for her to hear me. “I know you didn’t have enough whiskey in your ice cream to give you a hangover, so this attitude you have with my girls? Cut it out.”

Cassandra made eye contact with me as she wrapped her hand around mine and yanked the coffee pot out from under the machine. “I don’t have an attitude.”

“My house. My rules. If I say your attitude sucks, then it sucks. Fix it.”

She put on a patronizing smile. “I interact with humans. Adults are big humans and children are small humans. I treat them the same, and I speak to them all the same.” Her eyebrow raised in a severe arch. “Would you like me to talk down to your small humans and treat them like they’re less than an adult?”

“While you’re at it, you can fix the attitude you’re getting with me, too.”

I didn’t know why I was so crabby this morning. Even with the impromptu trail ride, I still got a reasonable amount of sleep.

“Side part with a braid down the front, please,” Gracie said as she deposited her empty plate in the sink.

“Get the tackle box,” I said, leaving Cassandra to the coffee.

“Can you plug the curling iron in?” Bree asked as she stabbed a piece of sausage.

I tackled Gracie’s hair first. Even at eleven, she hated brushing it and always missed the tangles in the back. She tossed and turned every night, resulting in a tumbleweed of hair in the morning.

I doused it in detangler and went to work, keenly aware of Cassandra’s eyes on me.

When Gracie’s hair was tamed and her bangs were held back with a thin braid, I moved on to Bree.

She handed me the heat protectant spray. “Loose curls. Not the tight ones like you do for dance.”

I bit back a huff of irritation. I had just mastered the dance ones that made the girls look like Shirley Temple.

Racking my brain, I tried to recall the video tutorial I had watched a few weeks ago during my lunch break.

Bree sat still while I fumbled my way through the soft curls she requested.

It was uncanny how much she looked like Gretchen. Gracie had the Griffith features since birth, but Bree had always looked like her mom.

I knew I was living on borrowed time. Bree was a teenager and Gracie wasn’t far behind. Soon, they wouldn’t want their dad to fix their hair in the morning.

Maybe that’s why I put so much effort into learning how to do it.

I wanted them to need me.

I wanted to be enough.

“How’s that?” I asked as I released the clamp on the curling iron, and let the last spiral cool in my hand. I gently combed through the curls to separate and loosen them, then gave her shoulders a squeeze.

Bree scrambled out of the kitchen chair and darted into the bathroom to get a peek in the mirror. “Perfect!”

I left her to douse her hair in hairspray. “You ready to go, Gracie?”

“Putting my shoes on.”

“Bree?” I hollered.

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