Page 11 of Milk & Cookie

Daryl sighs and moves around, to sit in the visitor’s seat, because I’ve taken his. “Beckett,” he says. “Frederica Beckett. Babymaker and baker of tasty organic goods.”

I look up from my notetaking. “She’s the baker?”

Daryl leans back and puts his feet up on the desk with a sigh. “You love her even more now, don’t you?”

“No comment.” I tap at my paper. “Names of her kids. Morrissey…”

“Luna and Raven. Three girls. All cute. The boy next town over is called Beckett — in her honor, I presume. Seems like a tradition of sorts, if you factor in Morrissey,” he points out. “The dads are Clyde and Dale — memorable because they’re one of the few openly gay couples in the wider area, but also because their names almost make up a horse when you put them together. I know Dale a little through volunteer fire-training and can vouch that he’s not a horse’s ass, so I’d be interested in what you’ll dig up about Clyde. A Clydesdale with two heads and no asses is funny to think about.”

I stare at him. “Your mind is a weird place to hang out, Daryl.”

He smiles. “Thank you.” He points at my paper. “The mom’s name is Gail. Also a Beckett, though I feel like there’s more to hers than that. A hyphenation with another syllable, maybe?” He scrunches his nose in thought, and then shakes his head with a shrug. “You could ask her. She works in the bakery too. And in their gardens. Well, they both do that. With the kids. I’ve driven past and seen them all in their orchard. It’s actually cute as fuck. Like a commune of little women.”

It does sound cute. And maybe having a guy around would ruin it.

“What about Fred’s father?” I ask.

Daryl shrugs. “No idea. Doesn’t exist in any story I’ve heard about them.”

“Fred ever have any boyfriends?”

“Nope — not that I keep track of who she’s fucking. Word on the grapevine is she’s picky as hell, which is weird, considering who she clearly has fucked. Does the old man count as a boyfriend?” He shrugs again. “Guys bitch about her turning them down, and I’ve never seen her with anyone around town, if that helps.”

I mark it down. “How about the mother? She get around at all?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Far as I know, it’s all feminine energy over there, dude. Maybe they like it like that, and Fred doesn’t even want your overstuffed sausage poking around in her business. What if she’s only interested in your baby-making sausage sauce?”

“Well if she is, she’s going to learn I’m a permanent, full-package deal, when it comes to baby-making, so I’ll have to find out the full story before I let my sauce get anywhere.”

“You could stick it a few places without making a baby,” he says with a chuckle.

I would usually find his suggestive statements amusing, but I’ve got too many serious questions to ponder.

No men, I write to one side of my notes. And then underneath, Why not?

5

FRED

Ithought Vince would come to find me, but as it happens, I come across him first.

He looks focused and serious-looking, hunched over a desk in the library, surrounded by a small stack of mystery novels, some old newspapers and what look to be my high-school yearbooks, a few balled-up pieces of paper, and a scribbled-in notebook.

“Hey, stranger,” I say.

He startles and collects his things into a pile, covers them suspiciously fast, and closes his notebook. “Frederica.” His deep, rumbling voice sends a delicious shiver down my spine, and he notices. His throat strains, as he swallows, and he glances around the small library. He spies Luna and Morrissey in the children’s section, and his warm brown eyes get all big and cute, like the eyes of a cartoon character falling in love.

My heart beats twice as fast at the sight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so adorable.

“These are your girls?” he asks, shifting his gaze between them and me a few times before he spots Raven, asleep on my back. He covers his soft gasp with one of his huge hands and just stares — at Raven, at me, at the both of us together, and then at the girls again. “This is the most beautiful family I’ve ever seen,” he whispers softly, as if he only really says it for himself to hear.

“Thank you.”

He slides his gaze back to me and wets his lips before running his hands over his dark hair and smoothing it back. It’s mostly tamed into a low man-bun, but one long, rebellious lock falls back to frame his handsome face, and he hurriedly sweeps it away again. “I, uh… You look good. I like this… um…” He gestures at my dress, and then crisscrosses the air with his finger to follow the way the baby-sling’s fabric is wrapped around me. I hadn’t paid much attention to how it cinches my waist and accentuates my breasts, but now that he’s pointed it out, I can feel my cheeks warming.

“It’s pretty,” he says. “You’re pretty.” He squeezes his eyes shut, like he said something stupid, and then he opens one just a crack.

I smile and tilt my head at his worn jeans and dark, plaid shirt, admiring the way they sit on his huge, muscular frame. “Likewise. Very pretty.”

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