Page 10 of The Fix-Up

Sunny said it was a coping mechanism. I thought it was a way to take all those big, scary feelings and make them a little sweet. It can’t be all bad if I can eat cake, right? Whatever it was, it usually managed to take my mind off the problem in front of me. Most of the time, anyway.

Gilbert Dalton was going to be a real big problem.

So, by the time Chris brought Oliver home, it was no surprise to anyone I was making brownies…or that Chris had already heard about Gilbert Dalton’s arrival. I’m sure Cammie had broken a nail sending that text out.

I’d begun whipping up the brownies about five minutes after Gilbert Dalton left the premises, promising to be back on Monday.

I frowned down at the pan. These were my special triple-chocolate brownies made with milk, semi-sweet, and white chocolate chips. I could make them with my eyes shut. Yet they still got burned because my mind was not calmed, it was not coping; it was worried.

Thanks, Gilbert Dalton. You ruined my brownies.

A tug on my sleeve shifted my attention. Oliver stood in front of me, his hands on his hips. His face was scrunched in concern. My heart squeezed, as it did every time I looked at my son. I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life, but Oliver was not one of them. “You look mad, Mommy.”

I plopped on a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m okay, honey.”

He shook his head slowly. “Nah-ah. I know ’cause it’s bedtime and you made brownies, and you look mad like the time I woked up early and made myself breakfast.”

Ah, yes, I remember that well. When I’d gotten up with the alarm, I’d found five-year-old Oliver standing on a chair he’d dragged to the counter and mixing an entire five-pound bag of flour—or rather the one pound that made it in the bowl, the other four were all over him and the floor—and a dozen eggs, shells included. Oliver, his face and hair decorated with flour, had explained he’d wanted to make muffins as a surprise for me. Oh, he’d surprised me alright.

Huffing a laugh, I pulled him onto my lap and breathed in all the yumminess that was a freshly bathed little boy. “Okay, maybe I’m a little…unhappy.”

He pressed a hand to my cheek and stared into my eyes. “You should be more happy then.”

If only it were that easy. “You’re right, kiddo. How’d you get so smart?”

“Uncle Chris says it’s ’cause he’s my uncle and I have his genes.”

Sounded like my brother. “Of course he did.”

“’Cept I don’t have any of his jeans. They’d be way too big for me.”

Laughing, I hugged him. “I love you.”

He grinned and not-so-subtlely eyed the pan of brownies. “Could I have a brownie, please?”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

He climbed on a chair as I cut him a square. “Mommy, who was that man you and Uncle Chris were talking about?”

“You heard that?” I maybe had given Chris an earful the second he’d arrived with Oliver. “He’s Ollie’s grandson.”

And a home invader. And a possible stalker. And a brownie burner.

He blinked up at me, his expression serious. Oliver came in two modes: serious and slightly less serious.

Also, too smart for his own good.

“Why was he here?”

To make my life difficult. And burn my brownies. Have I mentioned that? “He came because part of our house is his house, too.”

His brow furrowed. “It is?”

I knew that look. It preceded five hundred and thirty-six rapid-fire questions. Time to change the subject. “You know what? How about you take this brownie into the living room, and you can watch TV before bed?”

His eyes lit up. “For one hour?”

“Twenty minutes.”

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