Page 81 of My Wife
“Can you really be mad since she was being thoughtful?”
Mom knows I’m not a big birthday guy.
Fear pierces my gut. “Did she say anything else? Mention any other birthdays?”
My mother laughs. “She wanted to know what kind of cake you like.”
Dad says, “Your mother said she has a marvelous Bundt.”
With his German accent, it sounds like he saysbutt.
“She does.” I clap my hand over my eyes. “I mean the cake.”
“Well, of course. I tried her recipe and I think the secret is the temperature of the eggs when combined with the sugar for a silky consistency. If that gal is as genius with baking as she is with managing your life, I’d say she’s a keeper.”
I stagger like the airport was struck by a meteor, or maybe that’s just me because everything surrounding me remains still. However, I feel like the earth was thrown off its axis.
“She’s a very helpful young lady. Keeping you on the edge of your blades,” my dad adds with a hint in his tone.
“You can say that again,” I mutter.
“I was just reviewing the schedule and it looks like you have a game in Toronto next month. We’ll be in Brookking Sound for Grannie Bell’s birthday, so we’ll see you then for sure.”
“I do love watching my boys play together,” Dad says.
I’ve given up on reminding him that we’re on opposing teams—Hendrix plays for the Titans. It’s less of atogethersituation and more of anagainst.
“And don’t be shy about bringing a guest.” Mom’s tone is light, airy, and suggestive.
My stomach clenches. They can’t mean the kid. Jessica wouldn’t have mentioned him. She knows the rules. So why did she and my mother exchange cake recipes?
* * *
Games bookendthe week as we countdown to the playoffs which begin at the end of the month.
I’m just coming off the ice after we trounced the Oklahoma Thunder, which, to be fair, isn’t hard to do, when I spot a familiar face in the hallway at the Ice Palace.
Cara waves at her best friend as she rushes into Pierre’s arms. Even after the exhausting slugfest on the ice, he still manages to lift her up and spin her around.
I warily approach Jessica who holds the kid’s hand and wonder what they’re doing here.
She beams a smile. “We couldn’t wait until you got home.”
“There’s nothing that couldn’t wait.” My tone is harsher than I mean, but if anyone puts two and two together, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Her expression flattens and then quickly reconfigures to her usual cheerful smile.
The kid hops up and down.
“Go. We can talk later.” I don’t dare sayhome, lest I give myself away. If anyone finds out this kid is mine, it’ll change the game entirely.
However, the kid, my son, signs something that I vaguely translate as pig or bear. Donkey? That would be me. A great big wild beast.
Giving my head a shake, I repeat, “I’ll see you later.”
Jessica doesn’t move for a long beat. Her nostrils flare. If she were the witch from Hansel and Gretel, she’d bake me into a cake. Her mouth opens and then closes as if she’s debating giving me a piece of her mind. Then with a shake of her head that’s more disappointment than disapproval, she turns on her heel.
It’s then I notice that she and the kid are both wearing Knights jerseys. My last name, our last name, is emblazoned across the kid’s. On Jessica’s back are the letters G-R-I-M-A-L-D-I.
