Page 19 of My Wife
“You so are. Maybeyouneed a cookie. Some sweetness in your life to counteract all the sourness. Strictly speaking, it’s not a good morning habit.” She drops her voice to a whisper, “Sometimes, for a treat, I’ll have a little bite of cake. I have one in the passenger seat of the car. It kept me going the whole ride here. And coffee. Some chocolate. Maybe I’m eating my feelings. But here, take this. I consider it an act of service.” She reaches into her purse and produces a wax bakery bag, then holds it out for me to take.
I grimace. “I don’t want your dirty cookie.”
“Go ahead. It’s not poisoned or anything. I just got it from Nina. The baker. She bakes the bread, but gets these delivered fresh daily from the Milk Mustache.” She says each word slowly like she’s speaking to, well, a toddler.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sheesh. I’m just trying to be nice.”
Over my shoulder, I call, “We have to leave.”
Finally, the kid moves, but instead of coming over to me, he rushes toward the woman and wraps his arms around the skirt of her tattered gown.
“Don’t touch him,” I growl at her.
She holds up her hands and then waves them around again.
There he goes with the chin trembling, but this time his eyes start to fill up with liquid.
“Your hands are full. How about I just carry him to your car?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I’m about ready to stomp my foot. No, never mind. I’m not going to give her the pleasure of thinking I was going to have a fit.
She crouches down and signs to him. Must be something his mother taught him instead of the normal childhood stuff like listening.
His little shoulders relax a little, but when she stands, he grips her like a koala climbing a eucalyptus tree.
“Okay, fine. We’ll do this your way. You can carry him to the car, but if you do anything strange or suspicious, I will tackle you. Got that?”
Her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, but maybe that’s because she’s picking up the kid and restricted by that monstrosity of a dress.
Watching her every move, she weaves through the tables, bumping a few with the bustle of her gown. I don’t know a ton about girly stuff, so I’m grateful I got stuck with a son rather than a daughter.
I grunt.
“What was that, Mr. Meanie?” she says over her shoulder.
At the same time, someone calls, “Hey, Liam, are you going to be a chump or a champ the rest of this season?”
Ignoring the heckler, I keep my head down, so close to escaping this place without being recognized. I’ve been avoiding local spots, but the line at the drive-through at my usual place was too long. I’m late anyway.
The guy says, “Let’s just hope you can keep it together.” The words are a challenge.
I glance from the guy wearing a Knights sweatshirt to the woman and my kid. Her eyes darken and her lips pucker as if offended on my behalf.
Or there’s more she wants to pile on with the accusation of me having an adult tantrum and calling me Mr. Meanie.
Expertly balancing my son on her hip, she moves her hand, and the little kid offers a half smile. Maybe she’s telling him he can have the cookie after all. I briefly consider it myself before giving my head a shake, that’s stupid. I haven’t had cookies or cake in years. She must’ve cast some kind of sweet spell over us.
Thankfully, we make it out the door without anyone else recognizing me. It’s early on a sleepy Monday morning which is why I thought it would be safe to quickly pop into the bakery.
Laughter and giggles drift from nearby and someone says, “There he is!”
Another teenager adds, “My brother is going to be pumped. He thinks number forty-five is the best.”
Acting on instinct, I grab the woman’s arm and hustle her and the kid toward my truck. Then I realize I’ve miscalculated.
My mind reels with stories from other guys about crazed fans. That’s what this must be. She’s the ringleader, sent word to her coven, and now they’re in pursuit.
