Page 91 of The Single Dads Club
Gail shakes her head. “I ate breakfast before my shift started, so I don’t need anything.”
“I asked what you wanted, not needed,” I say with a smile. “I insist, get whatever you like. My treat.”
“I can come back,” someone says.
Keeping one eye on Grier, I look to find our waiter standing by. “I’m ready if you all are.”
“Sure. I’ll have the ...” Gail glances at the menu. “Basic egg-white combo and a coffee.”
I say, “Coffee for me too, and the—”
Grier glares at me. “Daddy, doggy!”
Nodding to Grier, I quickly finish our order, ordering eggs for me and pancakes for my daughter.
The waiter turns to Mom. “Coffee for you as well, ma’am?”
“Oh, I wish I could, but coffee’s started giving me a stomachache lately. I’ll have iced tea, please, and the spinach eggs benedict.”
He takes our menus and departs just as Grier hits the end of her patience with being ignored and releases an earsplitting howl of “Dooooggiiiiiieeeee!”
The old man at the next table lets out a warm, gravelly laugh. “That’s a powerful set of pipes. Would your little princess like to meet Hamburger?” he asks me. “He’s very calm.”
Giving up, I lift Grier out of her seat and set her down. “I think she might explode if she doesn’t.”
She screams with glee and buries her chubby fingers deep in the dog’s plush coat. True to his owner’s word, the dog barely moves, except to lick her cheek—prompting another loud squeal.
“Gentle, love bug, you’ve got to be gentle with animals,” I say. “How would you feel if someone pulled your hair?”
Grier pauses to process this, then continues mauling the dog, only a little less fiercely. He doesn’t seem to mind, based on how his tail thumps a rapid beat on the concrete patio.
Gail asks the old man, “So, Hamburger?”
“My granddaughter named him. She’s thirteen now, but she was only ... oh, about your little one’s age when he was born.”
“How darling,” Mom coos.
Hamburger is a good sport, but when the food arrives, Grier loses interest in tormenting him and toddles back to me. “Hungwy.”
“Now seems like the right time to get going. It was nice meeting you all.” The old man touches his hat and leaves, the dog matching his sedate pace.
“You too. Have a good day,” I reply as I lift Grier back into her high chair.
“This looks wonderful.” Mom takes a large bite and her face breaks out in a wide smile. “And it tastes even better.”
The conversation is as pleasant as the food and early summer weather. Lighthearted chatting about the TV shows we’ve seen lately, the cute or funny things Grier has done, the novel series Mom’s been working her way through. For a while, there’s no such thing as cancer or even my troubles with Corrigan.
“So I’m really looking forward to finding out what’s going to happen between the duchess and that one knight,” Mom says, sipping her tea. “Oh, but would you listen to me, going on and on. How has your work been?”
I shrug. “Pretty much the same as ever—crazy busy, but good. I’ve been riding hard on the New York guys, and things seem to be going fine up there. Some contractors are coming to work on the beach house starting tomorrow, and I think it’ll be ready to rent in less than a month. I’ve also been looking for a good place to buy downtown.”
“Wonderful. And how’s Corrigan? Did you two ever make up?”
I should have known this was coming.“Everything’s fine,” I say, not knowing or caring whether it’s a lie. Desperate for any way to steer the conversation in a different direction, I ask Grier, “You wanna tell Grandma about all the fun stuff you’ve done with Corrigan?”
Lighting up, she says, “We do sketti and ice scweam and paint big picture lotsa messy paint and make a castle ’n dig sand and waterso bigon feet and ...”
She babbles on excitedly, her words coming faster and faster until even I, with all my practice at “Grier-ese,” can barely understand. Gail looks completely lost.
