Page 22 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Grace: How are you doing?
Me: You should see this place! Carpet so deep and soft, you could sleep on it. But the best part is the view!
Grace: I bet it’s spectacular. I’m dying of envy.
Me: Don’t. The housekeeper and the maid both called in. I’m It.
Grace: Gosh. You’ve turned into Gabrielle.
Me: Yeah. Not quite what I had in mind.
Grace: Is he cute?
Me: Huh?
Grace: Is Mr. Emory cute?
Me: I guess. If you like ’em tall, clean-cut, and built. He’s a former Navy SEAL, you know.
Grace: Nope. Didn’t know. Bet that means his muscles have muscles.
Me: Maybe. But he can’t make coffee – or even find it in his own kitchen.
Grace: hehe!
Me: gotta go. I got a date with Piaget.
I am in the depths of explaining the importance of Piaget’s work, when a door across the hall opens, and Mr. Emory sticks his head out.
He raises his eyebrows when he sees me sitting in the hall. “Asleep?” he mouths soundlessly.
I nod.
He beckons me in.
My heart beats a little faster as I approach the door. After all, there are only three of us in the apartment. It is not lost on me that Charles Emory is a good-looking man, athletic, well-muscled, with well-formed masculine features, and that he might have improved since his college days. I’m not going to mention any of that to Grace. I’ll never hear the end of it.
This morning’s response to my poorly thought-out hug and kiss proved that he was not indifferent to me. I feel my cheeks grow warm at the memory.
He is now wearing jeans, instead of the pajama bottoms he’d had on earlier, but is still professionally dressed above the waist.
I follow him through the door and look around. The spacious room has resilient tile flooring, easy on the feet and legs, as well as easy to clean. Two large, professional desks sit back to back so the people seated at them can look across at each other.
A child-sized desk with a spacious work surface is positioned just inside the door and along the wall. Its cubby holes are furnished with coloring books, colored paper, and what looked like a drawing book. Crayons, chubby pencils, and safety scissors complete the set up.
On the opposite side of the door is a large monitor. In it, I can see a comfortably well-padded Hispanic lady wearing a floral print dress and a Mother Hubbard apron.
Emory motions for me to come on in, then closes the door behind us. “Miss Bailey, I’d like you to meet Manuela. Manuela, this is the ‘Miss Kate’ Cece keeps telling us about.”
“I am so pleased to see you,” Manuela says. “Cece is always talking about all the fun things she does at her school. How fortunate that you can be there for her.” She speaks with a broad midwest accent flavored with the slightest hint of her Mexican heritage.
“It is wonderful to meet you, too,” I say. “I can see from your kitchen that you have taken very good care of Mr. Emory and Cece. Cece is napping now. Perhaps she could call you later? She will be very sorry to have missed you.”
“Yes, of course,” Manuela says. “My grandchildren are here with me. My daughters work in the kitchen at the hospital, and they are deemed ‘essential services’ so the girls are staying in Isabella’s apartment and the children are with me. It seemed better to us.”
“Good thinking,” I agree, “The hospital kitchens should befar away from any source of contagion, but better safe than sorry.”
“Mr. Charles said that you were having some problems getting settled into the household routine?” Manuela tilted the words into a question.
