Page 24 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
I wasn’t getting much work done, but we are starting to shake down as a household, and this is only the first day.
Miss Bailey is a quick study when it comes to learning how to use the kitchen computer and communication system. But then, it is mostly just a workstation computer attached to a smart phone and handset. Manuela liked having a handset that fastened to the computer. She said it kept her from losing the phone.
I leave Cece chattering happily with Manuela’s granddaughters, while Miss Bailey rummages in the upright freezer for a frozen meal Manuela had put together. That would be our dinner.
I stop in the doorway and take an appreciative look at the domestic scene. My little daughter looks happy for the first time in several days. Miss Bailey braided her long, dark hair at some point. It accents the slim contours of her back and brushes the back pockets of her way-too-modest shorts.
I have a good view of her derriere as she bends down toexplore the bottom shelf of the freezer. Again, I feel unsolicited stirrings. She is slender, but well rounded, with lightly muscled thighs and calves. I can imagine walking up behind her . . .
I take myself out of the kitchen before I do something irrevocable and completely stupid. Or at the very least embarrassed myself by displaying another tent in my pants. What is the matter with me?
I march myself down the hall and get out the tattered remnants of my phone book to see if I can piece it back together. I have a copy stored online, but the paper copy somehow feels more real. With my world fluctuating all around me, I need the solid feel of my hardback notebook. Even if it does have puppy tooth marks on it.
I stare at it for a minute. Why had it been on Cece’s desk? And how had Gidget gotten it in the first place? Had my baby girl been afraid I would yell at her? I sincerely hope not.
Then I consider the last few weeks. I had withdrawn into myself. Losing Em hurt in ways that I could not even begin to examine. And, yes, there was anger in there, too. She could have kept to her room and not gone near those who shared her quarantine.
But they had been sick. Taking care of sick people was what she did. Even with her chronic asthma, she would not have shirked helping out. Besides, isolating herself might not have helped her survive, only increased her feelings of guilt.
And I have people to take care of. I spread out the mangled pages and begin to make phone calls.
As I speak with building managers, distribution centers, and quarantined workers, the picture is grim, but not as bad as it might have been. My managers are good people and have the well-being of their staff well in mind.
Throughout the afternoon, I sent emails, held conference calls, and generally hammered out procedures that mighthelp keep my people safe and slow possible spread of the disease.
Agri-Oil did several things. It had oil rigs in wheat fields, grew special breeds of corn for biofuel, and it supported farmers, large and small. The Baileys are a good example of people who are both customers and suppliers.
I even have a few acres of my own near the Bailey farm, positioned alongside one of the few streams in the area. Kansas is moisture poor, and the early farmers with their broad-bladed, sod-cutting plows had not done the “Great American Desert” any favors. The subsequent generations are still working to deal with the result.
There is a light tapping on the door, and my daughter calls out, “Daddy? Miss Kate says dinner is ready and wants to know if you are eating with us.”
I look about me and realize the shadows had grown long and my voice hoarse. No doubt, my managers are going home or closing up their home offices for the day.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” I croak. “I’ll be out.”
Since the office had originally been designed as a guest bedroom, it had a half bath attached. I use it, wash my hands scrupulously, and try to shake off the day.
To my surprise, Miss Bailey has set the small table in the dining room. The plates at each place are under warming covers, and a tall pitcher of what looks like ice tea sits on the table.
“Miss Kate made tea,” Cece says, excitedly dancing around me. “And I helped! It’s lemon and ginger tea.”
“I hope you like it.” Miss Bailey looks a little worried. “Cece picked the flavor. I can get out something stronger, if you like. I found the wine rack.”
I’m tempted. After an afternoon of talking with worried people, sometimes angry people, and people who were afraid, I could use something to take the edge off.
“It’s really good tea, Daddy.” Cece stops her movement around me. “I like it a lot, and Miss Kate says it is a di-ges-tive.” She says the word carefully.
“What does a digestive do?” I ask gravely.
Cece stops and thinks for a moment. She glances at Miss Bailey. “It makes your tummy happy?”
Miss Bailey smiles at the little girl. “Close enough. Mint and ginger tastes nice, and is light enough to go with most things.” She looks back at me. “I didn’t think you would want caffeine tonight.”
“Right,” I say. I pull out my chair and sit down in it with a sigh. “Going by the way I feel, I wouldn’t mind something stronger, but I probably shouldn’t.”
Miss Bailey nods. I’d given the answer she wanted to hear. Oddly, I discovered that something inside of me wanted her approval. When did that become important?
Cece tugs her booster chair up to the table, clambers up, and Miss Bailey pushes it in. She then goes to the foot of the table and sits down. My heart twinges because Em usually sits next to me, and her place is empty.
