Page 25 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Kate gives no sign that she notices. Instead, she asks, “Would you like to say grace, Mr. Emory, or should I?”
The question startles me because Em and I had never prayed over our meals. Neither of us were atheists, but we’d never made religion a big part of our life. I’m even more surprised when Cece pipes up and says, “Me! Me! I can do it, Miss Kate.”
Kate glances at me, asking permission. I cover my confusion by nodding my permission.
Cece closes her eyes and bows her head, and so does Miss Bailey. I bow my head, but keep one eye slitted open to keep an eye on proceedings. Could the day get more surreal?
Cece pronounces, “God is great, God is good, now we thank him for our food. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoes Miss Bailey.
“When did she learn to do that?” I ask, astonishment overtaking good sense.
Miss Bailey smiles at me, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. The little minx is baiting me! Or testing the waters?
“Saying grace was required at the preschool,” she says. “It is, after all, a church run establishment.” She watches me closely, then adds, “I’m not much of a praying person myself, but it seemed to me that the world could use a prayer or two today.”
Emotions well up inside me. Today is so different from my life just three months ago. I nod, clear my throat, and manage to say, “Amen to that. I’ve heard more hard luck stories today than I’ve heard in the last three years.”
I lift the warming cover on my plate to reveal a pork chop, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Not an inspired meal, but Kate had said that her skills primarily extended to simple foods. I pick up my fork and scoop up some of the mashed potatoes.
They are creamy and delicious. I’d not eaten potatoes like them since, well, ever. Em had long since pronounced that potatoes were not a vegetable, and rice was healthier. It was amazing that we even had any in the kitchen.
The ladies at my table do not wait for my comment. They pick up their utensils and begin eating. I notice that Cece’s meat is already cut, making it easy for her to manage without assistance.
The green beans are nothing special, but the chop is done to perfection, neither dry nor pink in the middle. While Cece and I are eating, Miss Bailey pours tea for everyone.
The tea is perfect with the meal, and even better with the ginger snap cookies that follow.
“This is wonderful,” I praise Miss Bailey, “I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”
She blushes with pleasure, and it looks good on her. “Just simple food,” she says. “We didn’t have food to waste at home, so I learned to make it right.”
“I helped make the cookies,” Cece chimes in, having a second one.
“Did you?” I take a bite. I’m not usually a fan of gingerbread, but these cookies are chewy, not tooth breaking hard. They were spiced just right to have a little bite to overcome the sweetness, somewhat like Kate, I think, remembering the brief kiss on my cheek and the elusive feel of her slim body against mine.
I cover the rush of heat triggered by the memory by taking another bite and making a huge production out of chewing and savoring the flavor. “That must be why these are so good, sweet and spicy, just like the cooks that made them.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I nearly panic. Had I scared off the only person willing to help run my household? And what was with me? I’d not reacted to a woman like this in years — not even Em had provoked this kind of spark.
Cece giggles, and I cover by focusing on her happy response. “Miss Kate did most of it. I just stirred the batter and put the spoons of batter on the pan.”
“Those are important jobs,” I say, keeping my face appropriately grave. “Imagine what would happen if all the ingredients weren’t mixed well? Or if you put one big glop of dough in one spot and a teeny tiny one in another?”
“Miss Kate showed me how to measure,” Cece says. “I learned that three little t’s makes one big T, an’ it’s important cause if you put a big T of baking soda in cookies they will taste awful!”
“Did you?” I ask. I’d never been initiated into themysteries of cooking, so I had no idea why exactly this was important.
“No,” Kate says. “But I did, once. I was making a special breakfast for my mother. She pretended to like the cookies, but my brother snitched one and bit into it. He made an enormously big deal out of how bad they tasted and has never let me forget it.”
I laugh. I could just imagine James tormenting his sister that way — just as I was beginning to appreciate what a manipulator he was to drop Miss Bailey off and then flee the scene. But surely he had not guessed we would be here virtually alone, chaperoned only by my four-year-old daughter?
That put the burden on me to behave honorably, and not like a horny teenage kid with no thought for tomorrow.
Chapter eleven
Kate
