Page 71 of A Twist of Faith
“You sure do have Daddy laughin’ a lot, Mrs. Doc.”
Dee placed a cool palm to her face and focused her attention on the adorable seven-year-old. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” She raised her sleeve.
Dee cleared her throat. Lou caught the hint and picked up her napkin instead. Smart girl.
“Ain’t you gonna eat your dessert?”
Definitely. She needed something to cool the embarrassment alive and well in her bloodstream. A strawberry garnished the top of the chocolate gelatin dessert tempting her from a fashionable glass. Dee dipped her spoon and took a bite. Cream, chocolate, and coffee smoothed together to form a tantalizing combination. She took another taste and a moan of delight escaped. Heaven help her, food wasn’t supposed to be so good.
“So?”
Emma’s sudden closeness nearly sent Dee clear out of her leather Liz Clabourne’s. “Emma, oh my.” Dee pressed her hand against her chest. “It’s fantastic.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Definitely.” Dee reached over to wipe a dribble of ice cream from Brandon’s chin. He offered her a heart-stopping grin, wrinkled his nose, and took another bite. Blood-related or not, he had his Daddy’s charm.
“I’m so glad.” Her smile turned conspiratory. “It’s the easiest recipe I’ve been taught so far. And you can change up the ingredients.” She flapped her hands in excitement, her writing pad bouncing along with her. “Now to talk Aunt Daphne into advertising new dishes. She’s not too fond of recipes she can’t pronounce.”
“Mrs. Doc.” Lou’s warning came too late.
Dee turned in time to see an entire scoop of vanilla go from Brandon’s spoon directly into his lap. She gasped, so did Emma. Lou helped it along with a giggle. Brandon looked up, green eyes rounding, and then with the glint of adventure dimpling his cheeks, he grabbed the ice cream with both hands.
Or tried.
He had the entire scoop halfway to his mouth when it slipped between his chunky fingers.
“Brandon, let me—”
Vanilla splashed into Dee’s face and slid off her chin to splat against the table. Another dollop of it clotted against Emma’s apron before it made a slinky move to the floor. Maybe TV and movies didn’t clearly prepare her for two hours alone with Brandon Mitchell.
All remnantsof vanilla ice cream washed away during Brandon’s bath. However, no one, movies, Google, or anything else, prepared her for wrestling a slippery toddler into a bath full of bubbles, washing a mass of gold curls, and then trying to catch the true-born rascal to get him out. The aerobic activity proved as effective as catching raindrops in a sieve. The sweetness of giggles and joy soaked as deeply into Dee’s heart as bath water into her drenched white blouse.
Lou put in her best attempts to help, but the seven-year-old hadn’t made it out unscathed either. After Dee helped wash her beautiful dark hair, they both slipped on the linoleum and put their ballerina poses into practical use with near-splits, finally landing in unladylike positions on the puddled floor.
By the time she’d given them both their cups of milk, brushed out Lou’s hair, and read them a bedtime story, every ounce of tension in the day rested firmly on her shoulders. She closed Brandon’s door to the sound of his jabbering to himself and smiled. Despite the near-flood in the bathroom and the battle with a squirming naked boy, she’d discovered a new fascination with baby toes and powder. Oh, heavens, she wanted to pinch each one of his little piggies and snuggle a full half hour with him smelling of baby shampoo and wrapped in a fuzzy towel.
It was the oddest contradiction of emotions she’d ever known. Maybe Appalachia truly made people crazy. She grinned as she snuck one of Reese’s flannel shirts from the laundry room and threw her soaked blouse in the dryer while Lou put on her pajamas. The flannel shirt carried the thick and welcome fragrance of spice and wood.
She massaged a kink in her neck and stepped into Lou’s room. Butterflies hung from the ceiling in rainbow colors and a pair of pink camouflage boots stood at the end of the bed—a wonderfully perfect combination of tomboy princess. She mentally kicked herself. Yet another false assumption. When would she stop identifying the Mitchells with all of her broken ideas of truth?
She sat on the edge of Lou’s bed and pulled the blankets up to the little girl’s chin. Her bright eyes sparkled in the lamplight, creating another beautiful new memory to replace her old broken ones. Dee waded into the tender memories with sweet abandon.
She smoothed back Lou’s hair, nurturing the swell of protectiveness and affection this evening birthed. “Good night, Lou.”
“Night, Ms.—” She crinkled her brow. “Since your tuckin’ me into bed and all, can I call you something besides Ms. Doc?”
Dee twisted one of Lou’s dark curls around her finger and bathed in the tenderness of the moment. “If your daddy doesn’t mind, why don’t you call me Dee?”
She grinned and snuggled down into the blankets, eyes fluttering closed. “Good night, Dee.”
Dee pushed off the bed.
“Wait, Dee.” She emphasized the name as if she liked using it. “Ain’t you gonna say prayers?”
Dee’s feet halted on the carpet. She made a slow turn, trying to sort out how to answer. Pray? Her mind drew a complete blank. How long had it been since her last prayer? The hospital with her father? The weekend after when mother disappeared? Dee clasped her hands together, words coming painfully slow for a speech-language pathologist. “Okay … um … what does your dad usually do?”
