Page 23 of Sunshine
“Well, you two make a great team, and I don’t want to get in the way,” Poppy says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Izzy. Bright and early to help get you ready for school, okay?”
“No!” Izzy clasps her hands under her chin and makes thepretty pleaseface that even I have a hard time saying no to. “Stay for dinner. I’ll even let you have one of my big jobs if you like?”
I turn to take a plate of leftover grilled salmon from the fridge, which means I can avoid looking at Poppy directly as I hang on her answer.
Say yes and stay a little longer.
Say no, so I don’t have to spend another minute distracted by your incredible mouth.
“I don’t know,” Poppy murmurs, and I sense that she’s waiting for me to make the call. “I’m not a very good cook.”
“That’s okay. Daddy’s the best chef in the world. He’ll teach you.”
Izzy’s desperation to keep Poppy here settles it, and I set two heavy red sweet potatoes in Poppy’s hands. “Think you can handle these and a vegetable peeler?”
Poppy’s lips twitch, and I imagine how soft they’d feel under my thumb. “I think we’re about to find out.”
While Poppy peels and chops the sweet potatoes, I show Izzy how to flake the salmon into pieces. As she focuses on that, her pink tongue stuck out the side of her mouth, I transfer the potatoes to the steamer, chop some herbs, and prepare a mustard mayonnaise. I’m in such a flow that I don’t notice when Poppy abandons her station in favor of a glass of wine, a bag of nuts, and a seat at the dining table.
“Smells good,” she comments as she sets her feet up on another chair and takes a sip of her Silver Leaf chardonnay.
“I’m glad you think so.” I point at her legs stretched out under the table. “Are you comfortable?”
She hits me with a shit-eating grin and pops a pistachio into her mouth. “Very.”
My disapproving grimace is just for show because Ilikethe way she looks in my kitchen. And I enjoy cooking to the soundtrack of Poppy and Izzy chatting in their high-pitched voices. As Izzy helps me mash the sweet potato and stir it into the salmon with a few other ingredients, Poppy asks her questions about the music she likes (anything by Taylor Swift), the movies she watches (anything with a princess), and the activities they have planned for the weekend (horse-riding with Daisy, DIY pedicures with Poppy, and if there’s any time leftover, maybe a little attention for her dad squeezed in there somewhere).
As I move around the kitchen, I keep coming back to why this feels significant. It’s not like we don’t do something similar when Charlie and Daisy are home, but the energy between Poppy and Izzy is different. My daughter is more engaged somehow. More animated. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not worrying so hard about whether I’ve got this parenting thing right.
“Okay. Time to fry the burgers.” I lift Izzy from her step stool and usher her to the table, pulling out a chair and then handing her a sudoku book and cup of pencils. “Hot oil and little hands don’t mix, so you stay here while I do that part.”
“I’ll help.” Poppy jumps to her feet. “My hands are bigger than hers, and it’s only fair.”
“Are you sure?” I ask a little dubiously.
Poppy picks up a dish towel and swats me with it. “Come on. Let me try. How hard can it be?”
“I’ll try not to be offended,” I mutter, stealing the dish towel. “Turn around and raise your arms.”
“What? Why?”
It’s not often I get the upper hand over Poppy, so I hit her with a smirk and say nothing as I take her by the shoulders and spin her away from me. I slide my arms around her body, take hold of her wrists, and unfurl her crossed arms before guiding her hands high over her head. Her breath catches on an inhale, and my heart lurches at the sound.
“Hold up your hair,” I order, and as she collects her reddish curls, I position the towel over her chest and tie it into place across her shoulder blades.
Once the towel is secured over her sweater, Poppy looks down at the green-striped cloth. “Well. That’s attractive.”
“It’s to protect your clothes from the oil,” I explain.
“Right.” She breathes deeply, rolls up her sleeves, and plants herself in front of the stove. “Let’s do it.”
I swirl a couple of tablespoons of olive oil into a wide frying pan, then switch on the burner underneath. When the oil is hot, I hand Poppy the plate of salmon burgers and a spatula.
“They don’t need long,” I tell her. “Just a few minutes on each side until they’re hot in the middle and crispy golden on the outside. It might spit a little, so be careful.”
“Yes, Chef.”
My head snaps up, and I meet Poppy’s slightly surprised eyes. A tiny smile dances along her glossy mouth, and I drag my bottom lip between my teeth. The honorific I hear every day has a different impact coming from her. A decimating impact.
