Page 13 of Broken Daddy

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at the soft sage peeking from among a bush of cone flowers.

“Sage,” I explain. “I’m going to hang it up in the kitchen, let it dry out. It’s good for seasoning some foods.”

Eva’s little face is screwed up with a serious expression and she nods, as if tucking that information away.

“Are you married?”

My hands freeze, the garden shears open and hovering over a plant.

“Um…”

Almost.That single word makes my heart throb. I push the feeling away.

“No.”

I almost was, it didn’t work out. I thought we had the same dreams—

The shears snap closed with a metallic ring. Eva flinches. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you want to be?”

“Not everyone has to get married, you know. Your dad’s not married.”

The little girl tilts her head to the side, considering. “True. But he used to be.”

To a woman named Julia, I remember…Eva’s mom. When I was away at culinary school, Russel would call to chat, and a few times he mentioned Nate’s wife Julia. I just never put it all together until now. And I have no idea what actually happened to the woman.

Asking a ten-year-old probably wouldn’t be appropriate, so I ignore that line of questioning.

“Are you looking to catch anything in particular?”

Eva glances at the jar, obviously bored with it. She tips the pill bugs out and they scatter for the thick mulch.

“No. Why did you want to be a chef?”

I sit back on my heels, looking at her curiously.

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

“It’s a good one, though.”

The deep voice makes me jump, shears falling onto the grass as I press a hand to my chest. Nathan stands a few feet behind us, hands in his pockets. He must have just arrived home from work.

His eyes are narrowed as he watches us, and I wonder if it’s just because he’s protective of Eva, or because he’s genuinely curious.

The two of them are like good cop-bad cop, cornering me into answering. I sigh and shuck the garden gloves off. Nathan settles onto a lawn chair nearby, completely ignoring the snoozing nanny.

“I…okay. I don’t know. I guess I always liked cooking. It makes people happy, and I like seeing them happy when they eat something I make.”

It sounds like a lame answer, but memories flitting through my mind lend it truth—my dad after a long day of work enjoying a pot of meatballs. Mom showing me how to bake a pie. The impressed and surprised look on the face of one of my teachers when I got the poached pears just right. All those customers at The Black Fig who practically moaned over my menu, returning regularly until we knew their names and their orders.

“Dad, Gen isn’t married.”

Eva states it so matter-of-fact, it takes us both by surprise. I feel my cheeks flame as Nate glances at me, his face carefully impassive.

“That’s not really an appropriate thing to be asking Miss Gen about, Eva.”

The ten-year-old looks ashamed for a second and mumbles an apology. Then a black and blue butterfly flits by, and she stands to chase after it.

“Sorry,” Nate says stiffly. “She doesn’t have boundaries around that kind of stuff yet.”

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