Page 110 of My Lucky Charm

“Scarlett, this is my sister, Poppy,” Eloise says.

“Hi! Eloise said you make really good pancakes,” Scarlett says.

“The best.” Poppy smiles. “Do you want to come make some with me?”

“In the kitchen?” She beams.

“Yep.”

“Like a real chef?”

Poppy laughs. “Yep!”

“Can I, Dad?” Scarlett asks.

I hesitate. I need to address this hockey thing. I need to address the Scarlett fighting thing. And I need to make sure Eloise is okay.

“You can come back there too, if you want,” Poppy says.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “If you’re sure she won’t be in the way.”

Poppy shakes her head as Scarlett scoots out of the booth. “She’ll be great. I know what Eloise is going to order, but do you know what you want?”

I glance down at the menu, but then remember one of the prepared meals that showed up in my refrigerator. “Maybe that chicken and pasta thing you made last week?”

She grins. “That’s a new recipe. You like it?”

“It’s good, yeah.”

“Great, we’ll be back in a bit.”

“Can you have the waitress bring us a bag of ice too?” I ask.

Poppy frowns, and Eloise’s gaze falls to the table.

“Sure . . .” Poppy draws the word out, confused, then disappears into the kitchen with Scarlett.

I stare at Eloise. I want to ask her if she’s okay, but everything about today blurs the line between professional and private. Worse, she seems to be avoiding my eyes. And even worse, I need to apologize for being a jerk for most of the day today.

Selena shows up with a bag of ice. She hands it over, and I thank her, then wait until I have Eloise’s attention. I turn my hand up on the table and motion for her to give me hers.

She pauses, holding eye contact, then finally pulls her swollen hand out from under the table and sets it in my open palm.

I wrap the baggie in a napkin and gently set it on top of her knuckles, holding the ice and her hand between both of mine.

She winces a little.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

She closes her eyes and a tear slips out, but she wipes it away before it has a chance to slide down her cheek. “I just feel so stupid.”

“Why?”

Her eyes flick open, and she shakes her head and draws in a breath like she’s just reminded herself crying is for babies. Then, in a measured tone, she says, “You could fire me over what I did. Heck, you could fire me over eighteen things I’ve done. And I wouldn’t blame you one bit.”

I frown. “Why would I do that?”

“I punched someone. In front of your daughter.”

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