Lindsey’s dad?”
She bounces around then, and her voice gets louder. “He showed us the quarterback princess!”
“Right…” That’s more like it. “Have you ever thought about your dad?”
“Mama said my daddy was making movies in Hollywood.”
Now I’m feeling like I should’ve consulted a book before charging into this so unprepared. Or Christ, at least asked Daisy what she’d already told Melody. It never even occurred to me.
“It’s true, that’s what he was doing… But what if he came back to see you?”
She tilts her little head and squints up at me. “Is he nice?”
“I think he’s nice.”
“Would he let me be the quarterback princess?”
“Absolutely.”
Her little lips poke out, and she motions with her little hand for me to come closer. I do as she beckons, and she puts a small hand on my cheek, whispering, “I wish you were my daddy.”
My heart swells so big and so fast, it burns in my chest. I lean down and whisper back, “What if I told you I am your daddy?”
Her blue eyes widen, and she smiles like we’re playing a game. “You can be my daddy?” She bounces on my lap clapping. “You can be my daddy!”
“Wait, no.” I think I’m screwing this up. “I really am your daddy.”
She smiles, hopping off my lap and dancing around me, golden curls flying. “You’re my daddy!”
“Yes, I am.” I smile, but I’m still not sure she believes it’s actually true.
“Come on, then!” She takes my hand, skipping across the street, pulling me behind her.
We go right into the store, and Daisy looks up from behind the counter expectantly. “How’d it go?”
“Mr. Scout said he can be my daddy now!” She takes off around the store, alternately kicking her legs behind her and lifting her arms.
“She’s happy. She’s doing her ballerina dance.” Daisy grins up at me, and I’m less worried our daughter is having a seizure.
“I don’t think she understands it’s for real.”
“She’s little. She’ll grow into it.”
Sliding my hand across her waist, I move a little closer. “What would she think about Daddy spending the night with Mommy?”
Daisy’s cheeks flame pink, and it’s my favorite response. “You might have to arm wrestle her for the bed.”
I remember my baby with her arms over her head sawing little girl logs in the middle of her mother’s bed. My eyes travel to the iron and brass bed I was working on earlier.
“Maybe she needs a royal upgrade?”
Her nose wrinkles and she leans closer to my chest. “You’re kind of a natural when it comes to this parenting thing.”
“I won’t let it go to my head.”
Twenty-Six
Daisy
“It’s the vase you found in Dad’s store all those years ago.” I’m at the counter, talking on the phone with Spencer, and Ms. Nelly Rushmore stands beside me, nodding along to my every word. “The deep purple one with the lavender inside instead of the white. It’s so unique, it has to be the one she means.”
“I’m sure it’s the one she means, but that doesn’t mean I want to sell it.” Spencer’s voice is irritable on the other end of the line.
“But it completes her grandmother’s set.” Ms. Nelly’s eyes soften like she might cry, and my heart surges at her joy. “If you just let her hold it for a little while—”
“Let her hold it?” Spencer is indignant. “Then she dies with it in her possession and one of her greedy offspring absconds with it. Suddenly no one knows anything about a borrowed vase, and that’s how priceless antiques go missing for generations.”
“It’s a piece of Fenton art glass, Spencer. It’s hardly a priceless antique.” I wrinkle my nose and shake my head at Ms. Nelly’s offended face.
Covering the receiver with my hand, I whisper to her, “I’m just saying that to make him cave.”
She smiles with relief, but Spencer isn’t budging. “I know antiques as well as you—better. I know them better than you, and I’m not giving this old crone my vase.”
“You sound like a big ole baby.” I force a laugh, but it’s more nervous than convinced. When Spencer digs in his heels, it’s pretty much over.
Ms. Nelly’s face turns more worried than confident, and I figure I should give it a rest for a little bit.
“Just think about it, Spence.”
“And on that note, goodbye.”
He ends the call abruptly, but I pretend like he didn’t. “Okay, then. Chat soon.”
I lower the buzzing phone, and the eighty-eight-year-old church organist searches my expression for any sign of optimism. “Did he say he might consider it?”
Her voice is wobbly,