sorry, this isn’t how I envisioned tonight going.”
I laugh and then shrug. “That makes two of us, but yes, I’m sure. Let me help you.”
“You’re always helping me.” His smile falls and he reaches out to brush his thumb over the apple of my cheek. “Who helps you, Nora?”
“I think that’s a conversation for another time,” I say. “Go get your daughter. I’ll probably beat you back here.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“The pharmacy is literally around the block. I’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’ve had a break in the weather, so I don’t have to try to make my way through snow in my heels on the short walk around the corner to the pharmacy. I immediately reach for the usual suspects: antihistamine, Tylenol for pain and fever, Gatorade, and chocolate.
Because chocolate is always necessary.
I also throw a couple of teen magazines in the basket, and on my way to the checkout counter, I see a set of oven mitts, covered in green ivy. They look like something my mother would have in her kitchen, and I snatch them up, remembering an episode of one of my favorite TV shows.
I was right. I beat them home. So I go straight to Gabby’s room and put clean sheets on her queen-size bed. I put the magazines, medicine, and Gatorade on the bedside table, as well as the oven mitts, along with a small roll of tape I found.
Just as I get the pillowcases back on Gabby’s pillows, I hear the front door open and footsteps down the hall to the bedroom.
“You did beat us back,” Carter says.
“I have all the supplies you should need,” I inform Gabby while I pull her in for a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry this happened, sweetie.”
“I itch,” she says. “And I’m hot.”
“Fever,” I murmur, feeling her head. “Did anyone give her anything for the fever?”
“Yes, she just had a Tylenol and a Benadryl. They should kick in soon,” Carter says. “Gabs, why don’t you put some pajamas on and get in bed?”
“Okay. Uh, what are the oven mitts for? Am I supposed to bake in my condition? Also, I think Grandma has the same ones.”
I laugh and slide them on her hands. “I once saw an episode of Friends, where most of the cast gets the chicken pox. To keep from scratching, they duct-tape oven mitts on their hands. So if you get out of control scratching these things, we’ll do the same thing.”
“But if they itch, I should scratch them.”
“No, if you scratch them, they’ll bleed, and you’ll scar.” I lift my shirt up to show her my stomach. “See this? It’s a chicken pox scar.”
“But it itches.”
“Trust me, I know.” I pull some pajamas out of her dresser. The softest ones I can find. “Pull these on, and get settled.”
“Dad, I know it makes me sound like a baby, but will you tuck me in?”
“Sure.”
“And I want my letter from Mom.” She bats her eyelashes, and Carter opens the bedside table drawer, pulling out a folded letter that’s seen better days. It’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times from the look of the battered creases.
“Here you go.”
“Also,” Gabby continues, “I’m not sleepy.”
“That Benadryl will soon make you sleepy,” Carter says as we leave the room. Then he says to me, “Thank you, for all this.”
“It’s my pleasure. Really. I’ll wait in the living room while you tuck her in.”
I make a pit stop in the kitchen and pour us each a glass of Carter’s favorite wine, then make my way to his living room. As I get comfortable on the couch, I stare out at the city lit up beyond the windows. New York sure is pretty at night.
I’ve had a few sips of wine when Carter comes into the room and collapses on the couch with a sigh.
“She should fall asleep soon. She was reading one of the magazines you brought her.”
“Good. Sleep will do her good. What’s up with the letter?”
Carter sighs and sips his wine. “Darcy left a stack of letters for Gabby to read throughout the rest of her life. This one is for when she’s feeling sick. There are letters for when she graduates from high school, college, gets married, has babies.”
“Oh,” I say and blink away tears. “That’s actually really beautiful.”
I want to ask if she left any letters for him, but before I can, he grins, showing me that dimple.
“So.” He reaches for me and tugs me over to him. “Show me this scar again.”
“You want