attention and child-like zeal their father constantly provided was enough.
“What food you want?” Patrick grunted again.
“Pizza,” Carrie giggled.
“What ’bout Caleb? What food Caleb want?” His left hand on the wheel, Patrick reached behind his seat with his right and began tickling his son’s stomach. “Pizza okay with Caleb?” A “yes” managed to squeak its way out of the boy between fits of laughter.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Patrick leaned for a grab at Carrie. The little girl wriggled as far away as her car seat allowed, screeching with delight each time her father’s fingertips grazed her.
Amy, who was finding it near impossible not to smile, couldn’t resist a dig at her husband. “You’re such a dork.”
“You love this dork,” Patrick replied, now in twenty-first century English.
“You have your moments.”
Patrick instantly began crooning Edwin McCain’s “These are the Moments.”
Amy slapped both hands over her ears and winced. “Please make it stop.”
Patrick continued his attempt at singing (a little bit louder now to ensure proper annoyance, of that she was sure) while grinning at his wife like a loon.
She turned away from him, but succumbed to the smile. “Dork.”
3
If one was to drop from the sky and land in front of Tony’s Pizza, one might think it was the only restaurant in existence. At least that was Amy’s opinion. Looking east gave you nothing but mountains and trees, and looking west gave you an infinite stretch of highway that eventually dwindled to a point on the horizon. In addition to that, the restaurant’s spacious parking lot held more cars than a movie theater premiering the newest Harry Potter film.
“Jeez, popular place,” Amy said.
“That’s a good sign,” Patrick said. “Means they have good food.”
Carrie looked out the window, her chestnut eyes shifting from car to car as they cruised for a spot. “Are we going to park?” she asked.
“Daddy’s trying, honey.”
Carrie pulled her head away from the window and wiped her brown bangs out of her eyes. “Mommy, I need a haircut.”
Amy, who was a hawk in her quest to find an empty spot, answered in a slow, dreamy tone—her daughter’s comment finding its way in, but only deep enough for a mechanical reply. “Okay, honey...”
“Can I get one today?”
“Hmmm…?”
“Mommy?”
Amy’s gaze broke with a snap and her tongue was quick again. “Carrie, can you hold on a minute please? Your father and I are trying to find a parking spot so we can eat.”
Carrie huffed and scooped up her doll. She moved its legs back and forth like pistons to pacify her frustration.
Caleb watched his sister with amusement. “I need a haircut too,” he said to her.
Carrie set the doll down and glared at her younger brother, his attempt at camaraderie only appearing to agitate her further. “No you don’t,” she said. “You don’t even have any hair.” She finished her sentence with a hard swipe down her brother’s head of buzzed brown hair. Caleb shoved her hand away and scowled.
“There’s one!” Amy pointed.
“Nice. Good work, baby.” Patrick swung the Highlander to its left and worked it gingerly into the empty space. “I hate parking this damn thing.”
Amy exited first, followed by Patrick, who seemed focused on the task of not banging his car door into the Chevy next to him. Both kids waited for their mother and father to collect them.
Patrick opened the back door and unfastened the belts on Caleb’s child seat. “Let’s go, brother-man.” Caleb leaned forward into his father’s arms. Patrick intentionally grunted as he lifted. “You’re gettin’ huge, dude.” He plopped his son down and kissed him on the top of the head. “You been working out?”
Caleb squinted into the sun as he looked up at his father and smiled. Patrick took his hand, squeezed it twice, and winked at him.
Carrie, who was insistent on making her own way out of the car without the help of her mother, nearly had a conniption once she realized Amy was intending to shut the car door before Josie had a chance to exit.
“Okay, okay, relax.” Amy reached into the car, grabbed her daughter’s doll, and handed it to her.
“Everything okay?” Patrick asked.
“Almost forgot Josie,” Amy replied in a tone ripe with sarcasm. Carrie, who could not define sarcasm for all the toys at the North Pole, could sure as hell identify it when slung. She therefore rewarded Amy with a two-handed grip on her doll and refusal to hold her mother’s hand. Amy snorted and snatched her daughter’s hand up in an instant. “There are too many cars around here for your