my dear housekeeper, Florentine. She’s stocked my kitchen. Again. Not one of her tasks but she calls me ‘skin and bones,’ and wants to put more meat on me. I see she’s left a huge pan of her lasagna, just part of her plan to fatten me up.
I pull out milk, cream, eggs, maple syrup, bacon. “How do you like your coffee?”
“I can drink it with milk, but my favorite is vanilla creamer.”
“I got you.” Grabbing a small bowl from the cabinet, I whisk together milk, a little cream, some sugar and a dash of pure vanilla extract. The coffeepot beeps.
She shakes her head, saying, “Please don’t go to any trouble for me.”
She has no idea what it means to be a baby girl.
Daddies live to go to all the trouble for their girls.
Our joy is going the extra mile to give them what their hearts desire.
Choosing the perfect mug, I pour her a cup, stirring in some of the homemade creamer. “Try this.”
I hand her a mug decorated with a cat with a rainbow tail and a unicorn horn. Big bright pink letters are stamped across the bottom, saying Meowgical.
She laughs, taking the mug from me. “How did you know I like cats?”
I say, “You’ve mentioned Mr. Stuffings. More than once.”
“I am bad about talking about him, aren’t I? I’m kind of like an eighty-year-old woman in that regard.” Taking a sip, her eyes light up. “This is delicious. How’d you make it?”
“It’s easy. I’ll make a batch to send home with you.” Amongst the kitchen goods that Florentine has purchased, I find a pretty glass bottle with a lid. I whip up another batch of the creamer and pour it in the jar. I find a sheet of labels and a marker in the drawer. Making a special set of labels, I carefully apply them to the jar and put it in the fridge to give her when she leaves.
“Music?” I ask her.
“Sure.” She sits, quite content, sipping her coffee, the morning sun shining through the window in streams, lighting her hair.
I’m on a French Easy Listening kick, so I put that on. The music fills the apartment, easy and light.
While she drinks her coffee, I get to work. Scrambling eggs, frying bacon, flipping pancakes. I find myself singing along quietly as I work.
She asks, “You know French?”
“Only what I’ve memorized on this station. They seem to play the same ten songs over and over. More coffee?”
She smiles. “Sure.”
I make her another cup, serving it with a bow. “What about you? Do you speak any other languages?” I ask, headed back to the stove.
She says, “I learned a little Spanish in high school. But I wasn’t a very good student.”
“Too distracted by the boys?” I ask.
Giving a laugh, she says, “No. I was mostly distracted by my doodling.”
Tori’s sensitive, creative—I can picture her being an artist. I ask, “You can draw?”
She says, “Anyone can draw. If you mean, am I any good, you’d have to decide for yourself.”
I think of her little cat doodle on the note she left me. “Well, I’d love the opportunity one day. I have zero artistic ability, unless you count cooking as creating.”
I set a plate before her. Two pancakes with melting butter, drenched in syrup, two slices of perfectly crisped bacon, one scrambled egg, and I put a plate at my place at the table with double that amount of food. “Orange juice?”
“Seriously?” She eyes her plate greedily. “I haven’t had a breakfast like this... well, I really don’t remember when. I’ve been living off cold cereal.”
“You know what they say. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” I rarely eat it myself, never going to the trouble of cooking for one.
I pour two glasses of orange juice and join her at the table. I watch her take a bite.
Her eyes close for just a moment, but the small gesture makes a strange fullness in my chest; she’s savoring it.
She lets out a deep sigh. “That’s delicious.”
Simple pleasures; to have her here, enjoying my coffee, my cooking, it makes me happy. “I’m glad you like it.”
We eat in a comfortable silence, dotted here and there by idle chat. When we finish, she insists on helping me with the dishes. What we don’t load into the dishwasher, I wash, she dries. Our arms brush against one another’s in the small kitchen.
When we’re done, I can feel her need to leave. She’s hovering by the door, unsure of what to say.
As much