“I really have to get going,” she said, but she didn’t move toward the door. “I haven’t been home from work yet.”
He knew by now that when she was planning to stop anywhere on her way home, she changed out of her scrubs at the clinic. The jeans and T-shirt were telling him something.
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“I made spaghetti.” He heard the words coming out of his mouth and was proud of himself for thinking of them. “Homemade sauce. I’d be happy to heat up the leftovers. It’s not enough for another meal for Abe and me.”
“But you saved them.”
He shrugged.
“I do that, too,” she said, not moving from her spot just inside the doorway. “It’s my job to keep all leftovers until they start growing things. Then I can throw them away,” she said with a grin.
“So you’ll save me from having to be host to the container in the refrigerator until it grows things?” he asked.
“I guess.” She glanced around. “As long as I’m not disturbing anything.” Her gaze landed on the computer and tablet on the couch where he’d left them.
“Homework,” he said. “I’m pretty well caught up.”
He’d actually been reading ahead, in case he got offered extra hours at work in the coming days.
“I like your sofa.”
It was dark plaid. “It’s washable,” he offered. “The place came furnished.”
“I know. I helped Caroline a bit this summer with repainting some of her student rentals.”
“Was this one of them?”
“No. It wasn’t this complex. But she described the various decorating schemes she’d applied to make each of her properties a little different from the others.”
Lillie followed him into the kitchen and told him about some of Caroline’s experiences as a landlord while he heated the spaghetti. When it was ready, he sat with her at his little table for four and watched her eat.
“Caro is a firm believer in environment as a contributor to success. If she can offer students a nice place to live, she believes they’ll have a better chance at succeeding.”
Her plate almost empty, she was staring at the booster seat. Jon looked, too, expecting to see splotches of spaghetti sauce he’d missed. Toddlers had a way of leaving things in the most inconspicuous places.
“He had another tantrum today,” she said slowly.
Jon straightened. “Bonnie said he’d had a good day.” He’d asked her when he’d called. And again when he’d picked up his son.
“She wasn’t there when it happened. And it ended so fast we decided not to chart it.”
“Was he in a big group when it happened?”
“Yes, but the crying didn’t start until the kids all started to move.”
Disappointment hit him, although he tried to hold it at bay. They’d had such a good experience at the museum the day before. All those crowds, the hoards of unfamiliar kids, and Abe had held his own like a champ. A NASCAR driver and president all rolled into one.
Give him a year to develop some coordination and he’d be a professional ball player, too.
He’d thought they were through the worst of it.
“They were in movement class, learning to play ring-around-the-rosy, and when the kids started to walk around in a circle, he lost it for a bit.”
“A normal two-year-old tantrum because he liked the spot where he was standing?” Jon asked hopefully.