The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

The front door slams, and I push him off by his chest. “You’ll have to put it on hold a little longer.”

He grumbles, but as soon as Bell enters the kitchen, his glower vanishes. “How’s it feel to be seven years old, kiddo?”

She twirls. “Amazing. I feel like a new person.” Everyone in the room smiles, and Bell notices, batting her lashes at each one of us. “Daddy, I know what I want for my birthday.”

Andrew looks suddenly terrified, as if she just told him she could see dead people and there was one right over his head. “But—your birthday is now,” he says, and I hear the stress in his voice. “I already got your gifts.”

Unperturbed, she continues, “I want a silk dress, just like Mila’s.”

Slowly, Andrew turns his head to me, his eyes accusing. “Is . . . that . . . so?”

“I may have introduced your daughter to designer fashion.” I grimace. “To be fair, that’s a love you’re born with. She would’ve discovered it eventually.”

“I see.” He looks around the room, taking stock. “Well . . . I’m thinking a dress like that is pretty expensive. I suppose I could take back all your gifts, and exchange them for one—”

“No,” she says quickly, jumping up and down. “Next year. I want it next year. It won’t fit me now anyway.”

Andrew glances at me, his eyes glimmering. “Good point. Next year it is, then. Amelia can help me pick it out.”

I return his smile. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing a year from now.

Bored with the baking, Bell has migrated outside to help her father and his friends set up the birthday party. Andrew and Pico cover a long picnic table Andrew rented for the kids to sit and eat. Standing at the sink, I watch Bell through the kitchen window as she bosses grown men around the yard. She doesn’t want the plates and silverware in piles—she wants the table set “like the grown-ups do.” She won’t stand for “baby” music. She wants Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, and Taylor Swift. Andrew revealed, after some prodding, it took him three hours to build a playlist suitable for a children’s party.

“You know Andrew has a dishwasher,” Flora says.

I turn my head to her quickly, startled by her voice. “What?”

“You’ve been washing that bowl for five minutes.”

“Oh.” I didn’t have a dishwasher when I moved to city or for years after. Not until Reggie and I got our apartment. Even then, I continued to hand wash everything. I rinse the bowl and set it on a drying rack.

“What’s on your mind?” Flora asks.

I glance back outside. Andrew scans the backyard, squinting against the sun. It looks as though he’s doing nothing, but I know he’s making sure everything is perfect for Bell. He’s devoted to her happiness. I can see why Andrew loves being a dad. It’s not always pretty, but it’s meaningful. He doesn’t fix cars for a living—he raises a human being. I have a reputation for doing my work well, but what does that mean at the end of the day?

A realization hits me hard. Even with everything I’ll have on my plate come Monday morning, I haven’t thought about avec since last night. It’s probably the longest I’ve gone in years without mentally listing all the things I have to do or wondering about website statistics or inventing creative ways to impress my clients. The most surprising part, though, is that I don’t feel any guilt about it. But it’s not because I’m going to lose it. I know in my heart of hearts, I’ll go down with the ship as deep as I need to until all of my clients and employees are taken care of. It’s this, what surrounds me, that has kept me from work. Bell’s party, Andrew’s family, my safety—it all seems more important than sending out an e-mail on time.

Andrew throws his head back and laughs at something Bell says. My heart comes to life. He is more important.

“Work,” I tell Flora.

“You’re thinking about work?” She sounds disappointed.

“No.” I glance at her. “I’m thinking about how I’m not thinking about work.”

“I see.” She tilts her head at me. “How does it feel?”

“Weird. I forget there’s a world outside of it.”

Flora joins me at the sink, looking out the window. “She’s his world. I worry he won’t be able to make space for anyone else, even though he needs to.”

I’m surprised by her bluntness. Last night, she was more than obvious about pushing me onto him.

“Since Shana, many others have tried,” she says. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I can’t blame them.” She shakes her head and looks up at me. Despite her words, there’s no pity, no defeat in her eyes. They’re sparkling. “None of them made it here. And it has more to do with you than it does Andrew.”

I study her a moment. “What are you saying?”

“Andrew fought against it because he thought his life needed to be about her. He thought he’d had his chance. What he needed was the right woman to make it worth it again. Someone strong and smart and challenging.”

Though her words resonate deeply with me, I can’t help but point out the obvious. “But it isn’t just about him,” I say. “This whole life is foreign to me.”

“Does that worry you?”

“Of course.” I pinch the apron between my fingers, showing it to her. “I’m not a mom. I don’t do bake sales or minivans, and frankly, I don’t think I ever will. I don’t cook—even my vegetables are takeout. How am I supposed to be responsible for the health of a small child?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Andrew is an excellent chef. For only learning to cook four years ago, he’s astounding. When something’s important to him, he never half-asses it.”

“That’s not really the point—”

“Moms—and families—come in different shapes and sizes. You don’t have to drive a certain kind of vehicle or dress in khaki Bermuda shorts.”

I gasp. “Bermuda shorts—oh, God. You’re making it worse.”

She laughs. “I’m saying not all moms look alike. There are just a few really important things you have to be or do. I don’t think you need me to tell you those.”

Bell folds her arms over her chest, surveying the picnic tables, her stance the exact same as her dad’s when he inspected their work a minute ago. I think of my own mom, who was, for the most part, good to me. But she did her own damage, all while looking exactly as a mom should, according to the rest of the world.

What would I have to be to Bell? A role model, a support beam, a cheerleader. What would I have to do? Love her unconditionally. But am I capable of that? Loving a child seems like it would be more graceful and simple than surrendering your heart to a lover. Already, I feel protective of her. Proud of the headstrong, independent girl she is. If I let myself love her, though—what happens if Andrew and I don’t make it?

“If I do this,” I say, “it’s for good. I can’t just walk away if it gets hard.”

Flora nods her head. “It’s true that Bell isn’t as tough as she acts. But Andrew is teaching her strength, and if one day you leave, she’ll survive.”

“That’s very . . . practical.”

“I’d hate to see you walk away, or worse, not give them a hundred percent of yourself because you’re worried about hurting them down the line. They’re survivors.”

Andrew squats to Bell’s level, his brows furrowed. He listens to whatever she says with complete focus, as if she’s giving him directions to a fortune.

My heart surges with adoration. “I’m not going to walk away,” I say. “It’s more that I’m not sure how not to be a businesswoman.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can be both. So you cut back on evenings and weekends. So you work from home more. Don’t you own your own business?”

I swallow. Letting go of avec won’t be easy. Already, I feel a void. Work will always be important to me, and I know I’ll figure out something else. Ultimately, I have to believe in the decision I made because the reasons were right. “Yes,” I say.

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“Maybe you get some clients out here. Or open another branch.” She shrugs. “You’re the boss—that’s what bosses do. Adapt.”

Wise old woman. “It’ll take some rearranging.”

“That can be a good thing.”

I cross my arms. Andrew notices us and waves, so I smile at him. It can be a good thing. I think it could be a great thing.

THIRTY-FIVE

The universe is infamous for playing tricks—and right now, the joke is on me. Not twenty minutes after Flora boosted my maternal confidence, the doorbell rang, and so began a steady stream of messy, rowdy children and their Bermuda-shorts-wearing, mini-van-driving mothers. I’m suddenly one of them, only in four-inch heels and a four-hundred dollar frock. The party has begun.

Flora was right—my heels do sink in the grass. I don’t let that discourage me. I pick up napkins that fly off the table with every breeze. I maneuver around toys, discarded plastic cups, and actual small humans.

“I love your dress,” one of the mom gushes, her eyes wide. “Is that from the Spring collection?”

“It is, actually,” I say, guilty over my obvious surprise.

“Oh, I don’t own anything by DVF,” she says, “but I follow a few fashion blogs religiously. Just to torment myself.”

“Really?” I ask, my interest piqued. “You don’t think it’s silly?”

“What, fashion? Not at all. A friend of mine and I shop the vintage stores in the area all the time. Once in a while we’ll score a rare find like an authentic Gucci clutch. It’s better than nothing, which is what my husband lets me have at designer prices.”

“You just haven’t found your bargaining chip yet.”

She tilts her head. “What?”