“Ronnie’s nanny can spend the holiday however she pleases.”
My daughter’s hand pauses in midair, the dotting marker hanging in the balance. “Are you talkin’ about Frannie?”
“The one and only.” Dennis waggles his bushy eyebrows.
She discards the stamper as if it ran out of ink. Now we have her full attention. “I love her. She’s gonna be my mommy someday.”
My uncle chokes on his surprise. “Is that so?”
“Uh-huh, but not until she says so. I gotta be patient. It’s so hard to wait.”
“What’s the holdup?” The force of his question rests on me.
“Aside from the truth?” I shoot the old man a scolding stare of my own. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? Seems legit.”
My knee bounces under the table. “Frankie is Ronnie’s nanny. We’ve decided that’s all she’ll be.”
“For now,” my daughter inserts.
“Forever,” I correct.
She scowls. “Wanna bet?”
My exhale is ragged, much like this topic of conversation. “It’s not a game, cupcake.”
Dennis chuckles. “Your dad isn’t much of a gambler.”
“Not when the odds are stacked against me.”
Ronnie’s button nose crinkles. “What’s that mean?”
“He doesn’t think luck is on his side,” my uncle explains.
An uncomfortable prickle crawls along the nape of my neck. “You know who raised me.”
He dips his head. “I also know you’re not him. Pretty sure you’ve spent the entirety of your adult life proving it.”
“Which is why I don’t take risks.”
“Boring.” My little girl pretends to snore before resuming her stamping project.
“Let’s change the subject.” But again, I’m on a losing streak and my uncle holds all the cards.
“I understand Ronnie is your whole world, as she should be,” Dennis states in a tone that suggests there’s more coming. “But you’re more than a father. It’s healthy to let the man out of the cage every once in a while.”
I almost laugh. That’s exactly what I did in the barn just yesterday. But there are limits, such as the one we’re currently toeing.
The brim of my hat gets tugged down to hide any visible tells. “We’re not discussing this.”
“I believe we are. There are ample opportunities to let that part of you roam free. Don’t deprive yourself, son.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” This is beginning to sound like an exchange we already had recently.
“Absolutely,” he booms. “What do you call this?”
The wide stretch of his arms refers to the commotion surrounding us. After his wife died, he spent several months locked away with his grief. But then Brody married Paisley and took ownership of Benson Farmstead. Retirement has rejuvenated him. He’s got me cornered and the smirk lifting his wrinkled skin is smug.