“Sad. M-o-u-r-n-f-u-l.”
Annelise mouthed the letters along with her. She’d have that word down, and it would likely get a starring role in quite a few of her sentences over the next few weeks.
“I know!” Annelise said with gleeful relish. “Itismournful!”
Eden sat down next to her on the bed. The coverlet was a retina-searing pink quilted job with pink bobbles on the hem. Annelise had insisted. Peace and Love was curled up on one of the pillows. He was a music fan.
The mermaid night-light was also pink, as was the little kid-sized guitar that Annelise set aside, resting its headstock on her pillow next to Peace and Love gently. Shelovedthat thing.
Eden reflexively checked, and she saw that the trifold poster board, colorfully illustrated with information about human sacrifice and the Aztec language, calendar, education, and food stuffs, occupied a corner. Annelise would ace her presentation. The topic was a juicy one.
“Can I ask you something, Leesy?”
“Shoot.”
Annelise had learned “shoot” from her grandpa.
“Do you think about your real dad very much? We haven’t talked about that in a while.”
Annelise searched her mom’s face for some clue as to how she should answer.
Eden kept her expression open and cheerful.
“Mmm... just sometimes.”
Eden’s heart squeezed. In Annelise’s rare thoughtful silences—for instance, when they were in the car together driving to Hummingbirds, or when Annelise was about to drift off to sleep—what did her baby think about?
“Doesit make you sad that you don’t know your dad?”
“Mmm... I don’t think so. Maybe notsad. It’s just... Caitlynn said he could be anybody. He could be the guy who sleeps in front of the courthouse. It could be Truck Donegal or Giorgio.”
ARRRGH! Fucking Jan Pennington!
Because little Caitlynn was likely quoting her mom, who usually had the good sense not to say that stuff in front of her child, but give her a glass of Chardonnay, and she’d yammer on about anything. She’d probably said that to her husband, and Caitlynn overheard. Truck Donegal was an occasional bouncer at the Misty Cat, a reformed lunkhead of sorts, and Giorgio was their swarthy taciturn grill savant.
The only reason Eden cared at all was that it would send ripples of uncertainty and discontent across Annelise’s world.
“I promise you, honey, your dad isn’t anyone you’ve met or that even Mrs. Pennington has met. He doesn’t live in our town. Caitlynn shouldn’t say those kinds of things to you. It’s a matter between you and your own family, and it’s very impolite. If she says anything like that again, all you need to tell her is that it’s private and you won’t talk about it.”
Easier said than done, that was for sure, given that her daughter was quite the gregarious talker. But she also had a good deal of pride and was no pushover.
“I told her he could be the president,” Annelise said defiantly.
“Um—”
“Or maybe Nigel Lythgoe.”
They religiously watchedSo You Think You Can Dance, and Annelise was very impressed by the strict, compassionate, knowledgeable Nigel.
“Well—”
“Or Han Solo.”
“Han Solo is a fictional character, honey. And he seems lovely, but I’ve never met Nigel Lythgoe.”
“Is it Principal Caldera?”
She was startled by another of those washes of weakness and that thrilling little heart jab. Just at the sound of his name.