Page 77 of Dream House
Update: Lark wearing a newborn on his shoulder and laughing istwentykinds of cute.
I shake off that thought and focus on the obvious. “So your sister-in-law is with Nina?”
Lark nods. “They’ve been in there about an hour.” He gestures in the direction of the sitting room, changing up his diaper-patting for a bounce-and-sway thing. The little one continues to fuss. “It’s cutting into Lola’s dinnertime.”
“How old is she?” I ask, trying to remember that fleeting time when Maisy was that small. It seems like a lifetime ago.
“Three months.” Something like pride shapes his smile.
I move to the fridge. It’s leftover minestrone tonight, and I just need to reheat the soup on the stove. “You’re really good with her,” I say over my shoulder.
Is he blushing? Oh my God. How adorable!
My own face heats as I set the stockpot on the burner and turn the flame on low.
“I had a crash-course in baby-soothing when I bunked at Bear and Maggie’s for a couple weeks before moving here.” When I look back at him, his smile is rueful. “The midnight to three a.m. shift is no joke.”
“Tell me about it.” Baby Lola is winding up, not yet at a full cry, but she’s tucked her little fist into a ball and is sucking on it with frustrated little whimpers. “It’s a good thing you fall head over heels for them because the nights are endless.”
Lark’s brows draw together. “Did you…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Did I what?”
He shakes his head again. “None of my business.”
“It’s okay.” I drag open the drawer next to the stove and rifle around for a wooden spoon. “What’s your question?”
Lark watches me for a second like he’s debating. “Did you have help?”
My smile is wry. “Oh. That.” I roll my eyes. “Maisy’s dad wasn’t really interested.”
His brows pinch together again, lower this time. “What about your family?”
I lift the lid off the pot and drag the spoon through the soup. Bits of carrot, celery, and green bean swirl to the surface. Straight from the fridge, the soup is warmer than some of those memories.
“My mom stayed a couple of nights after Maisy was born, but having her there just stressed me out more.” I wrinkle my nose. “She’s easily overwhelmed.”
That’s an understatement. I think my mom suffers from an acute form of single-mother PTSD. Crying babies, spilled cereal, a mess of toys—anything that reminds her of the hardships of parenting seems to trigger a hot flash. Then Didi sheds her latest kimono shawl, whips out her bamboo fan, and flees the room, muttering that she has to get some air.
When I pull back from thoughts of my mother, I realize Lark is still watching me. “What about your dad?” he asks.
I nod. “My dad was very supportive. Financially.” Maisy had the Cadillac of strollers. A baby swing that could execute a figure-eight. A playpen with a remote controlled, programmable, lullaby-playing mobile. My apartment could barely fit it all.
Lark has stopped bouncing the baby. He’s just standing there. Watching me. “And Tyler?”
I chuckle. “Tyler was…” It’s hard to even put it into words for someone who didn’t know him. “Different back then.”
“Before his accident, you mean? He got hurt after Maisy was born, right?”
I nod. “It’s been about two years now.”
Confusion crinkles the corners of his eyes. “But if he was okay back then—”
“He had his own life,” I fill in.
His eyes darken, those brows descending. “You were alone.”
He says it like it’s some sinister realization.
