Part 15 (1/2)
”How about a pink belly?” He rolled with her on the bed, wrestling while she squealed and wriggled. He let her win, pretending exhaustion and defeat when she bounced on his back. ”Too tough for me.”
”That's 'cause I eat my vegetables. You don't.”
”I eat some.”
”Uh-uh, hardly any.”
”When you get to be thirty-three, you won't have to eat your brussels sprouts, either.”
”But I like them.”
He grinned into the pillow. ”That's only because I'm such a good cook.
My mother was lousy.”
”She doesn't ever cook now.” Jessie printed her name with a fingertip on her father's bare back. ”Her and Grandpa Sawyer always go out to eat.”
”That's because Grandpa Sawyer's no fool.” She was having trouble with the letter S, Boone noted. They'd have to work on it.
”You said we could call Grandma and Grandpa Sawyer and Nana and Pop today. Can we?”
”Sure, in a couple of hours.” He turned over again, studying her. ”Do you miss them, baby?”
”Yeah.” With her tongue between her teeth, she began to print Sawyer on his chest. ”It seems funny that they're not here. Will they come to visit us?”
”Sure they will.” The guilt that was part and parcel of parenthood worked at him. ”Do you wish we'd stayed in Indiana?”
”No way!” Her eyes went huge. ”We didn't have the beach there, and the seals and stuff, or the big carousel in town, or Ana living next door.
This is the best place in the world.”
”I like it here, too.” He sat up and kissed her brow. ”Now beat it, so I can get dressed.”
”You'll come right downstairs for breakfast?” she asked as she slid from the bed.
”Absolutely. I'm so hungry I could eat a whole loaf of cinnamon toast.”
Delighted, she rushed for the door. ”I'm going to make more, right now.”
Knowing she would take him at his word and go through an entire loaf of bread, Boone hurried through his shower, opted not to shave, and pulled on cutoffs and a T-s.h.i.+rt that would probably have done better in the rag pile.
He tried not to dwell on the dream. After all, it was simple enough to interpret. He wanted Ana-no big revelation there. And all that white- white on white-was obviously a symbol of her innocence.
It scared the h.e.l.l out of him.
He found Jessie in the kitchen, busily slathering b.u.t.ter on another piece of toast. There was a plate heaped with them, more than a few of them burnt. The smell of cinnamon was everywhere.
Boone put on the coffee before he snagged a piece. It was cold, hard, and lumped with sugary cinnamon. Obviously, Jessie had inherited her grandmother's culinary talents.
”It's great,” he told her, and swallowed gamely. ”My favorite Sunday breakfast.”
”Do you think Daisy can have some?”