poured water from one plastic teacup into another, babbled contentedly while her mother shampooed her hair and washed every inch of her with a soft terry bath mitt. Casey rinsed Emma’s hair, then plucked her from the bath water, wrapped her in a soft towel, and carried her into the bedroom.
Diapered and powdered, Emma lay on the bed, giggling when Casey pressed her lips to her belly and blew a raspberry. Casey had picked out the aqua dress with the bow. The dress went on with relative ease; the tights, not so much. While Emma squirmed and fought, Casey struggled to pull them up straight and smooth.
The white patent leather shoes finished off Emma’s ensemble, and Casey sat her daughter in her lap and brushed Emma’s yellow, baby-fine hair . Pulling it into a topknot, she clipped it with a barrette, and the transformation was complete. “You look so beautiful, Miss Emmy Lou Who,” she said. “You could pass for a movie star.”
“No,” Emma said.
“Oh, yes. A glamorous blonde. Daddy will be so impressed.”
“Da?”
“Later, baby. Let’s go set up your playpen in the kitchen. Right now, we have to cook.”
R ob
As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the music. Sheryl Crow, singing All I Wanna Do , from her album Tuesday Night Music Club . He’d bought it for Casey last Christmas. She wasn’t playing it loud enough to bother the neighbors, just loud enough to be recognizable. Rob exchanged a glance with Paige, then unlocked the apartment door and held it so she could go in ahead of him.
His olfactory nerve s went crazy the instant he walked through the door, teased by a smell so wonderful that at first he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t even sure what he was smelling. Chicken, maybe, with one of those wonderful rubs that she made from her secret mix of spices. If he hadn’t already been crazy in love with her, he would have married Casey Fiore for her cooking skills alone. He found her in the kitchen, humming along with Sheryl as she stirred a little taste of heaven in a large cooking pot with a wooden spoon. Her cheeks flushed, her hair messy, she looked like something cool and sweet that he wanted to pour over himself, dive into, and take a deep swim in. The table was already set, with a tablecloth and fresh flowers. She turned from the stove and said, “Hi,” with a saucy smile.
“Hi,” he said.
“Dinner’s almost ready.” For the first time in weeks, she seemed like herself: calm, competent, sexy.
In the playpen, Emma reached up her arms and bounced up and down, saying, “Dadadadadada da.”
Rob bent down, swept her up, swung her high over his head, and said, “Who is this hot young chick, and what happened to my Emmy Lou Who?”
His daughter squealed in delight . He lowered her, propped her in the crook of his arm and, waggling his eyebrows, said, “You’re quite the vamp in this get-up, Emmy. Something new?”
“I told you,” Ca sey said, “we went shopping.” Wooden spoon in hand, she stretched on tiptoe, past their squirming daughter, and he leaned down and kissed her. “Wait till you see the rest,” she said.
“There’s more?”
“Much, much more. Right, Emma?”
“Am I going to have to revoke your credit card privileges?”
“Very funny, Flash. Get yourself a drink and wait. Ten minutes. Out of my kitchen. Shoo! Paige, want to stay and help?”
He did what she said; he didn’t dare not to . He settled on the couch with Emma and a cold bottle of Heineken, picked up the remote and switched on the television with the sound muted because Sheryl was still singing. Flipping silently through the channels, he settled on Seinfeld . But he couldn’t focus on the show. Muted, the visuals gave no clue as to what the episode was about, and with Seinfeld , it was all about the dialogue. Besides, he was too distracted by Casey’s behavior. He was probably overreacting, but this perky, enthusiastic goddess didn’t quite gibe with the
Diapered and powdered, Emma lay on the bed, giggling when Casey pressed her lips to her belly and blew a raspberry. Casey had picked out the aqua dress with the bow. The dress went on with relative ease; the tights, not so much. While Emma squirmed and fought, Casey struggled to pull them up straight and smooth.
The white patent leather shoes finished off Emma’s ensemble, and Casey sat her daughter in her lap and brushed Emma’s yellow, baby-fine hair . Pulling it into a topknot, she clipped it with a barrette, and the transformation was complete. “You look so beautiful, Miss Emmy Lou Who,” she said. “You could pass for a movie star.”
“No,” Emma said.
“Oh, yes. A glamorous blonde. Daddy will be so impressed.”
“Da?”
“Later, baby. Let’s go set up your playpen in the kitchen. Right now, we have to cook.”
R ob
As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the music. Sheryl Crow, singing All I Wanna Do , from her album Tuesday Night Music Club . He’d bought it for Casey last Christmas. She wasn’t playing it loud enough to bother the neighbors, just loud enough to be recognizable. Rob exchanged a glance with Paige, then unlocked the apartment door and held it so she could go in ahead of him.
His olfactory nerve s went crazy the instant he walked through the door, teased by a smell so wonderful that at first he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t even sure what he was smelling. Chicken, maybe, with one of those wonderful rubs that she made from her secret mix of spices. If he hadn’t already been crazy in love with her, he would have married Casey Fiore for her cooking skills alone. He found her in the kitchen, humming along with Sheryl as she stirred a little taste of heaven in a large cooking pot with a wooden spoon. Her cheeks flushed, her hair messy, she looked like something cool and sweet that he wanted to pour over himself, dive into, and take a deep swim in. The table was already set, with a tablecloth and fresh flowers. She turned from the stove and said, “Hi,” with a saucy smile.
“Hi,” he said.
“Dinner’s almost ready.” For the first time in weeks, she seemed like herself: calm, competent, sexy.
In the playpen, Emma reached up her arms and bounced up and down, saying, “Dadadadadada da.”
Rob bent down, swept her up, swung her high over his head, and said, “Who is this hot young chick, and what happened to my Emmy Lou Who?”
His daughter squealed in delight . He lowered her, propped her in the crook of his arm and, waggling his eyebrows, said, “You’re quite the vamp in this get-up, Emmy. Something new?”
“I told you,” Ca sey said, “we went shopping.” Wooden spoon in hand, she stretched on tiptoe, past their squirming daughter, and he leaned down and kissed her. “Wait till you see the rest,” she said.
“There’s more?”
“Much, much more. Right, Emma?”
“Am I going to have to revoke your credit card privileges?”
“Very funny, Flash. Get yourself a drink and wait. Ten minutes. Out of my kitchen. Shoo! Paige, want to stay and help?”
He did what she said; he didn’t dare not to . He settled on the couch with Emma and a cold bottle of Heineken, picked up the remote and switched on the television with the sound muted because Sheryl was still singing. Flipping silently through the channels, he settled on Seinfeld . But he couldn’t focus on the show. Muted, the visuals gave no clue as to what the episode was about, and with Seinfeld , it was all about the dialogue. Besides, he was too distracted by Casey’s behavior. He was probably overreacting, but this perky, enthusiastic goddess didn’t quite gibe with the
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