Chapter 11

Foster

Mazzy and Bowie Jane’s voices wash over me as soon as I open the door to my bedroom. Only a short hall separates the master suite from the kitchen and main living area. After rolling out of bed, I slip on a pair of workout shorts and I’m pulling my T-shirt over my head as I traverse the few steps before I come into view. Belatedly, I think about running a hand through my messy hair but realize it’s probably so fucked up nothing would help it.

I can’t believe I slept this late. I’m normally an early riser but when my eyes snapped open and I saw the glare of nine thirty a.m. staring at me from the bedside alarm clock, I made haste with getting up and out into the kitchen. I only had three beers last night and we didn’t even stay out all that late, but man… I must have needed the sleep. I’m guessing I’ve developed some comfort and trust in knowing that Mazzy will be taking care of my daughter but I still feel guilty for sleeping in.

I step into the kitchen. Bowie Jane sits at the island, a colored pencil in her right hand as she draws in a sketchbook, a piece of bacon in her left. She sees me, eyes lighting up with joy, and jumps from the stool to rush me.

“Daddy!” she exclaims as she throws one arm around my shoulders. The pencil was discarded but the other hand holds steadfastly to the bacon. “It’s about time you got up. You promised we’d hang out today.”

Chuckling, I kiss her cheek and she squeals because of my stubble, pushing my face away. “We will hang out,” I promise as I lower her back to the floor. I give a pat to her butt to indicate she needs to get back up at the counter. “As soon as Daddy has some coffee and a shower, and you need to finish your breakfast.”

I glance over at Mazzy wiping down the counter. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” she says brightly. “Can I make you an omelet?”

I wave her off as I move to the coffee pot. “No, you don’t have to.”

Before I turn fully away, I see the eye roll I’d been expecting, which I get at least five times a day when she tries to offer me something and I refuse. I have in my mind that Mazzy is only here for Bowie Jane, and Mazzy believes she’s here to help the family unit. We’ve had a few mini-arguments the past ten days.

“The correct answer is,” she drawls, dipping her chin and lasering her eyes onto me, “yes please, I’d like an omelet.’”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Yes please, I’ll take an omelet.”

Her triumphant smile should irk me, but I find it adorable. She opens the fridge, disappears from my view and says, “One sardine-and-pig’s-feet omelet, coming right up.”

I ignore the ridiculous proposed concoction, knowing that she’ll load it with fresh veggies because it’s not the first time she’s made one for me.

“Have fun last night?” Mazzy steps back from the fridge, arms loaded with eggs and Ziploc baggies of cut vegetables.

I glance over at Bowie Jane after putting my cup under the coffee spout. She’s still munching on bacon with one hand and coloring with her other. “Yeah… it was nice getting to know the new guys a little better.”

“I imagine it’s important to connect off the ice if you can,” she muses as she whips eggs in a bowl.

Very astute but I wouldn’t expect anything less from Mazzy. I’ve come to learn that her brain is always firing on all cylinders. “It definitely makes for a better bond on the ice. I imagine we’ll tighten things up next week at practice.”

We have one week until the regular season starts. The cuts will have been made from training camp with final lines announced in the press probably on Monday before our first skate. Over the next two days, Coach will personally reach out to each of us to confirm our line positions and with any feedback from observations made during camp.

Then Monday… we go to work. We’ll have practices, team meetings, video reviews, sessions with the personal trainers and nutritionists, as well as formal photographs in our uniforms. It’s odd to think that we’re only a week away from our first regular season game, which will be on Saturday. I went ahead and got a pair of season tickets for Mazzy and Bowie Jane to attend as many games as we can muster, but I’ll have to balance that with school and keeping late nights to a reasonable minimum.

As Mazzy works on my omelet, I sip my coffee with a hip resting against the back counter. “I printed the full team schedule and I’d like to go over it with you at some point. I want to get your days off scheduled.” Mazzy and I talked about this already. When I’m in town and have home games, I’ll be able to take over more of Bowie Jane’s care, and that’s something I’m looking forward to, but I’ll still need Mazzy’s help to cover my games and practices. “I don’t have the practice schedule yet, but I figure we can go ahead and set your days off and if necessary, I can supplement with babysitters.”

Mazzy shrugs. “I’m flexible and don’t mind covering it all.”

“No doubt,” I reply drolly. “But I’m not happy with you working seven days a week. I can’t afford for you to burn out. I don’t want you killing yourself in this job.”

Mazzy’s gaze lifts from the pan where the eggs are sizzling and she doesn’t look at me, but rather at Bowie Jane, a soft smile on her face. “This job is not a hardship at all. Your kid’s kind of great.”

Bowie Jane, who had been presumably ignoring both of us as we talked, says, “I’m awesome.” She then looks up from her work to Mazzy. “Can you teach me some guitar today?”

Mazzy glances down at her watch. “Sure, but I have to be out of here in about an hour.”

“Hot date?” I ask and then want to kick myself in the ass for doing that. First, it’s midmorning and who would ever have a hot date at this hour?

Well, Mazzy would as she’s supremely hot, but it was a stupid-as-fuck question.

I hate that it’s relief I feel when Mazzy snorts in denial. “I wish. But no, I’m playing over at Sola Coffeehouse in the Strip District from noon to two, with my friend Leo.”

It doesn’t quite penetrate what she just said and I can feel my expression puckering with confusion. “You’re doing what?”

Mazzy turns her attention back to the skillet as she explains. “My best friend Leo and I sing and play guitar at various coffee shops and bars around the area. Sola is one we do quite often, usually for the Saturday noon crowd.”

I stare at her dumbly. “Don’t I pay you enough?”

Mazzy tips her head back and laughs with gusto, her sparkling green eyes landing on me with censure. “You pay me plenty. But I do this because I love performing for people. I don’t do it for the money but for the joy of it. Besides, Leo gets all the tips. Most of our audience seems to be women and well, they fall all over him.”

I’ve learned now that her best friend is a man named Leo and he’s apparently very hot and talented. Why isn’t Mazzy with him then?

The question is pushed from my mind as a plate with a steaming omelet is held out to me. I blink away the curiosity and take the offering, moving to the stool next to Bowie Jane.

I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee, watching as Bowie Jane draws a hummingbird sipping from a flower. My kid’s artistic ability boggles my mind.

I also let my mind wander, wondering what Mazzy will do this weekend, since she has it off. Obviously, she’ll be playing in a coffee shop today but I wonder if she’ll jam out in a bar or something.

When I’m done eating, Mazzy takes my plate and I head off for a quick shower. Less than ten minutes later, I’m dressed in a T-shirt, cargo pants and running shoes. I don’t know what trouble my kid and I will get into today, but whatever it is, it will be casual. I no sooner step out of my bedroom than stop dead in my tracks as I listen to Mazzy instructing Bowie Jane on the guitar.

Mazzy’s voice is soft and patient. “You put this finger here, this finger here, and this finger here. That makes a Dchord. Make sure to press hard. Now, strum down with the pick.”

The guitar resonates as the strings vibrate and Bowie Jane exclaims, “The strings hurt my fingers.”

Mazzy chuckles. “Here… feel my fingers.” I’m standing far enough back in the hallway they can’t see me and I can’t see them, but I can imagine Mazzy taking Bowie Jane’s hand in hers, having her explore the hardened skin on her fingertips built up from years of playing.

“That is so cool,” Bowie Jane says. “How long before my fingers get that way?”

Mazzy laughs again. “It will take a while.”

“I can’t wait to be a great guitar player.”

“It’s going to take practice and dedication.” Mazzy has switched to her no-nonsense voice. It’s the one she uses when Bowie Jane balks at starting homework. “You have to play every day, even if only for ten minutes. Do you think you can do that?”

“I can,” my daughter replies with determination.

And I have no doubt that my kid is making a promise she’ll uphold. When she decides to tackle something, she does it with a tenacity that makes me so proud because she gets that directly from me, either by genes or example.

Probably both.

“Good,” Mazzy says, and I hear the respect in her voice. “Because I’m going to leave this guitar here with you. It’s one of my older ones but you still have to take very good care of it.”

“I promise,” Bowie Jane says solemnly, and I imagine she’s crossing her heart right now. I can’t help but smile. “Will you play a song for me?”

There’s a pause… maybe Mazzy checking the time, but I hear the delight in her voice. “Sure. Let me see the guitar.”

I hang back, leaning against the wall and sliding my hands into my pockets. I want to listen and not interrupt the connection they’re continuing to forge.

Mazzy plucks a few strings, the sound sometimes going higher, sometimes lower.

Tuning, I believe.

Then she starts and I’m thrown completely off guard by the fact that she doesn’t start strumming the guitar but rather plucks at the strings to create a melody. I’m not a musician but I’ve observed others play and I know the precision, dexterity and talent one must have to create such beautiful music.

It only takes me a few seconds before I recognize the song “Someone Like You” by Adele. Even though that song is played on the piano, Mazzy’s rendition is clearly recognizable. She plays it at a much slower speed though.

When she sings the first line, a flush of magical wonder rises within me. Her voice is hauntingly beautiful.

Utterly captivating.

The more she sings, the more I hear a slight grit of rock ’n’ roll in her tone, but it’s also soulful and intimate. I creep forward along the hallway and peek around the edge to see Mazzy sitting on the edge of the ottoman, facing Bowie Jane. Her fingers on both hands work fluidly, driven by pure talent and I imagine years of practice. I had expected with such a beautiful song that maybe her eyes were closed, but instead she stares right at Bowie Jane with a smile on her face, as if she’s performing to a massive crowd at Wembley Stadium.

My daughter is enraptured, her mouth open in wonder at the pure art Mazzy delivers in the form of song. I absolutely understand that feeling because with every line Mazzy belts out, the further I fall under the spell of her rendition of an already heart-stopping ballad.

Mazzy rocks side to side as she sings with such emotional depth, my throat tightens. Her vocal range is incredible. Her lower register is rich and sultry, hinting at a bit of huskiness that makes the words seem raw in their delivery. Her upper register is sweet and bright, the notes so clear and perfect that it’s hard to believe the sounds are real. There is no struggle in the way she flows back and forth between them, the pitches and her guitar playing impeccable.

But it’s her voice. It belongs to the angels.

I back down the hall so I’m not seen as I don’t want to interrupt or ruin this moment. I close my eyes and listen as she continues to sing, perhaps forever ruining Adele’s version for me.

When the last notes fade, Bowie Jane’s voice is so earnest and genuine. “That was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I want to learn to play like that, but I don’t think I can sing like that.”

Mazzy is effusive in her affirmation. “You have a lovely voice. But for the guitar, it takes a lot of practice. We’ll work on both together, okay?”

“Awesome,” Bowie Jane says, and I envision her pumping her fist.

I take a deep breath, try to clear the hazy spell that song put me under and walk into the living room as if my life hadn’t been radically different three minutes ago.

Smiling brightly, I say, “Ready to go, kiddo?”

Mazzy and Bowie Jane both look my way, but it’s my daughter who bounds up from the couch with excitement. “I’m ready.”

“You two get out of here,” Mazzy says as she places the guitar in its case. “I have to fold the clothes in the dryer first.”

“Okay,” I reply, taking Bowie Jane’s hand. “I guess we’ll see you on Monday.”

“I’ll be here bright and early,” she chirps as she stands from her perch on the ottoman.

“Have a good weekend,” I tell her.

Bowie Jane pulls free and runs to Mazzy, throwing her arms around her waist. “I’ll miss you.”

My heart squeezes painfully over the deepening affection my daughter has for her nanny. I wonder if some of it is transference from the lack of what she’s receiving from her mother.

Mazzy wraps her arm around Bowie Jane’s shoulder, bends down and kisses her on the head. “I’ll miss you too, munchkin.”