11. Vincent

ELEVEN

"Finally! Fifteen minutes before bedtime."

A tall, slender woman with fair skin and strawberry-blonde hair opens the door, shouts at Kent, and immediately marches back inside. I'm not sure she even noticed me.

The urge to bolt home, take a shower, and curl up in bed for the entire weekend was overwhelming after what occurred at school. But Kent Lester, with his kind, soft eyes, wanting to watch over me, take care of me, and the promise of "the world's most magnificent brisket" swayed me. Besides everything else, the man generously offered me a clean shirt.

I spent fifteen minutes in the school's bathroom scrubbing and washing, practically bathing in the sink like a muddy bird in a puddle. But when I emerged, he was there. Standing by the bathroom exit, bag slung over his shoulder, waiting patiently. For me.

He put his hand on my shoulder and led me to his car.

"I'll drive you back."

Somehow, he knew I was in no condition to drive. He offered to play Rumours, but I declined, preferring silence to center myself. Inhaling courage, I'm ready for an evening with Kent's family.

"Good evening to you, too, Gillian!" Kent shouts into the house. He nods toward the entrance, and I follow him, happy to take refuge from the frigid February wind. "My daughter, Gillian. The house can be a little chaotic."

"How's school? Are they off your back yet with that stupid software?" Gillian shouts from the kitchen.

"Mommy, you said a bad word!"

A little girl with the same strawberry-blonde hair as her mother and amber eyes brighter than the moon appears. She's wearing green flannel pajamas and slippers with a cartoon bunny's head on them.

"Stupid isn't a bad word, sweetie."

"Well, it's not nice," the girl says, facing us. "Who are you?"

"Lia, this is my friend Vincent," Kent lifts her up, kissing her cheek as she holds on to his neck. "He's helping me with a big project at school."

"The stupid one?" Lia says, parroting her mother.

"Vincent, it's nice to meet you," Kent's daughter reappears with a dishrag over her shoulder. She kisses Kent's cheek and his face beams from all the familial affection.

"We're pushing bedtime waiting for Poppy, and well, things are spiraling," she says.

"I'm sorry, we had to finish something," Kent says. His hand moves to the small of my back, and instead of moving away, I lean into it, grateful for the support.

"Dad, please. She's been begging for you all night." Gillian pats her daughter's head. Their identical hair and features make them look like a matching set—one maxi, one mini. "Go. Fifteen minutes, and then it's bedtime."

"Lia," Kent whispers, "my shaina maidel."

He puts Lia down, extends his hand, and she clasps on, dragging him into the other room.

"My dad and his pretty girl. Vincent, may I take your coat? Come. Eat. There's food. So much food."

I follow Gillian into a kitchen with tall ceilings and beautiful white cabinets. A large island, covered in plates, silverware, and a fresh, crisp stack of napkins, serves as the centerpiece. The smell of meat, rich and smoky, intensifies, and a white man, slightly shorter than Gillian, stands over the stove, turning and poking at what I'm guessing is the life-changing brisket.

"Louis, this is Dad's friend, Vincent."

"Vincent," Louis says, slipping his fingers out of the oven mitt and offering me his hand.

"You look like a Vinnie," he says, and I spy the sink a few feet away. I'll be able to wash before eating, but a trip to the bathroom for a proper scrub down may be in order.

I take Louis's hand, and his tough skin is damp against mine. It's probably from the heat of the oven mitt, and I swallow hard and plaster a smile on my face.

"No, just Vincent." I've never had nor wanted a cute nickname. "Sorry to intrude." I quickly wipe my hand on the seat of my pants.

"Please. This beauty," Louis says, back to poking the meat, "would feed a small army. We're happy to have you. Any friend of Kent's is welcome."

"Can I get you a drink?" Gillian asks, and—spying the glasses and open bottle of wine on the counter—I decide a beverage might help take the edge off.

"Sure, I'd love some." I nod toward the wine.

"After my day, I might need my own bottle." Gillian grabs more wine from a small rack under the cabinets.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, taking a glass.

"It's fine. I work in the front office of a chiropractor with two other women. Both older. Both there longer. And both a pain in my ass."

"Sounds … interesting," I say.

"I keep waiting for a call to come bail her out of jail." Louis takes the lid off the brisket and steam fills the kitchen.

"It could happen." Gillian pours herself a glass, filling it to the brim.

"Help yourself," she says.

As I pour myself a half glass, a smile spreads across my face. I concentrate, using my breath to help me decipher the midway point in the unfamiliar stemware. New people. New place. There's no need to get tipsy.

"Why don't you go sit and relax?" Gillian nods toward the sounds coming from the next room.

"We need five minutes. Lia ate and had her bath, and it's almost bedtime," Louis says, using tongs and a massive fork to transfer the brisket to a cutting board.

Following the noise, I find Kent in what appears to be the den, sitting on an oversized leather couch, Lia in front of him. A bright blonde wig covers her head, falling over her eyes, and she periodically brushes it aside. Her arms reach and her face scrunches. I've stumbled onto her performance. Kent pats the seat next to him, and I sit quietly, trying my best not to interrupt the show.

"This bed is too soft!" Lia shouts while a trio of stuffed bears sit on the floor.

"This bed is too hard!"

"This bed is just right." She lies on the carpet and pretends to sleep. After a minute, I turn to Kent, who simply shrugs.

"Poppy, you're the bears," she whisper-yells, eyes still closed. "You come in, find me, and ask, ‘Who's this sleeping in my bed?' Okay?"

"Oh, right. How could I forget?" Kent moves to the floor, lowering himself carefully.

"Who's this sleeping in my bed?" His inflection mimics his granddaughter's, but he lowers his voice, and the growly tone sends a jolt of heat to my core.

"Oh my! Bears!" Lia screams. She jumps up and bolts toward the kitchen.

There's silence as I sit and watch. Unsure what to do, I eye Kent for a clue. He groans as he pushes himself up and returns next to me. When he claps profusely, I join in. Before I know what's happening, Lia returns from her dramatic exit, climbs into Kent's lap, and buries her head in his chest.

"Poppy," she says, kissing his neck. "Did you like it?"

"Yes, so much. You're a wonderful Goldilocks."

"What about you?" she asks, turning toward me. Her eyes open wide like giant saucers, staring. Before I answer, Lia climbs over and settles into my lap.

The soap on her skin from the aforementioned bath travels up my nose. Her face, inches from mine, searches for a clue about my opinion of her performance and how does she have no sense of personal space? Parched, I struggle to swallow and wish I hadn't left my wine in the kitchen. She can't weigh over forty pounds, but her knees dig into my thighs, and my skin tingles. As she stares at me, her little face inches away, the warmth from her skin reaches mine.

Her breath smells like brisket, cheese, and spearmint. Why is she on my lap?

"Poppy usually tucks me in when he's here," she says, her cheesy, meaty, minty breath snagging my senses.

"Yes, let's go upstairs. Your parents are waiting for Vincent and me to eat."

When Kent stands and puts his hand out, Lia leaps off to grab it.

"There's a bathroom right there," Kent says, nodding toward a door in the hallway between the kitchen and den.

Closing the door behind me, I take four deep breaths. Slowly, through my nose and out of my mouth, I attempt to center myself. Between getting stuck on the spreadsheet and being pounced on by Lia, I'm tempted to strip naked and give myself a sponge bath in the sink. Knowing that might take some time and appear … foolish, I roll up the sleeves of the shirt Kent gave me and turn the hot water on. The liquid soap—peppermint, most likely leftover from the holidays—quickly fills the bathroom with a sweet, fresh, sharp aroma, and I scour my forearms, slowly working down to my wrists, palms, and finally, my fingers.

Rinse, soap, lather, scrub. Rinse, soap, lather, scrub. My eyes focus on the water. The soap. The bubbles. The drain collects the germs and carries them away. I'm not sure how long until we eat, but I need to wash again—one more time.

"Vincent?"

The door opens a sliver, and Kent's voice enters the space.

"Just a second."

The door clicks, and he's next to me. Watching. Staring. At me. Stuck in another loop. This time in his daughter's bathroom, scrubbing my hands until they're raw.

"Vincent, what can I do to help?"

I'm not sure what to say: the water, the soap, the germs. Rinse, soap, lather, scrub.

"Vincent, can you look at me?"

"I just need two minutes."

"Two?"

"Has to be even."

His hand lands on my shoulder, the pressure enough of a distraction. Leaving my hands under the water, I turn and face him.

"There you are," he says—those eyes. There's no judgment. No disappointment. Lines gather around them as he gives a half-smile.

"Can you tell me the songs on Rumours?"

"Rumours? Why?"

"I'm curious."

"All of them?"

"Yes. In order." He gently squeezes my shoulder. "Please."

"Well, first is ‘Second Hand News.' Then ‘Dreams,' ‘Never Going Back Again,' ‘Don't Stop,' then …" My head scrambles. I try to replay the end of "Don't Stop" in my head. "‘Go Your Own Way' and ‘Songbird.' That's the first side. On vinyl. Or cassette. CDs lose the punch of sides which is a travesty if you ask me."

Kent's palm glides over my head as his lips wind into a smile. "I thought you might know."

"But what about the second side?" I ask, biting my bottom lip.

"Maybe another time."

"But why did you want to know?"

His eyes double in size, and he nods toward the sink. I've stopped.

"How did you …?"

"Let's eat." With a wink, he passes me a hand towel, and opens the door. Calm. Cool. Collected. When he needs to be, Kent is like a Jedi Master of emotions. Maybe he can teach me a few tricks. I swallow past the lump in my throat and follow Kent Lester to the table.