Eureka’s chef dad didn’t prepare anything plainly. His popcorn exploded with truffle oil and shaved Parmesan, or chopped pretzels and chewy flecks of caramel. Today’s batch smelled like curry and toasted almonds. Dad communicated through food better than through words. Creating something majestic in the kitchen was his way of showing love.
She found him and the twins nestled in their usual spots on the enormous suede couch. Dad, stripped to dry clothes—gray boxers and white T-shirt—was asleep on the long end of the L-shaped couch. His hands were clasped over his chest and his bare feet were turned out, pointed up like shovels. A soft buzz purred from his nose.
The lights were off, and the storm outside made everything darker than usual, but a fading, crackling fire kept the room warm. An old
Price Is Right
played on the Game Show Network—certainly not one of the three half-hour programs endorsed by the parenting magazines Rhoda subscribed to—but none of them would tell.
Claire sat next to her dad, a triangle of stubby legs in the corner of the couch, knees splayed out from her orange jumper, fingers and lips golden from the curry. She looked like a piece of candy corn, a shock of white-blond hair piled on top of her head with a yellow barrette. She was four years old and an excellent sport about TV watching but nothing else. She had her mother’s jaw, and clenched it the way Rhoda did when she finished making a point.
On the near side of the couch was William, his feet hovering a foot above the floor. His dark brown hair needed cutting. He kept blowing puffs of air out the side of his mouth to keep his hair out of his eyes. Other than that, he sat still, his hands folded in a neat cup on his lap. He was nine minutes older than Claire, careful and diplomatic, always occupyingas little space as possible. There was a mangled stack of cards on the coffee table next to the bowl of popcorn, and Eureka knew that he’d been practicing a lineup of magic tricks he’d learned from a library book published in the fifties.
“Eureka!” he whisper-sang, sliding off the couch to run to her. She picked her brother up and twirled him around, holding the still-damp back of his head in her hand.
One might think Eureka would resent these kids for being the reason Dad was married to Rhoda. Back when the twins had been two beans inside Rhoda, Eureka
had
sworn she’d never have anything to do with them. They were born on the first day of spring when she was thirteen years old. Eureka had shocked her dad, Rhoda, and herself by falling in love the moment she’d held each infant’s tiny hand.
“I’m thirsty,” Claire called, without looking up from the TV.
Sure, they were annoying, but when Eureka was down the foxhole of her depression, the twins managed to remind her that she was good for something.
“I’ll get you some milk.” Eureka put William down and the two of them padded to the kitchen. She poured three cups of milk from Rhoda’s organized refrigerator, where no Tupperware ventured unlabeled, and let in their soaking-wet Labradoodle, Squat, from the backyard. He shook out his fur, flinging muddy water and leaves across the kitchen walls.
Eureka looked at him. “I didn’t see that.”
Back in the den, she turned on the small wooden lamp over the fireplace and leaned against the arm of the couch. Her father looked young and handsome asleep, more like the dad she’d worshipped as a girl than the man she’d struggled to connect with in the five years since he’d married Rhoda.
She remembered the way Uncle Travis had pulled her aside, unprompted, at Dad’s wedding. “You might not be crazy about sharing your daddy with someone else,” he’d said. “But a man needs taking care of, and Trenton’s been alone a long time.”
Eureka had been twelve. She hadn’t understood what Travis meant. She was always with her dad, so how could he be alone? She wasn’t even conscious of not wanting him to marry
She found him and the twins nestled in their usual spots on the enormous suede couch. Dad, stripped to dry clothes—gray boxers and white T-shirt—was asleep on the long end of the L-shaped couch. His hands were clasped over his chest and his bare feet were turned out, pointed up like shovels. A soft buzz purred from his nose.
The lights were off, and the storm outside made everything darker than usual, but a fading, crackling fire kept the room warm. An old
Price Is Right
played on the Game Show Network—certainly not one of the three half-hour programs endorsed by the parenting magazines Rhoda subscribed to—but none of them would tell.
Claire sat next to her dad, a triangle of stubby legs in the corner of the couch, knees splayed out from her orange jumper, fingers and lips golden from the curry. She looked like a piece of candy corn, a shock of white-blond hair piled on top of her head with a yellow barrette. She was four years old and an excellent sport about TV watching but nothing else. She had her mother’s jaw, and clenched it the way Rhoda did when she finished making a point.
On the near side of the couch was William, his feet hovering a foot above the floor. His dark brown hair needed cutting. He kept blowing puffs of air out the side of his mouth to keep his hair out of his eyes. Other than that, he sat still, his hands folded in a neat cup on his lap. He was nine minutes older than Claire, careful and diplomatic, always occupyingas little space as possible. There was a mangled stack of cards on the coffee table next to the bowl of popcorn, and Eureka knew that he’d been practicing a lineup of magic tricks he’d learned from a library book published in the fifties.
“Eureka!” he whisper-sang, sliding off the couch to run to her. She picked her brother up and twirled him around, holding the still-damp back of his head in her hand.
One might think Eureka would resent these kids for being the reason Dad was married to Rhoda. Back when the twins had been two beans inside Rhoda, Eureka
had
sworn she’d never have anything to do with them. They were born on the first day of spring when she was thirteen years old. Eureka had shocked her dad, Rhoda, and herself by falling in love the moment she’d held each infant’s tiny hand.
“I’m thirsty,” Claire called, without looking up from the TV.
Sure, they were annoying, but when Eureka was down the foxhole of her depression, the twins managed to remind her that she was good for something.
“I’ll get you some milk.” Eureka put William down and the two of them padded to the kitchen. She poured three cups of milk from Rhoda’s organized refrigerator, where no Tupperware ventured unlabeled, and let in their soaking-wet Labradoodle, Squat, from the backyard. He shook out his fur, flinging muddy water and leaves across the kitchen walls.
Eureka looked at him. “I didn’t see that.”
Back in the den, she turned on the small wooden lamp over the fireplace and leaned against the arm of the couch. Her father looked young and handsome asleep, more like the dad she’d worshipped as a girl than the man she’d struggled to connect with in the five years since he’d married Rhoda.
She remembered the way Uncle Travis had pulled her aside, unprompted, at Dad’s wedding. “You might not be crazy about sharing your daddy with someone else,” he’d said. “But a man needs taking care of, and Trenton’s been alone a long time.”
Eureka had been twelve. She hadn’t understood what Travis meant. She was always with her dad, so how could he be alone? She wasn’t even conscious of not wanting him to marry
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