Page 81 of Wind Whisperer
“It’s affecting her nerves. She said it makes her stomach hurt.”
“Well,” Traci scoffed. “It’s probably something you’re feeding her for breakfast, then.”
“No, it’s my kid having a physical reaction to anxiety and finally being able to communicate it. She says she doesn’t want to go with you—and I’m not going to force her.”
Traci contorted her face into a scowl. “What have you been telling her?”
“Nothing. I’ve been trying to be mature about this, Traci. This was her decision, not mine.”
She took a couple of steps forward. “Let me talk to her.”
I planted my body right in front of hers—there was no way in hell I was going to let her get close to the Jeep. “No, that won’t be necessary,” I said, holding one hand up between us. I knew better than to let this woman manipulate and guilt my daughter into going with her anyway. Traci stared up at my face and blinked in surprise—and I think it was then that she realized I was serious about this.
“Well you can’t just let a five-year-old call the shots. She doesn’t get to decide this. She probably just gets bored at church. We could do something else if she doesn’t like church.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“So you mean I just never get to see her again?”
“I think just taking a break will be good, and we can reassess later, see where it goes from there. But for now, I’m putting the brakes on these Sunday meet-ups.” I resisted the urge to glance away, instead forcing myself to maintain eye contact. I needed her to understand I meant my words.
“Well—I—you—” Tears welled up in the corners of Traci’s eyes as she struggled to form a complete sentence. “I’ve lost my daughter already. And now I’m losing my granddaughter, too. But I don’t want to make the poor girl’s stomach hurt. I guess there’s nothing I can do.”
She used the collar of her shirt to wipe away her tears, and I shifted my weight on my feet, unsure of what to say. I’d expected anger. I’d braced myself for yelling and name-calling. Not this. My mouth became so dry it was a struggle to even swallow. I knew I was being manipulated, but I felt the urge to comfort her somehow—or to take back what I’d said.
Damn it, why did she have to cry?
I pinched the bridge of my nose, hardly able to believe the words about to come out of my mouth. “What if… the three of us went to church together?”
“The three of us?”
“Yeah. Me and you and Finley. I’ll tag along with you guys this time.” I had been a card-carrying agnostic for at least eight years, and I was half-afraid I’d burst into flames the second I stepped foot in a church. But this felt like a necessary compromise, and it wasn’t about me.
Traci wiped her tears away and stared at me, as though trying to determine whether I was serious or not. “Maybe we could do something different. Could we go out for an early lunch? Or brunch, I suppose.”
That sounded much better. “Yeah, okay. All of this is up to Finley, though.” I paused to stare into her eyes. “If she doesn’t want to go, we don’t go.”
To my surprise, Traci nodded and said, “Okay.”
Finley was completely on board. Having me tag along, it seemed, solved the issue of her discomfort. So fifteen minutes later, I found myself at The Noshery seated across from Traci and Finley, who were doing a word search together on the back of the children’s menu. Finley’s stomachache was long gone.
As tired as I was, I forced myself to socialize for an hour for Finley’s sake, and the three of us had a decent meal. We even laughed. Afterwards, as Traci walked us to our car, she asked, “What now? Could we make this a regular thing?”
“Sure.” We arranged to meet a little earlier next Sunday so Traci could still attend church. She and Finley hugged goodbye, and she thanked me before getting in her own car.
This was not how I anticipated my morning would go, but I drove home feeling a sense of accomplishment. Traci and I had reached a truce. I knew she didn’t like this arrangement any more than I did, but she was willing to sacrifice her comfort in order to keep Finley in her life. And for that reason, I felt the ice around my heart begin to crack. I could tolerate this woman an hour a week, couldn’t I? And with me joining them, I’d be able to keep a close eye on their interactions—if Traci misbehaved or Finley seemed uncomfortable, I could intervene.
This could actually work.
**
Kendall: Look at this pie!! I’ve never been prouder of anything I’ve ever made.
Kendall’s adventures in baking led her to make a pecan pie that afternoon, fearing it would be impolite to show up to her dad’s house empty-handed. Though I tried to assure her a bottle of wine would be perfectly adequate, she still insisted on whipping something up.
And I had to admit, the pie looked like one of her best baking attempts. The multiple exclamation marks were more than justified.
It was funny—I almost preferred these kinds of pictures from Kendall over the sexy ones. Because being on the receiving end of messages like this, in which she excitedly shared her accomplishments, meant so much more. This was the real Kendall, a side of her I got the feeling she didn’t show a lot of people.
