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“Aunt Jenn’s here. Go let her in.”
Corky slid from his seat, put his dish in the sink and then raced to open the door.
“Who’s ready to bake cookies?” she asked as she breezed in, carrying two bags full of supplies.
“Me!” Corky began hopping toward the kitchen.
Instant mood change. Good.
Jenn followed him in and started setting things out on the counter. “We’ve got sugar and flour, molasses and spices and frosting tubes and eggs. Oh, and something for Dad,” she said, unloading a six-pack of Griff’s favorite IPA.
Trying to bribe her way out of the shithole she was in. He took it with a grunt and put it in the sparsely populated fridge.
“What do you say, Daddy?” prompted Corky.
“I say, ‘Nice try,’” Griff said.
“No, you’re supposed to say thank you. You know that.”
“You’re right, I do. Thank you, Aunt Jenn.”
“Can we bake cookies for Santa?” Corky asked.
Jenn shot a tentative look Griff’s direction.
“Daddy says it’s too soon,” Corky added, and his tone of voice said exactly what he thought of Daddy’s opinion. Pushing boundaries, his son’s superpower.
“It is a little early for that. But we can bake cookies for us,” said Jenn. “And we’ve got a lot to make, so you’d better go wash your hands. With soap.”
“With soap,” Corky repeated, and nodded, then raced off.
“I’m off to get some food,” Griff said to his sister. “Can you manage things here? Without bringing Santa into the picture,” he added.
“I can handle the cookies, but I don’t know how to do mind control.”
“Try,” Griff commanded. “And if the subject of Santa comes up, it needs to be done with by the time I get back.”
“Are you planning on staying away until New Year’s?”
“That’s funny. Never mind real estate. You should be a comic.” Except there wasn’t anything funny about this situation.
By the time Griff had his coat, his son was back in the kitchen, ready for cookie duty. He gave Corky a kiss. “If you’re good for your aunt, I’ll bring back peppermint ice cream.”
“I’ll be good,” Corky promised.
Griff was barely out of the kitchen before he heard his son ask Jenn, “Can we see if Santa answered my letter?”
Maybe he would stay away until New Year’s.
But responsible dads didn’t get to run away, so an hour later, Griff was back home with fruit and veggies and bread and peanut butter and milk and tuna fish, along with more mac and cheese and a package of frozen burritos, his favorite go-to dinner.
The house smelled like sugar and chocolate when he opened the door. For a moment he stood there, taking in the smells and reliving the memory of the last Christmas Kaitlyn had spent baking. The vision of her in her pink apron, putting cookies onto a cooling rack, was so vivid for a minute he thought it was real and he’d only dreamed she was gone. He could even see the flour on the tip of her nose.
“Got your favorite cookies,” she said.
Only it wasn’t her, it was his sister. And there was his son, next to her, seated at the kitchen table, decorating a gingerbread boy. He wanted to cry, but he stuffed down the emotion clawing its way up his throat and walked to the kitchen.
“Smells good,” he said as he set down his grocery bags.
