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This story takes place
during some of “I
Ain’t Gettin’ Any Younger”. While Honey and Brian head to the chapel, Helen and Peter
spend a quiet evening at home. Helen is helping Trixie with wedding planning,
but Peter is too busy thinking about the past to be much assistance. “Daddy’s Girl” was
written in honor of Father’s Day, but because I was having technical
difficulties, it isn’t being posted until August for The Cameo’s grand
reopening as well as my Fifth Jixaversary. Join us now in the Glimpses into the Future Universe for the first part of the
father/daughter centric flick, “Daddy’s Girl”. BTW, this is Jixemitri
Special Edition CWP
celebrating Jix’s Fifth Anniversary. Since it is my fifth anniversary as a
Jix Author, I thought it was a fitting choice. Items in red signify that they
are an element of this CWP. The
front door of Crabapple Farm swung open, and a blast of icy air followed
Peter Belden inside the cozy farmhouse. Grumbling under his breath about the
nasty weather, he took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of
his coat. The thought crossed his mind that the foul weather perfectly suited
his cantankerous mood. Glad to be rid
of the bulky winter gear, Peter removed his muffler and hooded woolen coat,
and then carefully hung both on the coat tree. “Stupid
chickens,” he muttered grumpily. “Why on earth do we keep those dumb birds
around? As far as I’m concerned, we can ship every last one of them to the
Colonel so he can fry them and stick them in buckets where they belong.” His
trek to the chicken coops through the ice-cold rain had tired him, so Peter
eased his aching bones into what his sons had deemed “the most comfortable
recliner in the world”. Weather like
this caused his knees to throb; they’d never been the same since he’d
graduated college. The years of damage caused by playing football had taken
their toll on his body. By the end of the night, he’d be hobbling up to bed. The
groan he uttered as he slipped off his boots broke through the previous
silence. He wasn’t sure where Helen was, but he didn’t hear any pans clanking
or plates clinking in the kitchen, so she wasn’t in there. In fact, he
couldn’t hear anything in the house that hinted of another person’s presence.
After decades of listening to his children clamber around the old farmhouse,
he found the strange silence unsettling. He didn’t like it, not one bit. To get rid of it, he picked up the remote
control from the pouch on the side of the recliner. He clicked on the
television, but there was nothing to see except for black and white dots
flashing on the screen. The bad weather was obviously wreaking havoc on the
satellite signal. “Great,”
he mumbled as he snapped off the TV. “If I wanted to see snow, I’d go back
outside and stare at the piles all along the walkway.” Emitting
a noisy sigh of exasperation, Peter traded the remote control for the most
recent edition of the Sleepyside Sun. As he scanned the headlines on the front
page, nothing grabbed his attention. Apparently he wasn’t the only person
with nothing to do; his dull evening at Crabapple Farm had been preceded by
an even more boring day in the town of Sleepyside. He peeked back at the
remote, tempted to turn on the TV solely for background noise, but decided
against it. All options depleted, he resigned himself to reading the Court
Report and seeing who had been arrested the previous week. Hopefully last
Saturday had been more eventful than this one. It
couldn’t be said that this was a run-of-the-mill weekend at Crabapple Farm.
In years past, a wintery evening like this would’ve meant a houseful of
teenagers and all the madness that usually resulted from such a gathering.
The Beldens were accustomed to hosting their children’s friends; in fact they
enjoyed the company of young people more than they cared to admit. Peter and
Helen’s hospitality ensured that there would be an endless supply of food,
fun, and games, and this guaranteed that Crabapple Farm’s walls always would
be stretched to capacity. At the time, Peter thought he’d never have a moment
alone with his wife. “Apparently, I was wrong,” he
grumbled as he flipped to the sports section. “These days, we see more of the
man checking the meter than we do our own kids.” With
their children grown up and living their own lives, he and Helen frequently
spent their evenings alone. Until the past weekend, Brian had lived in White
Plains, and even if he came home for a visit, he understandably spent most of
his mini-vacation with Honey. Mart and Diana stopped by the farm often, but
with their nonstop schedules, the couple rarely spent an entire Saturday
evening at the Farm. Trixie, a whirlwind of activity since birth, never
failed to visit or call at least once a day. However, her limited free time
was completely dedicated to being with Jim, planning the wedding, being with
Jim, spying on the contractors from a distance as they built the new Ten
Acres, and most importantly, being with Jim.
Peter
heaved a labored sigh at the thought of the quickly approaching union. It
seemed he was the only person in their circle of family and close friends
that was growing weary of wedding talk. Day after day the main topic of
conversation in the Belden household centered on that “blessed” event, and
although he’d never admit it, he was growing sick of it. Actually, that
wasn’t entirely true. To be more precise,
he was getting sick of Jim. Peter
liked his future son-in-law. Well, he used to, anyway. Now he wasn’t so sure. Peter had always
expected Trixie and Jim to end up together. When Jim had asked Amanda
Woodward to marry him, nobody had been more shocked than Peter, especially
considering the talk he’d had with Jim during Trixie’s senior year of high
school. Long before Trixie had graduated, Jim had told him that he planned to
propose to her. But something had happened to change all that. Out of the
blue, Jim had started dating other people, and Trixie’s world had been turned
upside-down. Peter watched his
daughter suffer as Jim dated a string of beautiful blondes. In spite of Jim’s many relationships, Peter
could see the love in Jim’s eyes whenever the redhead looked at Trixie. That’s why Jim’s engagement to Amanda had
never made sense. She simply wasn’t his type. Therefore, it was
no surprise when he had broken up with Amanda. On his way to Los Angeles, Jim
had called Crabapple Farm and told Peter that he’d broken up with Amanda, and
was on his way to LA to ask Trixie to marry him. Peter had willingly given
Jim his blessing, and he had genuinely hoped Trixie would say yes. But
then things changed. Somewhere between then and now, the situation had turned
into an April Fool’s Day prank gone
horribly wrong. Up until that
fateful day in November when Trixie accepted Jim’s proposal, Peter had been
the most important man in Trixie’s life. Now, as his daughter prepared to
marry the man of her dreams, the father of the bride-to-be was forced to face
the ugly truth. He’d been replaced. Peter was no longer
the most wonderful man in his daughter’s world; some husky redhead had kicked
him off the throne of Trixie’s heart, and there was no going back. It was
obvious to everyone who his daughter preferred. Peter couldn’t
argue that Jim would someday (in the very near future, no less) make a wonderful
husband and father (hopefully that father part would be in the distant rather than near future). The freckle-faced
runaway had matured into a ruggedly handsome man that spent his time
bettering the lives of others less fortunate. Not only was Jim a man of
integrity, he was a shrewd businessman and would undoubtedly provide well for
Trixie and their future children. Most fathers dreamed that their daughters
would marry such a man. Yes, James Winthrop Frayne the Second was perfect in
every way. “And if I didn’t
believe that, I could ask my baby girl, and she would, in 1,000,000 words or
less, prove that it was true until she was blue in the face,” he muttered in
disgust. “Yes, sirree Bob. According to Trixie, that Jim’s the most wonderful
man in the whole wide world.” What Peter was
really thinking was that his only daughter, the light of his life and the
bane of his existence, felt that Jim was even more wonderful than her very
own father. And
that just sucked. For
years Trixie had been his little princess. Peter loved his sons more than
life itself, but the love he had for his only daughter was different. With
one bat of her eyes, she could convince him to move heaven and earth if it
were necessary to satisfy her every whim. From the moment she was born, she’d
been Daddy’s girl, and suddenly she wasn’t. Now she belonged to Jim. And
if possible, that sucked even more than Jim being so wonderful. Trixie
had never belonged to Peter; he was
only allowed the privilege of having her love him. Just as stubborn,
independent, and strong-willed as her fiancé, Trixie constantly tested her
boundaries, going as far as she could. She was like the wind, and although
her energy could be harnessed, it couldn’t be contained. But, being the
amazing demigod that his daughter claimed him to be, Jim had been able to do
something that no man, including Peter, had been able to do: Jim captured
Trixie, mind, body, and spirit. And
without a doubt, that sucked the worst of all. “Humph,” Peter
blustered as he rustled the pages of the paper. “Stupid redhead.” Restless, he
extended a hand to the bowl atop the table beside his recliner and selected
the last lollipop stored inside. Grimacing slightly at the sour apple flavor,
he discarded the plastic wrapper from the hard candy and popped the sucker
into his mouth. It was evenings like these that he regretted giving up his
pipe. After years of hounding from his wife and children, Peter had toyed
several times with the idea of giving up his pipe. However, when a longtime
friend five years his junior succumbed to lung cancer, he had stopped smoking
for good, and exchanged his nicotine habit for an addiction to Tootsie Pops.
When his thoughts shifted to his youngest child, Peter admitted that a long drag
of tobacco smoke would’ve been far more fulfilling than this lollipop. It was
almost his fifth anniversary of being
nicotine-free, but staying away from his pipe was still a challenge,
especially on nights like these. “If it weren’t for
kids, a man wouldn’t have to deal with nearly as much stress,” he mumbled. Peter
should’ve known that naming their fourth child after his older brother Harold
would be a mistake. Each of their kids had taken on the personality of the
person for whom they were named. Brian Peter was a carbon copy of himself,
and he was just as responsible and steadfast; Martin Andrew was clever and
quirky like his Great-Uncle Mart and jovial and sensitive like Peter’s
younger brother, Andrew; Beatrix Helen, like her maternal grandmother Beatrix,
constantly tested the waters of adventure, and like her mother, was curiosity
personified bundled in a pretty blonde package. Therefore, it was only
natural that Robert Harold would take on his paternal grandfather’s obstinacy
and his Uncle Harold’s free-spirited attitude toward life. Although
Bobby lived at home, his parents saw him the least of the children still
residing in Sleepyside. No longer the sweet, cherubic six-year-old of
yesteryear, Bobby had evolved into a sullen, temperamental teenager. The
transition from boy to man was trying for most youngsters, but, as he was
prone to do, Bobby made the experience more difficult than necessary. Peter
knew his son would make it to adulthood eventually, but he also knew that
Bobby would go kicking and screaming all the way. When Bobby wasn’t loudly complaining
about the family conspiracy to torture him and ruin his life, he did his best
to keep to himself. He barely spoke to his mother before he left for the
small community college he attended, and he stayed out until the wee hours of
the morning. His presence was monitored by leftovers; if the remainder of the
previous evening’s dinner was still in the refrigerator in the morning, Bobby
hadn’t been home. However, if there were dirty plates in the sink and the
fridge was empty, he had managed to drag himself home at some ungodly hour. The
newspaper he held sagged as a sharp pain caused Peter to put his hand over
his heart. He took a breath, counted to ten, and waited for the twinge to
pass. He’d discussed his health issues
with Dr. Ferris, who had informed him that he was under too much stress.
Along with a prescription to help his high-blood pressure, the physician sent
him home with instructions not to worry so much. Peter
snorted aloud at the memory, causing his Tootsie Pop to fall out of his
mouth. “Try not to worry so much, Peter,” he repeated in a good imitation of
their family doctor. “Your children are adults and have lives of their own.
What could you possibly be so
troubled about?” His
expression sobered at the recollection. After picking off the sweater fuzz
from his sucker, he popped it back into his mouth as he considered how
foolish his physician’s advice was. Having no children of his own, Dr. Ferris
had no idea that a father’s concern didn’t end once his son or daughter left
the nest; the worry only expanded to include in-laws. Years ago, he’d had the
power to banish misbehaving children to their rooms. Now, he was left with an
empty house and the knowledge that his time for instruction was, for the
most, part over. Worrying about his
children and talking to himself had become the new normal, and Peter added
that to the list of things that sucked. That list was getting kind of long.
If he were to guess, Peter would wager that he’d add at least one or two more
things to it before the evening was over. “Peter!” Helen
called from upstairs. “Are you here?” “I’m in the family
room, dear!” The pounding of his
wife’s feet as she hurried down the staircase reminded Peter of the countless
times he’d lectured his children about tromping down the steps in that exact
same manner. He never thought he’d miss that sound, but he did. Mart and
Trixie rarely had reason to go upstairs when they visited. Brian slept in his
old room when he stayed overnight, but he had always been the quietest of the
children and had never stomped anywhere, much less up the steps. Although
Bobby remained at home and had done his fair share of stomping, he could also
be quite sneaky when in stealth mode. The teenager had mastered the art of
going from the first floor to the second without making a sound. He managed
to skulk up to his bedroom, the steps of the old staircase never creaking
once to give away his presence. “There you are,” he
heard Helen say. “I was worried that
you were still outside tending to the chickens.” Peter looked up to
see his wife standing over him. After all these years, the mere sight of her
still made him smile, no matter how grumpy he was feeling. “Despite the
freezing cold, I ignored the razor-sharp chunks of ice pelting my face and
took care of your precious hens. Every one of those annoying nuisances has
been fed and watered, and are safely tucked in the coop for the night,” he
replied, managing a light-hearted grin. “The nerve of those
dumb fowls, needing to be fed and watered in such lousy weather,” Helen
teased. “How dare they need to be taken care of when you’d rather be inside,
reading your paper!” “Next time it’s
sleeting, you can feed and water
those stupid birds,” he retorted grumpily. “Apparently the
weather isn’t the only thing that’s chilly around here,” Helen remarked. Releasing a ragged
breath, Peter set aside his newspaper and assumed a penitent expression. “I’m
sorry, sweetheart. You’ve cooked and cleaned all day; taking care of the
chickens is the least I can do to help out. This nasty weather must be making
me grouchy. Just ignore me.” “That was my plan
all along.” She leaned down to apply a kiss to her husband’s forehead in an
attempt to lighten her words. “Of course, if
you’re sick of raising chickens, I’d be happy to brave the cold and whack the
heads off all those little biddies,” Peter offered. “Thanks, dear, but
you’ll change your mind tomorrow after I make you Eggs Benedict for
breakfast, egg salad sandwiches for lunch, and my special ham-and-spinach
turnovers for dinner, with lemon meringue pie for dessert.” Peter lifted a
single dark eyebrow in query. “There are eggs in lemon meringue pie? Are you
serious?” “Yes,” Helen
answered, her lips twitching with amusement. “Then why doesn’t
the meringue turn yellow?” “Because you only
put the whites of the eggs in the
meringue. The yolks go in the filling,” she explained patiently, as if her
husband was truly interested and not merely patronizing her. “Hmm, you learn
something new every day.” Peter reclaimed his newspaper and flipped to the
first page he hadn’t read. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll make the lemon meringue pie and let you feed the chickens and chop firewood.” “Only if you clean
up the kitchen afterward.” Peter scowled
behind his paper. If there was one thing he hated more than tending to the
chickens in bad weather, it was scrubbing pots and pans. He’d mistakenly put
them in the dishwasher the last time he’d been assigned this task, and
consequently had had to buy Helen new cookware to replace what had been
ruined. “Well, since it’s
doubtful I could bake anything edible, I suppose I’ll stick to the chores
outside and leave the cooking to you,” he told her. “Yes, that probably
would be for the best, Peter. I am
sorry that you had to be outside in such nasty weather.” Helen’s cheerful
countenance clouded over. “I’d hoped that Bobby would be home in time to help
you prepare for the ice storm, but I guess that didn’t happen.” “Sweetheart, when
has Bobby ever bent over backwards
to help with the chickens, or with any of the farm work for that matter?” A hint of a smile
parted the corners of Helen’s lips. “You’ve got a point there. I just hope he
isn’t on his way home. It’s getting bad out there.” “I don’t think you
have anything to worry about, Helen,” he responded cryptically. “Bobby’s
probably holed up at Wart’s house, like he is every Saturday night.” “I never thought
I’d be grateful to hear that, but right now that is a relief,” she muttered. She walked over to the large picture
window behind the couch and looked outside. The huge dusk-to-dawn light in
the driveway allowed her to see a glittery sheen on the porch. “Has the rain
turned to ice?” Peter nodded. “Yes,
about an hour ago.” “Do you think
Brian’s okay?” “I don’t know why
he wouldn’t be, dear.” Peter adjusted the paper, and then skimmed the columns
for an article that interested him. “Has the
electricity been turned on in the house he’s renting?” “I believe so. When
I helped him unload boxes, I noticed that the lights were on.” “If this ice storm
gets bad, we’ll probably lose power,” Helen mumbled. “I hope he has lots of
blankets and an oil lamp or two.” Peter couldn’t help
but smile at the irony of it all. He might worry about his children, but his
wife took it to a whole new level. Helen Belden reigned as the Queen of
Fretting. In fact, she would often worry if she had nothing to worry about. “He’ll be fine,
sweetheart,” he assured her. “He has lots of camping equipment that he can
drag out if all else fails.” “But what if his
camping stuff is still packed away in moving boxes?” “He has a
fireplace, so I don’t think he’ll freeze to death,” he informed her
patiently. “Brian graduated medical school, Helen; I’m sure he knows how to
prevent hypothermia.” The expression on
Helen’s face told him that she still wasn’t convinced. Knowing that his
wife lived to serve others, he decided to distract her. “I don’t suppose you
have a pot of coffee on, do you? After being out in that sleet, I feel
chilled.” “Of course.” Helen
hurried out of the room and returned almost instantly with a steaming cup of
coffee made exactly the way Peter liked it. “I should’ve known you’d need
something to warm you up.” “Thank you,
sweetheart.” Peter laid aside his lollipop stick and accepted the mug. “Oh,
look. Here’s that article Mart wrote on the town’s plan to build a new
library.” “Really?” Helen
settled on the arm of the recliner and peeked over her husband’s shoulder at
the paper. Instead of reading the news piece, her gazed drifted out the dark
window, seeing only what her imagination provided. “Is Brian’s phone hooked
up?” “Not yet. He has
his cell phone, though, if you need to talk to him.” Helen jumped up and
left the room, but without even seeing her, Peter knew exactly what she was
doing. She returned from the kitchen, a dour expression on her face. “Brian isn’t
answering his cell,” she announced. “Honey’s helping
him unpack,” he pointed out. “Maybe you could try hers.” She sighed. “I
already did, but there was no answer. I just hope they aren’t on the roads.” “I can’t imagine
why they’d go out on a night like this.” “What if he doesn’t
have any food in the house and they get hungry? I hope Brian wouldn’t try and
drive to Wimpy’s in this weather.” “Relax, Helen,”
Peter murmured in his most soothing voice. “He’s a good driver, and that
Subaru goes like a tank in the snow.” “It’s not snowing;
it’s sleeting. By now the roads are completely covered with ice.” “They’ll be fine,
sweetheart,” Peter said. “If Brian’s anything like his old man, he and Honey
have forgotten about unpacking and are getting reacquainted.” He waggled his
eyebrows in a devilish manner. Helen inhaled
sharply. “Thanks, dear, but I think I’d rather imagine them sliding all over
the icy highway.” “Aw, look on the
bright side. Maybe they’re running off to Vegas to elope.” “Huh,” she snorted.
“Not likely.” Peter smiled in
agreement. “Okay, so maybe that is a
little too ridiculous to be believed. But you have to admit that it’s a nice
fantasy.” “For us, maybe.
However, I think it would be a nightmare for Maddie. She’s awfully anxious to
plan her daughter’s wedding.” “Especially since
she’s heard about all the fun you’re having planning Trixie’s,” he remarked
with a smirk. Helen regarded her
husband with a reproachful glare. “Peter! I’ve already told you a hundred
times that you’re having a good time planning this wedding. Remember?” “Oh, yeah. I keep
forgetting,” Peter said flatly. “Thanks for reminding me.” She playfully
swatted his shoulder. “You’re just cranky because your little girl is getting
married,” she asserted. Unable to deny her
accusation, Peter responded with silence. Even if he’d had a comeback, the
frown on his face would’ve prohibited him from speaking. “Don’t pout,
dear. It causes wrinkles.” A mischievous grin
replacing the glower, Peter patted his thighs. “Why don’t we forget about
weddings and read this article together? I saved you a seat.” Helen giggled as
she climbed into her husband’s lap. Just as she settled into a comfortable
position, the phone rang, and she raced into the kitchen to answer it. When she returned
ten minutes later, Peter expected her to climb back onto his lap, but instead
she headed towards the staircase. “Was that Brian?”
he asked. “No, it was
Trixie,” Helen answered. “She called to see if we could go to Kleinfeld’s in
a couple of weeks.” The pout returned
to Peter’s face. “I thought we weren’t going to talk anymore about the
wedding.” “She wants to look
at bridal gowns,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “She didn’t find
anything she liked the last time we looked.” If possible,
Peter’s expression grew even more despondent. “But I thought Trixie was going
to wear your dress.” “We tried it on the
other day, and it simply doesn’t fit,” she explained. “Her shoulders are a
tad bit broader than mine. It’s too tight.” “Couldn’t somebody
alter it and make it work?” “Perhaps, but the
truth is that her tastes are simpler than mine. My dress is lace, and that
isn’t what Trixie wants.” “Oh.” Picking up on her
husband’s unhappiness, Helen walked behind the recliner, leaned over it, and
wrapped her arms around Peter’s neck. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you
worried about how much this is going to cost?” “Not at all,” he
replied honestly. “It’s just that I wanted to see my only daughter in her
mother’s wedding gown.” “That’s very sweet,
Peter, but it isn’t what your daughter wants, and it is her wedding.” “I know,” he
muttered. “If it makes you
feel any better, she is going to
wear my veil,” Helen said. “I need to go upstairs to get it.” “That will
be nice,” Peter said quietly. A soft sigh escaped
Helen’s lips as she headed back to the staircase. “It seems like only
yesterday that I was pregnant with Trixie, and now she’s getting married.
It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” As his wife went in
search of the veil, Peter closed the newspaper and set it aside. He had no
interest in reading. His mind had traveled back in time, to a day when things
were so much less complicated… Twenty-six years ago… “I’m home!” Peter called as he walked
through the front door of Crabapple Farm.
The normally tidy living room looked as if a tornado had passed
through it. Wooden blocks, toy trucks, and stuffed animals were scattered all
over the floor. Several loads of laundry had been dumped on the couch. A can
of Pledge and a dust rag were lying on the coffee table, but obviously hadn’t
been used. “Daddy!” Two-year-old Brian toddled
into the room from the kitchen, clad only in a dirty T-shirt and diaper. The
little boy smiled joyfully at the sight of his father, and scampered to the
doorway as fast as his short legs would carry him. “How’s my boy?” Peter asked as he
scooped up his son and hugged him close. His firstborn was tall for his age
and unusually articulate. Peter imagined great things for little Brian. “I doin’ good, Daddy.” Peter scrutinized the chaos of the
room, as well as Brian’s grubby attire. Although the boys took up most of
Helen’s time, the house was usually clean, and Brian was always properly
clothed. Something was amiss. “How’s Mommy?” he asked brightly. Brian’s huge brown eyes clouded
over, and his heart-shaped mouth curled downward in a frown. “She’s cwying.” Not wanting to alarm his son, Peter
made sure to keep his voice steady. “Is your brother all right?” “He’s hungwy.” Peter resisted the urge to snicker.
It wasn’t unusual that Mart was hungry; the boy had a voracious appetite, and
it was all Helen could do to keep him fed. Even though he was barely
five-months-old, she’d had to start giving him cereal to keep his stomach
from growling. “Well, buddy, your brother needs to
eat a lot so he can grow up to be as smart and strong as his older brother,”
Peter said. “Is there anything else wrong with him?” Brian made a loud huffing sound.
“Mawt’s okay. All he does is make noise. Mommy telled me that he’s twyin’ to
tawk but he can’t an’ he’s mad about it.” “So, he’s not crying?” Brian shook his head. “No, just
jabberin’. Mommy’s the one cwying, not Mawt.” “Okay, buddy. How about we go see
Mommy now?” Peter
carried his son into the kitchen, unprepared for the sight that met him. His five-month-old son was sitting in the
highchair, banging his fists on the tray. He kept opening his mouth in
anticipation of another bite, but his mother was too busy sobbing to comply. Peter
set Brian down and rushed over to Helen. He wrapped an arm around her shaking
shoulders. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” “Oh,
Peter!” she cried. “No, I’m not! It’s horrible! I knew something was wrong,
but this is the worst thing that could’ve happened!” “What’s
wrong, Helen?” “I-it’s
terrible!” she choked out through her tears. “I don’t kn-know how it
happened! I can’t believe it. It’s so… so… so unexpected!” “How
what
happened?” Helen
buried her face in her hands and cried even harder. Frustrated that he wasn’t
being fed, Mart ceased his banging and resorted to screaming. Peter
handed the bowl of food to Brian. “Bri, I need you to be a big boy and feed
your brother his cereal while I talk to your mother. Can you do that for me?” “Uh-huh,”
Brian answered, his expression somber. He dutifully lifted the spoon heaped
with cereal to his baby brother’s mouth. “Open wide, Mawt. Here comes the
airpwane.” At
the sight of food, Mart’s wails stopped. Brian did his best to keep the
cereal from falling out of the spoon as he stuck it into his little brother’s
mouth. Relieved that Mart’s meltdown had been averted, Peter led Helen into
the living room where they could talk. Once
they were alone, he gently gripped her shoulders. “What’s wrong, Helen?
You’re scaring me.” Helen
looked up at him, her china blue eyes wide. Her tears had turned her irises
an even more brilliant shade of blue. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean for
it to happen. Truly I didn’t. I just don’t know what we’ll do!” “Helen,
what is it?” “I’m
pregnant.” Dumbfounded,
Peter’s mouth gaped. “You’re…what?” “I’m
pregnant,” she repeated tearfully. “I don’t know how it happened…” Peter
snorted. “Well, since it’s happened twice before, I would’ve thought you’d
figured it out by now.” “I
know how it
happened, Peter, but I didn’t think a woman could get pregnant while she was
breastfeeding. I’ve suspected something was wrong the past couple of months,
but I never thought I was pregnant!” “I
heard Dr. Ferris warn you that breastfeeding isn’t a foolproof method of
birth control.” “What
does Dr. Ferris know?” Helen exclaimed. “He’s a man!” It
was on the tip of Peter’s tongue to suggest that Dr. Ferris must know
something about birth control since Mrs. Ferris had never been pregnant, but
he wisely kept that thought to himself. “Are
you sure
you’re pregnant, Helen? What’re your symptoms?” “I’m
horribly moody,” she whispered. “That
could be sleep deprivation,” he suggested. “After all, Mart wants to eat
constantly, and Brian’s very active.” “I’ve
thrown up constantly.” “There’s
a stomach bug going around.” “A
stomach bug that lasts two months?” “I’ve
heard it’s a nasty one.” “Well,”
Helen continued wryly, “there’s also that pregnancy test in the bathroom that
has the big positive sign on it.” Peter
frowned. “Umm… I don’t have an argument for that.” “Oh,
Peter, I’m so sorry!” she sobbed. “There’s
nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart,” he said with a laugh. “It’s a baby,
not a bomb. Why would you think I’d be angry?” “Money’s
already tight, and we’ll have three kids in diapers!” “I’m
sure that Brian will be housebroken before the new baby arrives.” Helen
couldn’t help but laugh through her tears. “Pets are housebroken, dear;
children are potty-trained.” “Well,
we’ll make sure Brian is potty-trained before the new baby’s born.” Helen
studied her husband carefully for any sign of displeasure. She was relieved
not to find any. “So, you aren’t mad?” Peter
smiled as he brushed back a sandy-blonde lock of hair. “Why on earth would I
be mad? I’ve always wanted a big family. You know that.” Helen
breathed a sigh of relief. “I know, but I was still worried.” “I’m
more worried about you.” Peter tenderly ran his finger along his wife’s
cheekbone, noting the dark circles under her eyes. “It’ll be rough on you
giving birth again so soon, and you aren’t getting enough rest as it is.” “It
might be difficult, but I think I can do it.” Helen’s expression brightened
considerably. “And it isn’t as if I have a choice. This little one will be
born, regardless of how little sleep I’ve had.” Peter
gently patted his wife’s stomach. She hadn’t lost all the weight she’d gained
with Mart, but she still didn’t look three-months pregnant. “Yes, I guess
you’re right. Before you know it, Crabapple Farm will welcome another
Belden.” “Let’s
just pray that this one doesn’t eat as much as Mart,” Helen teased. “If he
does, you’ll need to buy another cow.” “Who
says it’s going to be another ‘he’?” Peter asked. “This could be my little
princess.” Helen
shrugged. “I assumed it would be another boy. After all, your family usually
has sons. There hasn’t been a girl born to the Beldens for a few
generations.” “Yes,
but you aren’t taking into consideration the Johnson genes,” Peter pointed
out with a grin. “You’re a determined lot, and I’m sure a little
blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl will eventually demand to make her debut.” Helen
smiled. “Having a daughter would be nice, wouldn’t it?” “Yes,
it would,” he agreed. “So,
you aren’t upset?” “Helen,
at this point I’d be upset if you weren’t pregnant! I’m already excited about this
baby!” Chuckling, he pulled his wife close to his chest. “But this is our
last surprise. From now on, we’ll be careful, or else we’ll end up with a
dozen.” Helen
laughed with her husband, relieved that although this wasn’t a planned
pregnancy, it would be a blessed one. “There’s
just one thing,” Peter added. “What’s
that?” “Let’s
decorate her nursery in daisies.” He grinned sheepishly. “They’ve always been
my favorite flower.” “But
what if it’s a boy?” “It
isn’t a boy; it’s definitely a girl.” Helen
arched a brow to show her skepticism. “How can you be so sure?” “I
just am,” Peter insisted with a happy grin. “And a little girl very well
can’t sleep in a room decorated with cars and trucks. She needs a daisy
room.” “I’m
sure we can manage that,” Helen promised, standing on her tiptoes to kiss her
husband’s cheek. The
special moment between the couple came to abrupt halt as the sound of a crash
came from the kitchen. “Mommy!”
Brian yelled. “Holp, Mommy! Mawt’s still hungwy, and the cerweal’s gone!” “Peter, did you
hear me?” “Huh?”
Peter jumped at the sound of his wife’s voice. Nonplussed
by her husband’s lack of attention, Helen started over. “Did you move the
cedar chest where I keep my wedding dress and veil?” Peter
rubbed his eyes. “I thought you told me to move it from our closet to the
attic.” “It’s
in the attic? I didn’t know you put it there. I recall telling you that I
wanted it out of the closet, but I didn’t know you’d already moved it.” Helen
studied her husband’s contemplative expression. “Are you okay, Peter?” “I’m
fine. I was just thinking about the day you told me you were pregnant with
Trixie.” “You
got the girl you wanted,” she said, her lips curved upward. The smile quickly
turned into a smirk. “Of course, you also forgot to take precautions against
future surprises. There was one more left to come.” Peter
chuckled. “Well, I always did love a good surprise.” “Good,
because I have another one for you.” A
look of complete horror passed over Peter’s face. “But I had the V-word, and
we already got rid of our crib, so I don’t think I’m prepared for a surprise
like that.” “It’s
not that kind of a surprise, dear,” Helen assured him with a giggle. “I
called Mart to check on them, and he and Di are coming over for dinner after
church tomorrow.” Peter
pretended to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. “Whew! That is a good surprise.” “As
if you wouldn’t mind our walls being stretched to capacity again with kids.” “No,
I’m ready for the walls to be stretched with grandkids,” he corrected. “We’ve raised four children; I’m ready
to spoil some that we can send home when they get too hyper.” Helen
chuckled. “As if you never spoiled Trixie. She’s had you wrapped around her
little finger since birth.” “Well,
I can’t help it that she’s a charmer, just like her mother. It’s those big,
blue eyes. They’re lethal.” Helen
smiled but refrained from commenting. Considering the way she succumbed to
the power of her boys’ puppy dog eyes, it was safer for her not to say
anything that could be held against her later. “Speaking
of Trixie,” Peter continued, “could you ask if she wants to come over for
Sunday dinner, too?” “I’ll
call to see if she and Jim can make it.” Peter
scowled. “Who said anything about Jim?” “Sorry,
dear, but they’re a package deal now,” Helen said with a laugh. “Since
they’re practically attached at the hip, you can’t invite one without
inviting the other. Besides, you like Jim.” “I
used to,” Peter grumbled. “But that
was before he took Trixie away. I’ve decided that I don’t care for him so
much anymore.” Helen
rolled her eyes. “It isn’t as if he’s
whisking her away to Alaska. After they’re married, they’re moving less than
a mile away. She’ll be closer to you than she is now.” “But
it won’t be the same,” he retorted with a pout. “Sweetheart, look at the bright side. You
aren’t losing a daughter; you’re gaining another son.” “I
have too many sons as it is,” Peter grumbled.
“I don’t need another one.” With
a knowing smile, Helen leaned down and kissed the top of her husband’s
head. She knew that nothing she said
could make him feel better, so there was no use wasting her breath. “Well, I’m
off to the attic to find that veil.” Too
consumed with his gloomy thoughts to respond properly, Peter merely grunted
in acknowledgement and continued with his recollections of happier
times. Times when his daughter
believed he was more wonderful than that other guy… It
was his routine to polish his dress shoes every Thursday evening. He only had
three pairs, so it never took long. With three young children to feed and
clothe, there wasn’t a lot of money to spare, so Peter believed in taking
care of the nice things that he did have. He’d just selected a can of shoe
polish when he heard a knock at the bedroom door, followed by someone calling
his name. “Daddy? Are you in there?” Peter had to grin. His young
daughter was more impatient than anyone else he knew or, for that matter, had
ever known. It would’ve been impossible for Trixie to simply knock and then
wait for a response. “Yes, I’m in here, Princess,” he
answered. The door opened a crack, and Trixie poked
her curly head into the bedroom. “Can I come in, Daddy?” “Well, as I recall, you’re supposed
to ask that when the door is closed,” her father replied, his moustache
twitching with amusement. “But since you’ve already got the door open—” Before he could finish his
statement, Trixie had already pushed the door all the way open and bounded
into the room. In her haste to get to her father’s side, she tripped on the
black wingtip that lay beside him and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Scowling at the offending shoe, she tossed it aside, sat upright, and then
crossed her legs Indian style like nothing had happened. As she situated
herself, Peter heard a funny sound and saw a white pebble fall out of the
pocket of her overalls. Trixie loved to collect
things from outside. Her pocket was probably full of the small rocks,
and he made a mental note to warn Helen before she did the laundry. Doing his best to stifle a grin,
Peter kept his gaze focused on his task, pretending that he hadn’t seen her
take a spill. Independent girl that she was, Trixie wouldn’t want sympathy.
However, he knew she’d have a new bruise in the morning. Since her limbs were
covered in bruises, it wasn’t a novelty. He used to worry that Dr. Ferris
would assume Trixie was a victim of child abuse, but ever since she’d tripped
over the stool in his office during her last checkup, Peter knew there was no
need for concern. “Daddy, can you read me a book?” she
asked as if nothing had happened. She held up a well-worn copy of the children’s
classic The Wizard of Oz. Peter looked up at his daughter and
smiled. Her dimpled cheeks were smudged with the same dirt that soiled her
pink overalls, and there was a rip in the knee of the pants. Amidst her
tousled curls, a daisy had been tucked behind her ear. In spite of the fact
that she was a tomboy, Trixie loved picking flowers and putting them in her
hair. The dewy-fresh daisy was in sharp contrast to her disheveled
appearance, but the combination suited the little girl nicely. Trixie patted his knee. “Daddy? Did
you hear me? ‘Cuz you didn’t answer my question, and I’m waitin’ patient like
Moms tells me to.” “I’m sorry, Princess,” he placated.
“My mind was somewhere else. Can you ask me again?” Trixie huffed loudly as she showed
him her book. “Are you gonna read it to me or not?” “I’d be glad to, but I need to
finish what I’m doing first.” “What are you doin’, Daddy?” Trixie inquired. “Shining my shoes.” “What
does ‘shining your shoes’ mean, Daddy?” Peter resisted the urge to sigh. He
knew from past experience that at six-years-old, Trixie had asked more
questions than Brian and Mart combined. She was a curious child, as well as
demanding. If he didn’t give her an adequate explanation, he’d be on the
receiving end of her wrath, which was fierce for one so little. “It means that I’m making my shoes
shiny again so they look new,” he replied. “But why do you wanna do that?”
Trixie scrunched up her freckled nose in a confused expression. “I like it
when my shoes get all dirty an’ yucky, but just when they start lookin’ the
way I want ‘em, Moms throws ‘em away when I’m sleepin’.” Once again, Peter resisted the urge
to laugh. “Well, I know it’s fun to wear shoes that are grubby, but when I go
to the bank, my shoes need to be clean.” “Why?” “Because my bosses won’t trust me to
hand out money to our customers if I look like a hobo.” Trixie narrowed her eyes
thoughtfully. “What’s a hobo, Daddy?” “Someone who doesn’t shine his
shoes,” Peter hedged, hoping that would put an end to the questions. However,
he had no such luck. “How do you shine your shoes, anyways?” She
looked critically at the can of polish. “That goop you’re puttin’ on ‘em
don’t look shiny to me. It looks like mud, only not as runny.” “Well, how about I show you how it works?”
he offered. Trixie bobbed her head up and down
in affirmation, causing her springy locks to bounce around her chubby cheeks.
She loved nothing better than to learn something new. She gasped with
pleasure as her father handed her a black wingtip and a shoeshine brush. She
waited with bated breath as Peter picked up the matching shoe and a brush of
his own. “The first thing you have to do,”
Peter began, “is to remove all the dust from the shoe you’re going to
polish.” Trixie’s previous excitement was
immediately replaced with irritation. “How come everything needs dusted?” she
huffed. “Moms is always makin’ me dust the junk in the living room, an’ now
you’re makin’ me dust your ol’ shoes.” “If we’re going to properly shine my
shoes, we have to make sure there isn’t any dirt on them,” Peter explained as
seriously as possible. “Well, okay, but they’re just gonna
get dirty as soon as you go back outside,” she said with a shrug. Although she didn’t appear to be
very happy about her newly assigned task, Trixie managed to brush away most
of the dust. Her task complete, she looked up at her father with huge eyes.
“So, what’s next?” “Next, we select some shoe polish
that matches the shoes we’re going to shine,” he instructed as he handed her
a can. “But I wanted to use that can,” Trixie complained, pointing to the
container of polish still in the basket. “Yes, but that can has brown polish
in it, and the shoe in your hand is black,” Peter said firmly. Although she frowned, Trixie didn’t
argue. Instead, she grasped the tin lid with her pudgy fingers and popped it
open. Her scowl faded as she saw the creamy black polish inside. Curious what
it felt like, she stuck her index finger in the substance and pulled out a
glob. Knowing this would happen
eventually, Peter had a soft cloth waiting. He handed it to his daughter.
Satisfied by the sheepish smile on her face, he resisted the urge to lecture. “Hey, this stuff smells good,”
Trixie murmured. She stuck her face in the can and inhaled deeply. When she
looked up, she had a spot of black on the tip of her nose. “It smells even
gooder than Brian’s markers.” “Well, how about you stop smelling
the polish and start using it to shine that shoe?” Peter prompted. He
selected two shoe polish brushes from his kit and handed one to his daughter.
Leading by example, he dipped his own brush into the can of polish and
scooped out a small amount, which he applied to the toe of the shoe. “Now you
try.” Trixie clumsily imitated her
father’s actions. She managed to get a rather sizable amount of polish on the
shoe without making too much of a mess. “Okay, what’s next?” “Next, we move our brush around in
circles to spread the polish all over the shoe,” Peter instructed. He
demonstrated and then held out the wingtip for Trixie to inspect. Unimpressed, Trixie scowled as she
appraised her father’s shoe. “But Daddy, your shoe ain’t gettin’ shinier.
That goopy stuff’s makin’ it look cloudy.” Raising a single brow in query,
she asked, “Are you sure you’re doin’ this right?” “I’m positive, Princess,” Peter
chuckled. “Just keep doing what I told you, and you’ll be surprised how
glossy my shoes will look when we’re finished.” “Well, okay,” she conceded. “But
just so you know, this ain’t nearly as much fun as I thought it’d be.” Peter refrained from telling her
that few things in life were as fun as they appeared, but he decided not to
burst her bubble. She’d likely learn that soon enough. Instead, he oversaw
her progress, giving her helpful tips here and there. Once both of the shoes had been
coated in the polish, Trixie looked at her father questioningly. “So, what do
we do now?” “Now we wait for the polish to dry.” “Oh.” Trixie’s upper lip curled in a
snarl. Waiting was her most hated thing to do, and not only did she dislike
it, she wasn’t good at it. “Hey, don’t look so down in the
dumps, kiddo,” Peter teased. “Is it that bad spending time with your ol’ dad?” Trixie shook her head as she flashed
her father a dimpled grin. “ ‘Course not, Daddy. I love spendin’ time with
you. In fact, I wish you’d never go to work so you could stay with me forever
and ever, ‘cuz I love you so very much.” After clearing away the lump that
had risen in his throat, he said, “I’m sure you didn’t come upstairs just so
you could tell me that you missed me. Why don’t you hand me that book, and
I’ll read it to you.” “Well, I kinda need to talk to you
first, Daddy,” Trixie said with all the severity that a six-year-old could
muster. “What about?” “Mart an’ Brian are bein’ mean to
me, an’ you need to tell ‘em to quit,” she informed him. Peter sighed. Trixie might be a
bundle of curiosity and impatient, but she wasn’t a tattletale. She had an
independent streak as wide as the Grand Canyon. If she had come to complain, then Mart and
Brian must’ve done something really bad. “How are your brothers being mean to
you, Princess?” “Well, I us’ly play with Di during
recess, but she wanted to play house with Mart.” She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated
manner to show her exasperation. “But I thought Mart hated playing
house?” “Mostly
he does. ‘Cept when Di asks him to play with her,” Trixie explained. “Then he
don’t seem to mind too much, as long as he gets to be the daddy an’ she’s the
mommy.” “Oh,” Peter murmured with a knowing
grin. “An’ that ain’t fair at all,” Trixie
continued indignantly, “ ‘cuz Di’s my friend, not Mart’s. He oughtta go an’
play with his own friends an’ leave mine alone.” “Couldn’t you play house with them?” Trixie scrunched up her nose in
repugnance. “I didn’t wanna play house. That’s a dumb game, an’ Mart try an’
makes me be the baby, an’ I am not a baby.” “But I thought you were upset with
your brother because he wouldn’t let you play with him and Di.” Trixie shook her head. “No, Di tried
to talk me into playin’ with ‘em, an’ I told her that I thought it’d be
funner havin’ ‘tention than bein’ some dumb baby.” “Detention or tension?” Peter
queried. “I told you, ‘tention,” she repeated
huffily. “You know? Where the teacher makes you stay inside an’ put your head
down on your desk an’ you ain’t allowed to talk?” “Oh, yeah, ‘tention,” Peter mumbled.
Although
if Trixie played house with Mart, I’m sure there would be a lot of “tension”
as well… he thought to himself with a
grin. “Anyways, Mart an’ Di was playin’
house, so I started playin’ Dukes of Hazzard with Chad Morgan an’ Cal Burke.” “What does that have to do with your
brothers?” Trixie expressed her frustration in
a loud exhale. “I was gettin’ ready to tell you, Daddy. When we got on the
bus to go home, Mart an’ Brian started teasin’ me ‘bout Chad bein’ my
boyfriend. Mart was sayin’ that the valentine
yacht ferries barf, or somethin’ like that. But I don’t wanna go on no
love boat with Chad. I mean, he’s a boy, an’ he’s my friend, but he ain’t my
boyfriend. Boyfriends are icky.” Peter quirked a single eyebrow.
“They’re icky, huh?” “They’re ickier than Brussels
sprouts!” Trixie exclaimed. “When you’ve gotta boyfriend, they wanna hold
your hand, buy you dumb junk, an’ look at you with goo-goo eyes!” “Yes, sometimes they do,” her father
admitted, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “An’ do you know what else?” Trixie
leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, although she had no intentions of
whispering. “Sometimes they even wanna kiss you! On the mouth! Blech! I’d
rather kiss a pig than one of them dumb boys in my class!” Peter couldn’t stop the laughter
that erupted. When he could finally speak, he said, “Surely boys aren’t that bad.” “They’re the worstest of ‘em all,”
Trixie insisted grimly. “They’re mean, an’ think they’re better than us
girls, an’ they smell like dirty socks an’ tuna fish. Well, at least Mart
does, but I think Brian does, too, only I ain’t sniffed him lately.” “Do I
smell like dirty socks and tuna fish?” “No, you smell real good, Daddy, but
you’ve got that perfume stuff in the medicine cabinet to cover up your yucky
smells,” Trixie answered soberly. “An’ that ain’t even the worstest of it.
Christy Hoffman told me that boys have cooties. Her older sister Crystal got
‘em from her boyfriend.” “Sweetheart, cooties aren’t real.” Trixie nodded her head emphatically,
her china blue eyes somber with the severity of the possibility. “Uh-huh.
Christy told me that her mom had to take Crystal to the clinic so the doctor
could get rid of the cooties her boyfriend gave her. So, see? Cooties are real, just like Christy told me. An’ I
don’t wanna catch ‘em from some dumb ol’ boy like Crystal did.” Peter cleared his throat. “No, you wouldn’t
want to do that.” “So I ain’t never havin’ a
boyfriend, ‘cuz boys is gross and dumb,” Trixie declared, crossing her arms
in finality. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind event—” “Nope! I’m never havin’ a boyfriend.
They can just keep their ol’ cooties. If any of ‘em tries to kiss me, I’m
gonna punch ‘em right in the nose, just like I do Mart when he teases me
‘bout Chad.” Though he would never condone
violence, Peter had to admit that Trixie’s plan sounded pretty good to him. “Besides, all the boys at school is
scared of me,” Trixie crowed. “Why, I socked two of ‘em in the nose last week
for tryin’ to kiss me under the maypole, an’ they ain’t bugged me since.” “Did you get in trouble?” “Yeah, I went to ‘tention, but at
least I didn’t catch the cooties.” Peter barely managed to keep a
straight face. “That’s good. We wouldn’t want that to happen.” Trixie’s chin started to quiver.
“Yeah, ‘cuz I think Di got ‘em today from Mart,” she whispered sadly.”I seen
‘em head over to the maypole, an’ I know what happens over there.” This time, it was impossible for
Peter not to chuckle. “Well, Princess, I’m afraid that you’ll change your
mind about boys when you’re older.” “No, I will not!” she insisted. “But what about when you’re a
grownup? What will you do if you want to get married and have a family?” “Well, that’s easy,” Trixie giggled.
“I’m gonna marry you, Daddy!” “Now, why would you want to do
something like that?” Peter teased, scooping his daughter into his lap. “ ‘Cuz you’re the handsomest,
funniest, an’ smartest person I know.” Trixie turned around and laid the palm
of her hand on her father’s cheek. “Daddy, don’t you know that you’re the
most wonderful boy in the whole wide world?” Peter’s heart was filled with so much love
for this curly-headed whirlwind that it hurt a little. It wasn’t necessarily
what Trixie had said; it was the conviction with which she said it. She
clearly meant every word. “Thank you, Trixie,” he rasped
through the lump in his throat. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has
ever said to me.” “An’ I mean it, too, Daddy,” Trixie
proclaimed. “I ain’t fibbin’ like I did yesterday when I blamed Mart for
gettin’ the last cookie. I really do love you bunches an’ bunches.” “Exactly how much do
you love me?” Trixie giggled, knowing what was
going to happen next. “This much!” she exclaimed as she held her arms out
horizontally. Seizing his opportunity, Peter
tickled his daughter under her arms, which was her most ticklish spot.
Consumed with giggles, Trixie collapsed against his chest, and he hugged her
close. “I love you, too, Princess,” he
murmured huskily. Trixie met her father’s gaze. “All
the way to heaven and back?” “All the way to heaven and back,”
her father affirmed. “Good, ‘cuz that’s how much I love
you, Daddy.” Peter smiled as he cuddled his
daughter next to his heart. Trixie may have gotten her mother’s looks and
insatiable curiosity, but she got his need for affection. He loved this
little wisp of a girl more than life itself, and there was nothing sweeter
than holding her in his arms. She was always a flurry of activity, so it was
rare that she stayed on his lap for this long. He intended to cherish the
moment, because this age of innocence wouldn’t last forever. “Daddy?” “Yes, sweetheart?” “Can I really marry you when I’m a
grownup?” Peter sighed softly. It had always
been important for him and Helen to be honest with their children, and he
knew how he had to answer. “Well, Trixie, I’m afraid that little girls can’t
marry their daddies.” “Why not?” Trixie questioned. “I
thought that if you really, really loved someone, you married ‘em.” “Not always,” her father told her.
“I really, really love your brothers, but I’m not going to marry them.” “But I thought they was gonna marry
Moms.” “Sweetheart, I’m already married to
Moms, so neither of us can marry anyone else,” Peter explained gently. “Oh.” “And I’d be very, very sad if I
weren’t married to your mother,” he continued. Trixie frowned thoughtfully, but
after a few moments, her expression brightened. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to
be sad, Daddy. I guess I’ll just hafta marry someone else when I grow up, but
he won’t be as good as you.” “I’m glad you’re not too
heartbroken, Princess.” Trixie shrugged. “By the time I’m
s’posed to get married, you’ll be too old for me anyways, I guess.” Peter chuckled. “That’s a very good
point.” “But Daddy,” Trixie began, her sandy
brows furrowed, “if I ain’t gonna marry you, how will I know who I’m s’posed
to marry? I don’t wanna pick the wrong one. I picked the wrong sandwich once
at school, an’ it was ‘scusting.” “When you meet the right one, you’ll
know,” he advised. “You’ll think he’s the most wonderful boy in the world,
and nothing will ever change your mind.” Trixie nodded as she stored away
that piece of knowledge for future use. After several quiet minutes, she
spoke. “Well, Chad ain’t wonderful, ‘xactly, but he is
kinda cute.” “Oh, really?” Peter assumed a
wounded tone. “What’s so great about Chad?” “Well, he’s got red hair an’
freckles, an’ he runs real fast,” Trixie answered. “But he ain’t nearly as
wonderful as you, Daddy, so I guess he ain’t the one.” “No, he isn’t,” Peter agreed. “And
he probably has those cooties you mentioned earlier, so you’d better sock him
in the nose if he gets too close.” “I will,” she promised. Unable to
remain still any longer, Trixie sat upright and looked over at her father’s
dress shoes. “Daddy, are you sure that goopy stuff’s gonna make your shoes
shiny? ‘Cuz they still look real cloudy to me…”
First of all, thank
you to CathyP for accepting me as an author. It has been so fulfilling for
me, and I can’t believe that it’s been five years. WOW! Thank you to all my friends
and readers, who encourage me to keep writing. Thank you to my lovely
editors, Kaye and Ryl, who edited this story quickly. Hugs to both of you! As stated previously,
this is a Jixemitri Special Edition CWP, celebrating Jix’s fifth anniversary.
I chose this particular CWP because it’s my fifth Jixaversary. Elements
include:
This
story was inspired by my husband and my daughter. Rachel is growing up into a
beautiful young lady, and she’s getting the attention of several boys. Daddy
doesn’t like this very well. His pouting inspired this story. The
thing about eggs being in meringue was also inspired by my husband, who was
very disturbed by that fact. He hasn’t eaten meringue since. Kleinfeld’s
is a famous bridal shop. More about them later. J We
learned that Peter had a vasectomy in “Why Do Fools Fall in Love”. The
shoe shining scene was inspired by my fondest memories of my father as a
little girl. He shined his shoes every week, and I always helped him. And
yes, I love the smell of shoe polish. It smells almost as good as Sharpie
markers. ;-) The
part about Trixie’s bruises was also inspired by Rachel. She was (and
actually still is J) very clumsy, and we were always
worried about being accused of child abuse. One of her pediatricians actually
was suspicious of us… until Rachel crashed into the stool and fell down during
an appointment. The bruises covering her little legs suddenly made sense to
that doctor. I’ve
just got to say that The Wizard of Oz was one of my most favoritest
books as a child. So glad we got to include it! I
have to admit that I’m like Trixie: Waiting is my most hated thing to do, and
I’m not very good at it either. J BTW,
six-year-old Trixie was based upon a little girl named Emily who is also a
cute, curious little bundle of activity. The
character of Chad Morgan was based upon a cute, red-haired, freckle-faced boy
I used to play Dukes of Hazzard with when I was young. Just
for the record, the anagram of “Celebrate Fifth Anniversary” was stinkin’
hard to fit into a story. I’m quite proud of myself for using that element.
Thank goodness for Mart and that other anagram site I found. My
apologies to anyone named Crystal. I used my fake name generator, and
“Crystal” was the first female name that popped out. Haven’t
most little girls wanted to marry their daddy? I know I did, and Rachel
wanted to as well. So of course Trixie would want to marry Peter! What little
girl wouldn’t?
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