Carolina Wren

Chapter 39

Wren's POV

Luke slipped from my room in the early hours the next day. I had roused up, thinking there was something wrong with one of the kids again, but he pushed me gently back down to my pillow with a whispered, "I have to get to the diner, honey bun. Go back to sleep." He twisted a lock of my hair before brushing it back down. I blinked and thirty minutes had passed, Luke's side of the bed was cold, and Juni was letting me know it was time for her morning bottle.

When I made it downstairs, Sean was standing in the kitchen by himself, frowning at the countertop. "You don't have a coffee maker," he stated lamely, confusion swimming in his sleepy green eyes. "How did I miss that you don't have a coffee maker?"

I had seen coffee grounds and filters in the grocery order but hadn't given it much thought with how overwhelmed I was by the sheer amount of food he'd purchased. "Sorry, Sheila doesn't drink it." Hesitating, I added, "I can still make you some, if you really need it to wake up."

"But you don't have a coffee maker." He sounded so sad.

Crouching down, I dug through pots, pans, and casserole dishes to the back of the cabinet. Hidden behind everything else so Sheila was less likely to see it during one of her fits of rage, I found what I was looking for. Pulling the stovetop percolator out, I showed it to Sean. "Sheila doesn't drink it, but my dad did. I got it back a few years after he died. I used to help him make it and still do sometimes."

Uncle Tony had brought it to me after I asked for it. Looking back, I'm not sure why he'd given it to me. I was a little kid and really didn't have any business making my own coffee, but Tony never treated me like I was wrong for missing Dad. I haven't seen him since Sheila was pregnant with Keegan but at the time he still hadn't pawned off any of Dad's things, even when he was strapped for cash.

Sean was eyeing the coffee pot like he thought it might bite him, but it still held the answers to his salvation. "You don't need to do that..." he trailed off.

"You take the baby and fix her bottle; I'll get this cleaned up and make you some coffee." Sean didn't try to pretend to argue again, just took Juni and thanked me with a small, sleepy, flirty smile.

There was a lot about my early childhood that wasn't normal, but my dad always made a point to spend time with me whenever he could. In the morning, I'd sit at the counter in our apartment's kitchen eating my cereal while I watched Dad prepare his coffee. Some days I'd ask if I could help and he'd lift me up and show me how to do it. He was always patient, even when I scattered coffee grounds across the counter and onto the floor.

When we were done, he'd pour milk with a tiny splash of coffee for me in a teacup that was chipped but I loved it because it was pretty. Dad never even tried to throw it out because broken things were still worthy in our home. Then he'd fill his own mug, take a sip, smack his lips together, and tell me that it was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.

One day, probably about four months before he died, Dad didn't wake up when he usually would, and Uncle Tony was gone. I decided to help him by making his coffee for him. I brought him the mug in bed, like I'd seen someone do on a commercial. I was expecting the warm smiles, the happiness over me being thoughtful, maybe even praise over me doing it by myself.

At first, he panicked because I was in his room—I wasn't supposed to go in there if he hadn't invited me first. His eyes had scanned over the room like he was checking to make sure nothing in there could have hurt me. Then he realized that I'd been using the stove without him there with me. He was so mad, but I remember the fear in his eyes as he lectured me on how I could have hurt myself. How I was the most important thing in his world and no cup of coffee would ever be more important than my safety.