Delilah's Tears

Chapter Twenty-Six

Five years later...

"Pip me up, Dada!" Daisy launches her tiny body onto my legs, squealing with delight. I swoop down and grab her, hoisting her above my head amid a rash of giggles, the sun lighting up her bouncy curls.

"Ah my little Daisy-Maisy, time to go..." I deftly flip her upside down, my hands firmly wrapped around her pudgy thighs.

"Eee! No Dada!" Her laughter is as golden as the sun above.

"...upside down!" I swing her back and forth like a pendulum a few times, then scoop her back upright and plant her on my shoulders. This two-year-old loves to be tossed around, a regular tomboy if there ever was one. I guess she takes after her brother. Glancing to the house, I spot Delilah as she walks toward me, a juice box in one hand and a beer in the other, a round belly housing the next addition to the Coury family. Zann tugs on Daisy's leg, eliciting a new round of giggles.

"Hey, princess." He blows a raspberry on her leg.

"What are the boys up to?" I turn to look across the yard at JJ and Zann's boy Ian.

He shrugs, taking my beer from Delilah and quaffing a huge sip. "Wrestling on the grass as always. Last I saw, your mini MMA man had mine in a headlock. A damned good one, too." Sure enough, JJ is ordering Ian to declare "uncle." Both of their faces are beet red and their once clean shorts and T-shirts will put our laundry detergent to the test. They pop up like jack-in-the-boxes laughing like fools, betting who can be the first to get to the treasure trove of juice boxes stashed in the cooler on the patio. Jonathan James Coury is a whirlwind for a four-year-old. He landed a pair of genes that make him the walking, talking image of both his namesake, John, and me as boys. God help us as he gets older.

"Babe?" Delilah plants a kiss on my cheek. Lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear a word she said. I remove my daughter from my shoulders, planting her on my hip.

"What was that, D-doll?" Her face is flushed from the warm summer day. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just hot. I said we should feed these little terrors. With any luck Little Miss here will take a nap."

Daisy frowns, her lips curling into a perfect pout. "No nap. Play. Wanna play wiff JJ." If there's anything Daisy loves, it's her big brother. It's surprisingly reciprocal, and I have to wonder how long that will last before he considers her nothing more than a pint-size pest. Grinning, she points at JJ, who hands her a tortilla chip.

In a display of surprising maturity for a four-year-old, JJ lays down the law with a fake frown I suspect he learned from me. "Daisy-Poo, I can't play with you if you don't take a good nap. You'll get too tired and we won't have any fun a-cuz you'll be grumpy."

"M'kay. Widdle nap. Like two minutes." She emphasizes that by holding up all ten fingers. I hope her math skills improve with age. To Daisy, each hand represents a minute. Then again, maybe she's onto something.

"Right. Two minutes." JJ agrees because we all know once Daisy konks out we have at least an hour's reprieve, no matter what. Usually longer. "If you go right to sleep, I'll read you a book when you get up." Used car salesman in the making, that one.

"Frecka and the Poody Fackry?" She lights up at the possibility of her brother "reading" "Freckles and the Pudding Factory" for the zillionth time. JJ, who cannot read more than a few words, has most of the story memorized, but ad libs where necessary.

A half-hour later, Daisy is indeed dead to the world, while JJ and Ian cool off in the living room watching a movie. That leaves D-doll, me, Zann, and Lisa to relax on the patio as the sun lowers in the sky. The gate to the back yard creaks open, then slams shut, and Ryan strides around the corner, taking in the disaster sprawled on the grass thanks to the kids. Based on the array of toys strewn about you'd think we were running a preschool.