So I did.

* * * * *

The next morning, promptly at nine o’clock, I called Dela Coleman.

I took the job.

* * * * *

I was in my kitchen making cupcakes for the residents of Dove House.

I’d gone through orientation that day. Then I’d gone out to a specialty kitchen shop and bought four cupcake carriers that moms who had little kids in grade school would own so they could cart cakes to school for their kids’ birthdays.

And while I was there, I bought all new dishtowels that matched my new kitchen rugs perfectly.

And a KitchenAid standing mixer in an exquisite shade of blackberry.

The next day I’d start my tenure as a volunteer at Dove House.

And I was bringing the old folks cupcakes.

I was on batch two when my cell on the counter rang.

I looked from the chocolate frosting I was using to ice the vanilla cakes, saw the display on my phone and stopped moving.

My doorbell rang.

My eyes went there and I saw another body I’d know from anywhere through the stained glass.

On the phone, Dad.

At the door, Mickey.

Why me?

Mom had stopped calling a few days before and I shouldn’t be surprised Dad was now up to the plate. Actually, I should be surprised it took a few days for him to make his attempt.

Mickey, however, I had no idea.

I made the difficult decision as to which might cause me the least pain, unsure if it was the correct one, ignored my phone and walked to the door.

I opened it and looked up.

It had not been long since I’d last seen him, just a week, but in that short time he’d somehow become a great deal more beautiful.

“Hey,” I greeted, my voice sounding husky.

“Hey, Amy,” he greeted back, his voice sounding simply like Mickey.

I looked beyond him to his house then back to him. “Everything okay?”

“Get the kids back soon and was talkin’ with Ash,” he told me. “She wanted me to ask you for the recipes for the shit you made for the league sale. She wants to try ’em out.” He gave me his grin. “Since I don’t have your number and all that shit tasted good and I don’t mind my daughter tryin’ her hand at givin’ it to her brother and me, I’m here askin’.”

“Of course,” I replied, stepping out of the way. “Come in.”

He came in. I shut the door. He moved out of my way so I could walk to the kitchen. When I did that, he followed me.

And through this, I found having Mickey, more beautiful than ever and being a better person than me, clearly capable of moving past my idiocy, was the wrong choice in causing the least pain stakes.

In other words, I should have ignored the door and taken the call from my dad.

“I could email them to you or print them out or both,” I offered, making it to the kitchen counter where my laptop was, reaching to it, turning it to me and lifting the screen.