6 years later
The scent of vanilla and the ring of laughter draws me away from work. I follow my nose and lean in the doorway to the kitchen. My wife and daughters are baking.
Felicity leaves her bakery early on a Friday and spends the afternoon with our twin troublemakers before we travel up to Scotland to spend the weekend in our other family home.
“Less eating the icing, Maeve, or there won’t be any left for the cakes,” Felicity says, taking a batch of cupcakes from the oven.
Sophie and Maeve look at one another. They’re wearing identical outfits, little white dresses with red polka dots that if I didn’t know better I’d say were reminiscent of cherries. My wife has a naughty sense of humour and loves to remind me of when our babies were conceived.
“How does she know without even looking? She’s magical,” I say. Two pairs of bright silver eyes swivel to me and there’s the screech of chairs as they both throw themselves out of their seats and race around the table to clutch my knees.
“Daddy, Daddy! Pick us up!”
“Pick me up first!” Sophie demands.
“You’re getting too big for this.” Leaning down I grab them both up simultaneously, one in each arm, gripped to my sides. They’re still not heavy, but I like to tease them a bit.
“Never too big,” Maeve whispers, pressing a sticky kiss to my cheek. They love sugar, my girls. Almost as much as I do. I’ve discovered a sweet tooth since I met Felicity.
“Never,” I agree, kissing her on her dark curly-haired head. I had a bet with Felicity that they would get my eyes.
Yeah. Expensive call.
Not that it mattered. I can afford anything she wants. I still run Brent, and it remains the inky shadow of the London mafias. Darker, quieter, more likely to swallow you whole. But with a little less direct involvement from me than I used to demand. Paulo relishes his expanded position, and frankly has earned it. And in turn, I adore spending time with my wife and family.
Scaring my enemies is still fun, don’t get me wrong, but I prefer my two little terrors.
“Right, are you two going to decorate these cakes with me, or what?”
There’s yells and squeals of approval as I carry my giggling daughters over to the table where Felicity is waiting, a wry smile on her face. It amuses her how indulgent I am of our kids.
“Hello, cara.” I lean in and kiss my beautiful wife, and she sighs with happiness.
“Daddy! Cupcakes!” Sophie complains when Felicity and my kiss goes on longer than she thinks it should.
“Later,” I promise Felicity as I pull away, kick out a chair, and settle the girls on my lap.
I scoop over cupcakes and a piping bag of icing. The three of us decorate our cakes. Under my daughters’ watchful eyes and with their directions, I do most of the tricky piping of the buttercream. Felicity contentedly decorates the remaining cakes in her signature elegant style and putters around the kitchen. She loves to just have me and the kids with her, enjoying the things she loves.
With bright coloured hundreds and thousands and every decoration on the table, Sophie is an agent of chaos. Nothing is too pink or too much. Maeve is more thoughtful, but still has the instincts of a little girl, making her cake also very pink, if more restrained. They both eat an obscene amount of the sugary decorations. The jelly lemon and orange slices are a favourite for eating, if not for putting on their cakes. Me? I prefer the ripe red fruits Felicity always puts out. Raspberries and strawberries from Scotland, soft and sweet and just a tiny bit sharp. Fragrant, and they go ideally with vanilla.
I try to keep my cupcake simple, though I know it’s a failing mission. Both girls delight in piling decorations onto mine when I’m not looking, which makes Felicity laugh behind her hand.
When at last all of our cupcakes look as though a decoration tornado has hit, I say, “Are we ready? We’re ready!”
“Who is going to win this time?” Felicity comes around behind us and looks over my shoulder. This is part of our tradition: she judges the cake decoration with her expert eye.
“It’s mine! Mine is the best!” Sophie shrieks right in my ear, and I wince.
“Certainly you’re the loudest,” I mutter.
“Mmmm. This one has lovely colours,” Felicity says, pointing at Sophie’s cake. She finds something to praise on each of the cakes. Even mine. “I love this pattern here,” she adds, pointing at Maeve’s swirl of red.
“I think…” She leaves a long pause, like we’re contestants on a television baking show. “Daddy’s is the best.”
Maeve and Sophie let out twin exasperated groans of, “Oh Mummy!”
I cackle as I lift my daughters off my knees and stand to claim my prize. Where Sophie or Maeve get extra time on their preferred games or credit towards whatever they’re saving up for, I get my favourite reward.
“No more kissing, it’s yukky!” Sophie complains.
“Alright, we’ll save my prize for later,” I say, and Felicity smiles. “Let’s get this cleared up and let’s have some dinner.”
The girls hurry to help.
I pick up the last of the buttercream we used to decorate the cakes. “I’ll be taking this.”
Felicity’s eyes go wide. Because she knows what that means. She knows how I like to eat buttercream icing.
