Chapter 6 - The Empty Seat at the Table
When I got home around three in the afternoon, the house smelled of cedar shavings and rain. Maisie was sitting at the low oak coffee table in the living room, her small legs tucked beneath her, carefully coloring the wings of a monarch butterfly in a library book.
My retired neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was sitting on the sofa knitting a baby blanket. She looked up over her spectacles as the front door clicked shut.
"Everything go all right downtown, David?" she asked quietly.
"It's settled, Mrs. Gable," I said, slipping off my work boots by the mat. "The judge dismissed it."
Mrs. Gable gave a single, satisfied nod. She had lived next door since before Maisie was born; she had seen the whole ugly scene unfold in my backyard six months ago. She gathered her yarn, kissed Maisie on top of her head, and let herself out through the back kitchen door, leaving us in the quiet afternoon warmth.
Maisie looked up from her coloring. Her big hazel eyes—so much like her late grandfather’s—searched my face with that careful, watchful instinct that children of single parents always develop too early.
"Did the judge get mad at you, Daddy?" she asked softly.
I walked over, knelt down on the rug beside her, and brushed a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes.
"No, bug. The judge didn't get mad at me. She listened to the whole story. And she told Aunt Courtney that she was wrong."
Maisie's lower lip quivered slightly, a habit she had when she was trying very hard to be brave. "Did Aunt Courtney say I took Grandma's ring again?"
My chest tightened. It was a physical ache, sharp and heavy. Even after six months of silence, that accusation had hung over my daughter’s head like a poisonous cloud, making her question her own worth in the family.
"No, Maisie," I said, looking right into her eyes so she would know with absolute certainty that I was telling the truth. "The police found Grandma's ring. Aunt Courtney had it the whole time. She hid it, and she lied about it. You didn't do anything wrong. You never did."
Maisie didn't cheer or jump up. She just let out a long, shuddering breath, her small shoulders dropping an inch as if an invisible boulder had been lifted from her spine. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her skinny arms around my neck, burying her face into my collarbone.
I held her for a long time, listening to the steady tick of the wall clock in the kitchen.
"Daddy?" she whispered into my shirt.
"Yeah, bug?"
"Can we bake another strawberry cake tonight? Just for us?"
I smiled against her hair. "We can bake the biggest strawberry cake this town has ever seen. Double frosting. Extra strawberries."
Around six o'clock, the gravel in the driveway crunched.
Maisie looked toward the window, her body stiffening instinctively. Through the lace curtains, I saw Kevin's beat-up Ford F-150 pull up next to my fence. The engine sputtered and died.
I stood up and went to the front porch, leaving the screen door closed behind me.
Kevin got out slowly. He looked ten years older than he had that morning in court. He had changed out of his court clothes into a faded flannel shirt and grease-stained jeans, his work cap pulled low over his brow. In his left hand, he held a flat, square cardboard box tied with red twine from the bakery on Main Street.
"Dave," he said, stopping at the base of the porch steps. He didn't presume to climb up without permission.
"Kevin."
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"I brought something," he said, lifting the box an inch. "I know it's not the same. Maisie made hers from scratch. But... I didn't know what else to do."
I looked at the box, then at my brother’s red-rimmed eyes. "Come inside."
