Olivia asked Tag Sunday afternoon, holding out a spoonful of baked beans. His parents, along with her aunt and uncle, were due any minute for supper. Though Easter was still nearly a month away, she’d baked a ham and Tag had helped her make all the trimmings. Candied yams, homemade potato salad and strawberry shortcake for dessert. “Delicious,” Tag said, pinching Flynn’s bare toes. The baby sat in his high chair in the midst of all the cooking mayhem. When he thought she wasn’t looking, Tag fished out a mini-serving of sauce for Flynn. He gummed and giggled and kicked. “I saw that,” Olivia said, also seeing the goopy brown mess all over her son’s chin. “He likes your cooking.” Scowling, she said, “What he likes is the sugar, which, as you well know, he’s not supposed to have.” “Who appointed you the health police?” “Flynn’s birth certificate,” she said as she added diced celery to the potato salad. “Now, while I finish setting the table, would you mind dressing Flynn in something presentable?”
