Billie kissed me on the cheek. Spring looked at me and giggled. "Open it up," Billie said.

As soon as I read the words Madras Cafe on the box, I began to drool. "I've been eating the same thing for days and none of it was Indian."

"Just like Gilligan and his coconuts." Billie said, then nodded to Spring. "There's something in there for you, too."

Spring stuck her face in the bag and then pulled back with a smile. She removed a Styrofoam container of mashed potatoes from the deli.

"I hope you like them. I haven't had them in years, not since I was an undergrad, but I have fond memories."

Spring nodded, stuck a finger in the container and put a taste in her mouth. "It's cold."

"Fortunately, we can warm it up." She looked around. "I like the way you've redecorated."

"Thanks. The art lessons are costing me a bundle." I dug into an uthappam, a type of vegetarian pancake with green peppers, onions and tomatoes baked into it. "This is like manna."

Billie walked around the place, looking at the drawings and I imagine, wondering where all the good stuff had gone.

"This one is different," she said, pointing to my penguin.

Spring laughed and snorted cold mashed potatoes.

"It's mine," I said. "It's a penguin."

"A penguin?"

"Yeah."

"Why is it blue?"

"It's a blue penguin."

"Oh." She rolled her eyes, causing Spring to snort again. I think Spring wanted an excuse to snort. "It looks like a blue bat."

There was another snort.

"I thought you wanted that heated," I said to Spring.

She shrugged, then took another bite.

"I'd suggest leaving the artwork to Spring."

Spring agreed.

One benefit of having a three-year-old around was that there was always extra food. I tried her mashed potatoes. "Not bad," I said. "A little cold. I'll throw it in the microwave."

"It's better on the stove," Billie said.

"On the stove," Spring repeated.

"I have better luck with microwaves." I thought back to the few times I had tried to cook for Diane and Spring, and how the stove would probably have greater value with some rare African art on it.

"Really, they'll reheat better on the stove," Billie said.

"You wanna cook? Go ahead."

"Next time, I will."

"Next time? What about now? When was the last time you cooked anything?"

"I was still an undergrad. I don't think I've even turned the oven on at my place."

I unwrapped a portion of fish curry and it smelled wonderful. I had almost forgotten why I went to work everyday. Like Mason had said, we lived for "the other things in life."

"Spring, would you like to try some?"

She looked at my plate, made a disgusted face and shook her head.

"Mason had me pick up the Magenta Martini account ,while you're out."

"Yeah, he told me he was going to have you do the fire dance."

"I met with them this morning. They understand. Don't worry."

"Worry about what?"

"Your situation."

"My situation?"

"Yeah. Don't worry." She grabbed a bite of the uthappam. "I'm a lot prettier than you and they'll like me better, but you'll get it back."

"Prettier?"

"Yeah. Spring, Am I prettier than D-Man?"

"Oh, yes."

"Spring!"

Spring's eyes widened. "She is."

"See?"

"Okay, so you're much prettier than me. I'm uh, hairier."

Billie smirked at me. "Yes, you have more hair... on your back."

This made Spring chuckle, which made Billie's expression surprisingly bright.

"Hey Spring, maybe you can talk Billie into reading you a bedtime story tonight."

"I don't think so, D-Man. I don't do stories."

"Are you kidding? I've heard you do a hundred of them down at the Martini."

"Those stories," she said, tipping her head, "are different."

"Please?" Spring said.

"Oh, D-Man, help me out here."

"Spring, I think Billie has a sore throat. Maybe another time?"

"Is she okay?" she whispered to me, as if Billie only three feet away wasn't listening.

"She'll be okay," I whispered back. "It's just a cold."

"Get better, okay?" she said to Billie.

Billie's eyes softened. "All right, if I were to read to you and I'm not going to overcommit here..."

"... you never do."

"What would you want me to read?"

"Harold."

"What's Harold?"

"Harold and the Purple Crayon", I said. "Only sometimes, we call it the eggplant crayon."

Spring nodded.

"Will she remember this conversation if I take a long time reheating the potatoes?"

"She'll remember if you reheat those potatoes until she starts middle school."

"Okay, I'm up for a challenge." Spring smiled, which made Billie smile, but then she turned to me and said, "The book is short, right?"

I assured her that it was. She heated Spring's potatoes and we ate quietly for a few minutes.

"Hey, D-Man, I finally linked up with Dano from the Martini," Billie said, while chewing a bit of naan.

"Careful," I said, nodding to Spring.

"Oh. Well, you know that penguin I've been watching down at the Martini? He finally skated over to my pond."

"I like peng-wins," Spring said.

"So does Billie," I said to Spring. "Is he a good skater?"

"So-so. He's a little shaky on the curves. And he wears small skates."

"Small skates? Does that matter?"

"Only if you're a so-so skater."

"That's too bad. A clumsy penguin."

"Clumsy peng-win?"

"That's right, Spring." Billie said.

"Did he, you know, find the goal?"

"Not without help from the goalie."

"That's too bad," I said, smiling. I never particularly liked hearing the details of Billie's conquests, though she never seemed to be uncomfortable relating them. "Hey, what do you know about little penguins? I'm doing a report: where they live, how to raise them, who takes care of them."

"Little penguins? Nothing. Big penguins, I can help them find the goal... sometimes. Adolescent penguins, maybe. But, if I had my own penguin, I'd rent a penguin, uh, nanny."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go that way."

"Suit yourself."

Spring looked at me. "Done."

I looked at Spring's empty Styrofoam bowl. I was kind of hoping for another couple of forkfuls. "That means it's bath time."

As much as I enjoyed having Billie around, I wondered how Diane would have perceived it. Only a few days after her death, I was bathing her daughter with a strange woman in the room. I'm sure she'd laugh at me and say she knew I was doing my best, but it just didn't feel right.

With the bath, the books, the glass of water, the song, and the animal noises behind us, I kissed Spring on the cheek and turned off the light. Billie had read Harold and the Eggplant Crayon and I had done my best to act out the story, as we went. Our first performance as a team had gone pretty well. Only once did Billie read too fast. But there were no ensuing injuries. After the song, Spring told me I sang "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" louder than anyone she had ever heard. If it was loud, I hoped it was on pitch. Billie helped during the chorus of da da da's, but both Spring and I had heard better da da da's before. I was surprised to hear Billie sing at all. Truthfully, I was surprised she hadn't dined and ditched.

After tucking Spring in, I sat on the couch with Billie.

"Spring is a nice little kid," Billie said.

"Yeah. I've almost known Spring longer than Diane now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"She isn't a puppy. I can't set her in a box on the sidewalk with a sign that reads, free. But I can't seem to locate an owner."

"Family Services?"