This isn't weird.

Why Not Now?

Rebecca was smiling, but her eyes were nothing short of murderous. "Where have you been?" she hissed quietly through gritted teeth. "You missed dinner. People were asking about you."

"The bookstore," Noah replied with a shrug, holding up the bag as proof. He was spared further questioning by the toddling lump of soft pink frills and bows that latched onto his calf at just that moment. "Well, hi there," he said, looking down with a smile. The meticulous french braid that Rebecca had styled Bitsy's wispy brown curls into was in complete disarray, the pretty ribbon tied to it hanging lopsided and loose. Her thoughtless rejection of her mother's finery gave him a brief swell of pride.

"Run along and play with your sister, Elizabeth," Rebecca said. "Daddy and I are talking."

"No," Bitsy said. It was one of her favorite words as of late.

"Elizabeth—"

"That's okay, sweetie," said Noah, bending down to ruffle her hair. The ribbon fell free at last. "I missed you, too." He lowered himself to the ground, setting the typewriter down carefully at his side so that she could climb into his lap.

"You can't just sit in the middle of the foyer," Rebecca moaned, passing a beleaguered hand over her face.

"And yet here I am," Noah replied. He poked the tip of Bitsy's nose, making her giggle. "It must be a miracle."

"That's funny," Rebecca said. This time, she was being sarcastic, but whatever bite her words might have carried was nullified when a blur of yet more rumpled frills—baby blue, this time—rushed past her legs, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Ruthie threw her arms around her father's neck, pushing her sister to the side to claim his attention for herself. Bitsy let out a cry of protest, but he shifted to make room for both of them, and she settled back in.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," he said.

"It's boring here," Ruthie whined.

"Tell me about it," he whispered.

"You need to go up and change," Rebecca said. "The guests are still here. I laid out clothes for you."

"I'm tired," Bitsy said.

"Me too," Ruthie added.

"Me three," Noah agreed. "Should we go upstairs and put on our pajamas?"

"I'm being serious, Noah," Rebecca said.

"You're always being serious," he replied, climbing to his feet. "You should try something new for a change." It was no small feat finding a position that allowed him to carry Bitsy and the typewriter upstairs at the same time, but he managed it. Ruthie, fortunately, was content to race up ahead of them. Much to his relief, Rebecca didn't bother to follow. For all her stubbornness, she knew a lost cause when she saw one.

Once he had helped them into their pajamas (a unicorn nightgown for Bitsy, an increasingly too-small T-Rex onesie for Ruthie), and Bitsy had been tearfully reunited with her stuffed bunny, Mr. Goose-Oggy (she was very proud to know the Japanese word for rabbit), he presented them with the spoils of his shopping trip and quietly hoped that their hollers of excitement disturbed the party downstairs at least a little.

"Do you want a story?" he asked, when they finally settled down, but Ruthie was more interested in the burning question that had plagued them all day, the one their mother had shushed every time they tried to ask.

"What's that?" She was pointing at the desk, or more precisely, what was on it. 

"It's a typewriter," he replied.