Kisses And Kids (Congratulations Series #1)

by Andrea Edwards

  “Oh, hell.”

  He looked outside again. The ground squirrel had been joined by a companion. Seemed like everyone had a companion. Everyone but him. Well, they had what they needed and he had what he needed.

  His stomach took that moment to point out that it didn’t have what it needed. He was hungry but unable to decide on anything. Maybe he just didn’t want to eat at home.

  He went upstairs and added a knit shirt and shoes and socks to his jeans. Then, once outside, he was faced with another decision. Where should he eat?

  There were a few places downtown but they sat at the extreme ends of the spectrum. Either expensive and touristy or cheap and greasy. His mood wasn’t up to the first and his stomach was never ready for the second.

  Maybe he’d just walk. That might even help his mood.

  It was nicer outside than he expected, the heat of the day starting to wane. He stepped out onto the sidewalk briskly, going west on Washington Street, past the new town houses that had replaced the previous historical row of cheap bars and dilapidated housing.

  The whole street had been pretty run-down when he’d moved in with his grandmother. Downtown hadn’t been doing all that well, either. A major employer had committed to putting up a skyscraper, but then had run off to the sunbelt, leaving behind a hole in the ground and a string of broken promises.

  But things were improving now. Covelski Baseball Stadium stood where an abandoned factory once was. The College Football Hall of Fame was pulling in business. And new office buildings were filling the vacant lots downtown. Things were on the upswing.

  Turning onto Walnut and going south brought him to what his neighborhood used to be like. Run-down housing, idle men standing on the street corners and rusting cars sitting in the yards.

  He was surprised to see that neither the glaring men nor the tattered atmosphere bothered him. But then, why should it? For the first time in years, Pat admitted to himself this was where he’d come from.

  When his mother had been alive, they’d lived over on the far southwest side, but things had gone downhill after she’d died. His father had had to sell the house and they’d moved to the near west side, where he looked more and more to the bottle to fill the void in his life. And the more time Dad spent with Brother Alcohol, the more Pat and his younger brother, Matt, were left to fend for themselves.

  Matthew Thomas Stuart, but everybody had called him Angel because of the angelic look about him. It had gotten him out of a lot of trouble over the years, but hadn’t helped at all when the combination of a rain-slicked road and alcohol had put him in touch with a tree about eight years ago. Pat had buried him next to their father and mother.

  Something pulled Pat back to the real world and he was surprised to see that his feet had taken him to Pulaski Park, a large expanse of green just across the tracks from the rental duplex he’d lived in with his father and brother. The duplex had burned down long ago, but the park had been kept up. Even had some play equipment over in one corner. Pat stood for a moment, watching a group of kids playing baseball.

  Pat shook his head. He’d been in South Bend for three years now and this was his first time back in the old neighborhood. Some writer had said that you couldn’t go home again. Hell, who wanted to?

  His stomach reminded him that the real purpose of this trip had been food and Pat decided that he was really hungry now. He crossed the tracks, walking along several blocks of open land. Land that had been cleared of decrepit old factory buildings. Land where the new plant from California would be built.

  A neon sign flashing Johnny’s beckoned from a corner tavern and Pat hurried his steps. He wondered if Johnny was still there or if a new owner had chosen to save money and leave the old sign.

  Opening the door brought him into a dim, cool interior, along with the same sour-mash smells that had greeted him twenty years ago when he’d come here looking for his father. The bar was still worn and polished. The walls were still covered with dark paneling. It said something about a society when the neighborhood bar was a bastion of stability.

  “Hey, Pat. Long time no see.”

  Johnny’s thick mop of black hair had gone with the years, leaving behind a thatch that was thinner and whiter. He didn’t look as tall as he used to, but his blue eyes were still bright and his voice was still deep.

  “Hi, Johnny,” Pat said, taking the bartender’s hand. His grip was still as strong. “Good to see you again.”

  “Beer?”

  Pat nodded and slipped onto a bar stool, settling in as if the last time he had been here was a few days ago instead of twenty years. “You have a hell of a memory to recognize me after all these years.”

  “Ah.” The bartender carefully poured a draft, trying to minimize the foam. “It was easy. You’re the spittin’ image of your father.”

  For the fleetest of moments, Pat clenched his teeth. Just because he looked like him didn’t mean he had to be like him. Besides, he’d always liked Johnny. The bartender would save the change from the drinks his father bought and would slip it to Pat, so that there would be something to buy groceries with.

  “So, how are you?” Johnny asked as he slid a foaming glass of beer toward Pat.

  “Good.” Pat picked up his beer and sipped at it. “Although I’m hungry right now. Your wife still cook those burgers like she used to?”

  “Martha died.”

  “I’m sorry.” He felt a stirring of sadness for the gentle woman who’d slipped him and Angel “leftovers” whenever they’d come by. He hadn’t thought of her for years, and was suddenly conscious that life had gone on after he’d left. Not just his, but everyone’s.

  Coming here had been a stupid idea. He should have just gone to a fast-food joint. Pat stared into his glass as the taste soured in his mouth.

  “But my daughter Sandi makes them just as good. You want one with the works?”

  Pat hesitated. He should get out of here, go back where he belonged. But where was that? “Yeah.” The word came out slow. “Sure.”

  Johnny moved toward the kitchen in back. “We still peel our own spuds,” he said over his shoulder. “You want some fries?”

  Pat nodded and took another sip of his beer. What the hell. He’d been eating mostly rabbit food for ages now; he could have a burger and fries. He’d just run an extra mile this weekend.

  Then it dawned on him. This weekend wasn’t his own—he was playing baby-sitter. By the time Johnny brought out the hamburger plate, Pat’s hunger had disappeared again.

  * * *

  “I’m sure that that doesn’t mean anything, honey.”

  Trisha stopped to stare openmouthed at her mother, a cat in one arm and a cookbook in the other. “Mother, what in the world are you talking about?”

  Her mother was helping Trisha make peanut butter cookies for the kids’ trip up to camp. There wasn’t much room in Trisha’s tiny kitchen, but they were used to working together in cramped quarters. The two of them, along with Trisha’s older brother, had lived in a lot of small apartments after Trisha’s father had left them. The familiarity hadn’t helped Trisha’s mind-reading skills, though.

  Her mother nodded toward the TV news program that was on. “That little clinch you were just staring at.”

  The television had just shown the current Miss Indiana giving Pat a long and deep kiss, and now a reporter was explaining how Mr. Stuart had just persuaded a major West Coast company to open a plant in South Bend.

  “I’m sure that was just for publicity,” her mother went on to explain.

  “I don’t really care what people do or don’t do for the television camera.” Trisha concentrated on putting the cookbook away, then replacing Lucy on the ledge where she’d been sleeping. The cat glared at Trisha and jumped down.

  “Well, the young man didn’t act like it was anything serious.”

  “Most men, young or old, don’t act like kissing a beautiful young woman is anything serious,” Trisha replied.

  “Trisha, that�
��s not fair.”

  Trisha swallowed the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. No, it wasn’t fair. Or accurate. After all, her father had taken kissing Lisa seriously. Very seriously. Of course, her money might have had something to do with that. With it, he’d been able to shift his practice to downtown Chicago. Never mind that none of his old patients were able to get there, nor could they have afforded his new rates if they had.

  But in all the years since her parents’ divorce, Trisha had never heard her mother say a negative word about their father. Probably because he was the father of her children—although her mother never said anything bad about anybody.

  “You want to shape the cookies?” her mother asked. “Or do you want to smash them?”

  Trisha just gave her mother a look. She always flattened the cookies.

  “I was just checking, dear.”

  Trisha sat on a stool, watching as her mother rolled out little balls of dough and put them on the cookie sheet.

  “Must be a slow news day,” her mother said.

  Trisha looked at the TV. The station was replaying the big nonlove scene between Pat and that beauty queen woman. Trisha was suddenly conscious of her own mussed hair, her short, no-nonsense fingernails and her slight, almost girlish figure.

  “I don’t think they really go together,” her mother said.

  “Oh, right.” Trisha made a face. “They’re both tall, good-looking and sexy. It’s a horrible match.”

  “Of course, dear. There’s no variety.”

  “And that’s important.”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” her mother said smoothly. “Besides, you’ll have him all weekend. I’m certain you can keep his mind off beauty queens.”

  “Mom, we’re taking kids to camp. That’s what we’ll be occupied with.”

  Her mother passed along the first cookie sheet. “The kids have to sleep sometime.”

  Trisha stared at her mother. “Just what are you suggesting? That I sneak off with him for a quick romp in a sleeping bag? What kind of motherly advice is this?”

  “The kind you’re misunderstanding, dear. There’s much more to a relationship than sex.”

  “Who says I want a relationship with him, anyway?” Trisha began flattening the cookies. With a bit too much relish, perhaps, because the first few turned into pancakes. “I’ll have you know I don’t.”

  “But you should. He’s very eligible.”

  Trisha didn’t ask how her mother knew that. She was sure she didn’t want to know and just concentrated on her cookies. “And for your information,” Trisha couldn’t help adding, “he’s not too crazy about me, either.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “He thinks I’m pushy and manipulative.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “He was roped into taking us to camp and I refused to let him get out of it.”

  “Men need a firm hand sometimes,” her mother said. “They’re shy about getting involved.”

  Shy? That was about the last word Trisha would use to describe Pat Stuart, but she knew there was no point in telling her mother that. She’d just make her cookies and listen to her own heart.

  And that was telling her to stay clear of Patrick Stuart and his broad shoulders.

  Chapter Three

  “Eleven bottles of beer on the wall, eleven bottles of beer.”

  Pat gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He was sitting in this van with eight kids between the ages of eight and twelve for one reason, and one reason only. And that was to prove to himself that his weird reaction to Trisha on his birthday had been a fluke. She had caught him in a weak moment, but was nothing more than a beautiful woman he’d had a fleeting attraction to. And being with her this weekend would prove it.

  “If one of those bottles should happen to fall, ten more bottles of beer on the wall.”

  Of course, his reasons for coming had totally overlooked the real dangers involved in this trip. He’d thought he was just going to lose his weekend. Now he realized that more serious things were at stake—such as his hearing and his sanity.

  Throughout all this mayhem and commotion, Trisha sat in the front passenger’s seat, hands folded in her lap, looking at the passing scenery with a face as serene as Botticelli’s Madonna. She must be wearing earplugs.

  “Are we there yet?”

  Gritting his teeth, Pat ignored the question. He remembered that when touring the state prison at Michigan City last year, a guard had told him the inmates interpreted any friendliness as a sign of weakness. Pat knew if he answered that question, they’d jump on him with a million more.

  “Ten bottles of beer on the wall.”

  “Do they have to do that?” Pat asked, loud enough for Trisha to hear through her earplugs.

  “Ten bottles of beer.”

  “Why are you shouting at me?” she asked.

  A beautiful, blessed silence filled the van. Pat could almost feel his ears sigh in relief. All right, so she wasn’t wearing earplugs; the noise just didn’t bother her. Just went to show that they had nothing in common. If she was his soul’s twin, she’d be ready to climb the walls the way he was.

  “How about if they put a sock in it?” he said, indicating the kids in back with a slight tip of his head.

  “They’re not hurting anybody.”

  “If one of those bottles should happen to fall—”

  Not hurting anybody? How about him? How about his ears? How about the fact that his brain was turning into oatmeal?

  “Are we there yet?”

  Pat ground his teeth. It was Rulli again—a skinny little eight-year-old who looked scared of his shadow. Pat wanted to tell the kid to shut up, but Trisha would probably interpret it as an attack on the little punk’s self-esteem. Not that it should matter to Pat. It wasn’t like he was trying to win points with her or anything.

  “Nine bottles of beer on the wall.”

  If only they were in Colorado, driving to some camp back in the mountains and snaking the van along narrow switchbacks. Then he could just drive off the edge into some canyon about a hundred miles below. Sure, they’d all die, but hell couldn’t be any worse than this.

  “Nine bottles of beer on the wall.”

  “Aren’t they a little young for that song?” he asked.

  “Nine bottles...”

  The kids’ words trailed off and peace again returned to the van. Pat wondered if that was the key. If he talked, the kids didn’t sing. But they had almost another hour to go. What in the world could he talk about for that long? If he were riding with some regular business folks, that would be one thing, but a pack of kids and a social worker? Covering subjects of common interests would take about thirty seconds.

  “What are you talking about?” Trisha asked.

  “Beer,” Pat replied. “I’m sure they’re not old enough to drink beer.”

  Trisha stared at him.

  “I know that they might sneak some,” he said. “But I don’t think that as responsible adults, we should condone that kind of thing.”

  Her frown deepened and it hit him suddenly just how beautiful she was. It didn’t matter that she was anything but pleased with him; there was a glow to her skin that was richer than any makeup could cause. And a light in her eyes that spoke of passion and fervor. He looked back at the road.

  “I’m sure you realize that alcoholism begins with an attitude,” he said. “A lackadaisical attitude that starts with sneaking a few cans in the alley. Then when they’re older, they move to social drinking, which, for some people, is a major step on the way to alcoholism.”

  “If one of those bottles should happen to fall—”

  “This is a silly conversation.”

  “Eight bottles of beer on the wall.”

  After the few moments of quiet, the renewed singing was putting Pat closer to the edge than he’d been before. It was like pouring salt into an open wound.

  “Eight bottles of beer on—”r />
  “I mean it,” he said. “Alcoholism is a serious social problem. In many cases, it leads to more serious substance abuse.”

  Her sigh was very definite and drawn out. “Kids.” Her voice was firm. “Enough of that song, please.”

  “How come?” Angie asked.

  “Mr. Stuart doesn’t want us singing songs about beer.”

  Pat glared at Trisha. Why did he have to be the bad guy? The little bandits would probably do something bad to him now. Like putting spiders in his bed.

  “They got beer on TV.”

  “They have a lot of things on TV that we don’t need,” Trisha replied. “No more beer songs, please.”

  No one had a reply to that, not even smart-mouth Angie. Pat could feel the tension draining away from him. The pretty country scenery gently floated by them and he was even starting to enjoy the drive. There was a lot of whispering in the back, but he could take that. He could take almost anything after that damn song.

  “A hundred cartons of milk on the wall.”

  Suddenly Pat found it hard to breathe. His fingers locked themselves so tightly around the steering wheel that they hurt. He glared at Trisha.

  “A hundred cartons of milk.”

  “They’re not singing about beer.” Her voice was sweet and her eyes were dancing.

  “If one of those cartons should happen to fall, then ninety-nine cartons of milk on the wall.”

  “You know,” Trisha said. “They were almost done before you made them stop.”

  That was it. He’d had it. No more Mister Nice Guy.

  He pulled the van over to the shoulder and eased it to a stop. He very deliberately put the vehicle in Park, set the hand brake, released his seat belt and turned around to face the kids. Eight pairs of eyes gazed at him. Now he knew what a zebra felt like when surrounded by lions.

  “Are we there?” Rulli asked.

  “No, we’re not there,” Pat snapped. “I’ll tell you when we are, so quit bugging me about it.”

  The kid’s face started to crumple and Pat felt a twinge of guilt. This was all Ben’s fault. Ben’s and Trisha’s. They had roped him into this without any thought that some people might not deal well with kids. He looked away from Rulli, settling his attention on Angie. The girl was looking daggers at him, firming Pat’s resolve to take charge of the situation before it got totally out of hand.