by Holly Jacobs
She tried to look more assured than she felt. "We're okay. Just worry about your mom."
Sunny made another trip into the house with a diaper bag that resembled an old-fashioned steamer trunk and a car seat.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
Morgan could see Sunny's anxiety and felt helpless to ease it. "Don't worry. We'll be fine," she stated once again.
Before she could offer any other comforts, Sunny was hurrying to her car and Morgan was left staring at the small face peering up at her.
"Well. . ." she said, not sure what to do. She took the baby and the giant bag and went back into the living room, wondering where Annabelle could be. "Mom promised no more wake crashing, and she might be many things, but she doesn't go back on promises."
The baby gave her an odd, uncertain look.
She wasn't sure if he was unsure about her mother's whereabouts or about Morgan's ability to care for him.
"Mom doesn't lie, and I can handle a baby like you, so you can stop giving me that look. You're too young to have such a cynical nature. Your mother is the most optimistic person I know, and that kind of outlook has to be genetic."
Johnny Paterniti didn't appear to be convinced, nor the least bit optimistic.
As a matter of fact, his face started to crumple a bit.
More than a bit.
"Hey, I used to babysit. We'll be fine," she told him. She didn't mention that she'd never babysat, much less held, a baby as young as he was.
Johnny didn't seem overly impressed with her résumé.
Gilligan walked into the room, sniffed the air, and then turned and walked back out. Morgan sniffed in turn, but didn't smell anything other than baby lotion.
"Well, that's good," she said, not sure if she knew how to change a diaper, and not ready to find out.
"So. . ."
Johnny's face crumpled further and he opened his mouth. She thought he was going to cry, but instead, he—
"Yurp."
—threw up on her jacket.
"This is why I didn't babysit infants. I guess I'll be changing again. . . changing both of us, by the look of things."
This time she didn't have time for a dressfest, so she grabbed another jacket to replace the stained one.
She amazed herself by managing to get Johnny changed as well. He still didn't look happy with her abilities. Instead, he looked as if he blamed her for the entire throw-up fiasco.
She was about to proclaim her innocence, when the two cats came into the room. They sniffed and, unlike Gilligan, seemed to like the way Johnny smelled.
And the baby's face uncrumpled and he wore a delighted smile as he cooed at the cats. While he was concentrating on them, Morgan hurriedly finished changing him. Then it occurred to her that she'd better call her date.
She sat on the floor next to Johnny, who was still talking baby-babble to the cats, and phoned Conner. "Something's come up."
"Don't tell me you're canceling. I cooked and nothing's burned."
"So far," a voice bellowed from the background.
"That was my very helpful baby brother, Ian," Conner told her. "He's just upset that he's got to wash the dishes, and this meal's taken a few more than normal."
Ian yelled again, something Morgan couldn't quite make out. Conner growled, and that was enough to make her chuckle.
"So far, huh? Is your brother implying that burning is part of your normal cooking style?"
"I refuse to answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me and give you yet another reason not to come. Speaking of reasons, what's the problem?"
Morgan looked down at the reason. "I have an unexpected guest."
"Bring her along," Conner said.
"Him."
"Him?" He paused a moment, then asked, "Should I be jealous?"
"I don't know. Are you?" She waited for his answer.
"I—"
Suddenly she didn't want to know, because she wasn't sure what she wanted to hear, so she blurted out, "He's under a year old. A friend had an emergency and I'm babysitting."
"Ah. I guess I don't need to get out another place setting?"
"No. No extra place setting."
"Great. Bring him along. You can babysit here as easily as there. And here has a homemade meal waiting."
"Thanks, Conner. We'll both be there soon."
Did "great" mean he would have been jealous and it was great that he wasn't? "Great," she muttered as she disconnected the call.
Johnny stopped smiling at the cats and gave her another one of his iffy looks.
"No more cookie tossing," she warned him as she put him into the car seat. While he was sitting in it, she made a hurried call to Sunny's cell phone and left Conner's Lawn Street address, just so she knew where Johnny was.
Morgan didn't mention the baby didn't seem inclined to cooperate. She'd try to thread his arm through a strap in his car seat and he'd jerk it in the opposite direction.
"Come on, Johnny."
The cats sat in the doorway, watching her attempt. She wondered why they'd finally decided to come out of the shadows. Maybe they were accepting her?
Accepting or not, they looked as doubtful as Johnny did about her abilities to work the straps of the seat. But finally she got him buckled in.
Morgan carried the car seat by the handle, after throwing the diaper bag over one shoulder, her small purse over the other. There was a severe weight discrepancy between the two, and she felt a bit like Quasimodo as she made her way to the car.
That's when she was presented with her first—second, if you counted getting thrown up on, which she did—hurdle. How on earth did the seat hook into the car?
Straps, clips. . .baby.
She suddenly wished for an engineering degree instead of her stupid M.B.A.
But somehow she muddled through, giving the seat a big yank just to be sure it was secure.
"Yoo-hoo, Morgan. Where're you going?" Annabelle called.
She turned and eyed her mother suspiciously. "I think a better question would be where are you going. . .or rather, where are you coming from?"
Annabelle was dressed beyond the nines and firmly into the tens, in a gown that glittered and sparkled, strappy little shoes and a matching purse. And her hair was done up in an elaborate style that screamed fancy.
Her mother gave her a chagrined little smile. "There was a small shinding at the country club. Very nice. Let me tell you, a good party planner makes all the difference."
"Party planner?" Morgan mused, an idea forming. "What if OCDR hired a party planner? It would certainly be in keeping with my expansion ideas."
"Yes," her mother agreed, then gently added, "but my idea is to sell, remember?"
"I get that you want to sell, that you don't want to be in charge, but it doesn't make sense to sell if you're financially shorting yourself. If you could expand the business, offer more services, cost-effective add-ons, maybe—"
She came to an abrupt halt. "Uh, Mom, I didn't know you were a member of the country club."
Annabelle didn't respond.
"Mom?
Still nothing.
"Annabelle?" She said her mother's name with just the right amount of exasperation.
Annabelle's guilt was written all over her face. "Fine. I'm not a member. But maybe I'm thinking about becoming one if you expand the store and make me rich. So I went to a party tonight to check out the club. I mean, I wouldn't want to join if it was less than adequate."
Morgan had years of experience reading between the lines, distinguishing the difference between what her mother said and what she meant. "You crashed. Don't bother denying it, I can see it in your face. I thought we agreed no more crashing?"
Morgan glanced down at the baby, who was squirming in the car seat. His face was all crinkled and he looked to be on the verge of crying.
"We agreed no more crashing wedding receptions or even wakes," Annabelle said. "This wasn't either. This was a country club function."
&nbs
p; "You're splitting hairs, Mother."
"If I am they're about the only hair I've seen tonight. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen such a large group of aging, balding, paunchy men. At least there were some pretty boys at the reception, even if they were a bit too young for me. Here the men were stodgy, and their wives. . .!"
Morgan surveyed her mother's neon-pink, strapless, skintight dress. It didn't take much of an imagination to figure out the wives' opinion of her mother.
"Oh, Mom."
"Well, you don't have to worry. No more crashing at the country club. I promise."
"No more crashing at all," Morgan corrected.
Rather than agree or disagree, Annabelle peeked in the back of the car. "Why, hi, Johnny, honey."
There was no face-puckering. No puking. Just a snaggle-toothed grin as the baby burbled in welcome.
"So, you're babysitting? That's good. I've been worried about you. You need more socialization."
An idea occurred to Morgan. It was perfect. Her mom had been Sunny's first choice in babysitters, and now that she was home from her purloined party she was available. "Sunny's mom is in the hospital. They think she had a heart attack. So Sunny came to see if you'd babysit—"
"Oh, my," Annabelle exclaimed before Morgan could finish. "I'd better go be with her. She's so close to her mom. She must be worried sick."
And without another word, Annabelle turned around and hurried back to her car.
"She's at St. Kathryn's," Morgan called.
Annabelle waved without turning around.
"That's the thing about my mom," Morgan told the baby as she got into her seat and snapped her seat belt in place, with a lot more ease than she'd had with his. "Annabelle's got no sense of decorum, but she's all heart."
Johnny gurgled in agreement.
They drove across town to Lawn Street and started to scan the car-lined, narrow avenue for a parking place.
This wasn't the kind of neighborhood she expected Conner to live in. Oh, she didn't expect an Upper St. Clair address, but. . . She looked over at the small brick house.
Morgan didn't even try to get the car seat back out. She'd save that job for Sunny. Instead she unbuckled Johnny and unthreaded his limbs, then lifted him in her arms.
Morgan tried to find a comfortable way to hold the baby, his things, plus her purse, but didn't quite manage it. She was glad when she finally reached the house and rang the doorbell.
The door opened a moment later, but it wasn't Conner standing on the other side. Instead, there was a slimmer, younger version of him, wearing braces on his legs and leaning heavily on a set of crutches. A skin-toned bandage was plastered across his forehead.
"You must be Conner's brother," she said.
"Ian. Ian Danning. And you must be Morgan, Conner's new assistant, of sorts."
"Guilty as charged," she said, feeling guilty indeed.
He must have noticed her looking at his bandage, because he added, "You should see the other guy," then laughed. "And this is?"
"Johnny. A good friend's son. She got called into the hospital, and I'm babysitting."
Johnny let out a plaintive whine.
"And I don't think Johnny's all that impressed with visiting me," Morgan murmured.
"Come on in and let me give it a try. I'm great with kids."
The living room held an eclectic mix of furnishings that would have made any HGTV designer shudder. A ragged leather sofa, two mismatched armchairs, and an assortment of dented-looking lamps. A huge fireplace that had ashes left in it from the last fire. . . Yet the mishmash somehow came together to make a welcoming room.
Ian took a seat on the couch, tossed his crutches on the floor and held his hands out for the baby.
"You're sure?" Morgan asked.
"I worked my way through college as a nanny to three boys. I think I can manage."
Gladly, she handed Johnny over. "I don't think he likes me."
"He could tell you were tense. Babies sense things like that. Right, buddy?"
If babies truly did sense someone's tension, then it was obvious that Ian didn't have an ounce in him. A minute later Johnny was gurgling happily and bouncing on his legs as if they were old friends.
"I haven't had much experience with them," Morgan admitted, eyeing the contented baby.
"No kids. No wedding ring," Ian murmured, then looked up at her and grinned. "Not to make you nervous or anything, but I'm checking you out this evening. I know Conner says you're just a new colleague, but I don't know that I quite buy that story. It's been a long time since my brother's had a woman over."
"Really?"
"Really," Ian assured her. "So of course it's up to me to see to it you're on the up-and-up. Conner's out of practice attending to that sort of thing himself."
"What am I out of practice on?" Conner asked as he walked into the room.
"Women," Morgan said, smiling at him. "Your brother's afraid I'm some sort of vamp who will take advantage of you."
"I can only hope. You have my permission to take any advantages you want," Conner assured her, as he leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. "And who is this?"
"My friend Sunny's son, Johnny." The baby babbled a string of happy syllables, then smacked at Ian's face, laughing hard, as if he'd done something marvelous. "I think he likes Ian."
"Ian has a way with kids. . .and women. So watch out. He might say he's checking you out for me, but he's probably just checking you out."
"Well, she is rather checkable," Ian joked.
Something buzzed loudly from the direction Conner had come.
"Entertain her," Conner told Ian. "But don't be too entertaining. I've got to baste." He hurried back down the hall.
"He's cooking something that needs to be basted?" Morgan asked. "I'm impressed. My best cooking comes in the form of a bag with some nice restaurant's logo printed on it."
"He's gone all-out," Ian assured her. "And I was only half joking when I said it had been a long time. He hasn't had a woman over since he broke up with his last girlfriend. Or rather, she broke up with him."
"How long ago was that?" Morgan found herself asking. It shouldn't matter, because whatever she ended up having with Conner could only be temporary. Who they'd been with before didn't—couldn't—matter.
Keep it superficial, she warned herself. "Never mind, forget I asked."
"No, I like that you care. It's been almost two years now. Right after my accident. His ex didn't like that he was taking so much time with me."
"I'm sure—" Morgan started to protest.
Ian cut her off. "I'm sure as well. Oh, that's not what she said, but that's why." He nodded at his crutches. "Conner put his relationship, his job, his whole life on hold for me. I just thought I should tell you he's the real deal. And if you hurt him. . ."
"I don't think we've reached a point where I could hurt him. I'm not even sure if you can call this a date."
"It's a date," Ian assured her.
"I don't know. I mean, just because a man and a woman dine together, that doesn't make it a date. I have a friend back in San Diego, a guy. We've eaten together countless times, and it's never once been a date."
"I don't know if I believe a man and woman can be just friends."
"E.J. and I are. That's all we've ever been, all we'll ever be. No hope of anything more, but that's fine by both of us. We're just very good friends."
Ian still didn't look as if he was buying it.
"We met when I went to the emergency room with stomach flu. I introduced myself by throwing up on his shoes. Once you've done that, there's no chance you'll ever date."
"Have you thrown up on Conner's shoes?" Ian asked.
"No."
"Then it's a date. He's making a roast, and there's crème brûlée for dessert. Crème brûlée is only for dates. I assure you that in the couple years we've been living together, he's never made it for just the two of us. It's date food."
Morgan felt a momentary pang of discomfort, but Ia
n's smile disarmed her. "So, it's definitely a date," she said.
He nodded.
"Well, then whatever happens after, I can promise I'll try not to hurt him."
"That's all I ask."
Johnny gave a squawk and Ian joggled him. "I think it's safe to say this guy doesn't like being ignored."
Morgan noted the ease with which Ian handled the baby. She was impressed, and obviously, so was Johnny, who was beaming up at his new hero.
"Who's ignoring what?" Conner asked as he reentered the room.
"Morgan and I were just chatting and Johnny didn't like being less than the center of attention."
"Well, dinner's served." Conner held out a small, plastic bowl. "And since I don't think Johnny's up for eating roast, I found some Cheerios for him."
"Do babies eat Cheerios?" Morgan asked.
"How old is he?" Ian countered. "Almost a year?"
"Eleven months, I think," she said.
"Then yes, it's fine. He's got a couple teeth and should be able to handle Cheerios."
"You know, Ian, you should think about doing this professionally. You're good." Morgan was pretty sure that he couldn't handle a baby and his crutches, too, so she said, "How about I carry him out to the dining room?"
Ian didn't appear to be the least bit insulted as he handed Johnny over. The baby turned to see who had him, and when he saw it was Morgan, he squawked in displeasure.
"See? He doesn't like me. Ian, you do have a way with babies."
"Too bad it wasn't babes," Conner teased. "Now, me. . ." He left the statement hanging.
"Yeah, you." Ian laughed as he sat down and took Johnny on his lap again. But then the doorbell rang.
Moments later, Conner came back into the dining room, Sunny at his heels.
"How's your mom?" Morgan asked by way of a greeting.
"She'll be fine. Turns out it wasn't a heart attack, it was indigestion. A bad case of indigestion. A few antacid tablets and a suggestion that she see her own doctor, and she was done. I dropped her off at home and came to get Johnny. I'm so sorry to have interrupted your plans. We'll just—"
"Take a breath," Morgan told her friend. "And let me make introductions. Ian and Conner Danning, this is Johnny's mother, Sunny Paterniti."
"I believe this young man belongs to you," Ian said, as Johnny wiggled and bounded in his arms, gurgling a greeting to his mother.
