by Blake North
She looks in the mirror and gives a half smile. She likes it. She just won’t let me see.
“That’ll keep your hair out of your face.”
“It didn’t hurt,” is all she says, but I think I’m winning at life.
I get her lunch from Mrs. Whitman and put it in her backpack. She goes off with the driver. I drop onto the couch. Mrs. Whitman brings me a glass of iced tea.
“You earned it,” she says, “That child is a terror in the mornings. Hates to get up, just like her mama.”
“What?” I ask. I’m very curious about Lydia’s mother, but Ridge made it clear she’s not in the picture.
“Before she had the baby, she was a lazybones in the mornings. I was their housekeeper when they got married. Such a pretty girl, she was,” Mrs. Whitman said sadly.
“Was something wrong? Did she not sleep after the baby?” I ask. I’m prying. I’m nosy. I know it, but I don’t stop.
“That was all she did. She had a C-section, lots of pain. She took the medicine, and it would make her sleep. I thought she would stop taking it when she got better. But she didn’t stop. I was trying to run the house and take care of Lydia. Lydia had the colic…” she trailed off.
“I bet that was exhausting.”
“Very. But I didn’t want to upset Ridge. He was so excited to be a father, to have his pretty wife and finally have a family. I didn’t want to spoil his happiness. My mother was ill, and he sent me to be with her. I tried to tell him I needed to be here, but he didn’t realize. He couldn’t have known that she didn’t get out of bed until three or four most days, that she didn’t change the diapers or do the feedings. She said it would be fine, that she was the MOTHER and I was interfering and how dare I suggest she couldn’t take care of her own child…” Mrs. Whitman sniffed and stood up, “I said too much. I’m sorry. I know that he will tell you what he wants you to know. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I asked you. You were kind enough to tell me what you did. I certainly won’t tell Ridge anything,” I assured her, “If anything, I shouldn’t have asked.”
I then go through the ‘activity closet’ in the hall to see what Lydia and I can use for some more arts and crafts today. I choose clay and raid the drawers for kitchen tools she can use to make impressions and patterns. I have everything set up on the playroom table when the phone rings. I get a call from Angela that the Muffin Hottie made an appearance and said he liked her sweater. “It was the blue cardigan you got me. I can’t believe he even noticed I had a sweater!” she said, completely thrilled.
“I’ve got some time this morning, I may run by and bring you a coffee if you’re free,” I offer.
“Absolutely yes.”
I head to the grocery store where Angela manages the bakery. I stop off on the way and get us some lattes and chocolate eclairs although we could just get free ones in her own bakery. It was the effort that counted. She’s ready to take her fifteen-minute break when I get there. We go outside and stand around with our coffees.
“These are killer good,” she admits.
“I know, right? I already had waffles and fruit for breakfast. I’m going for a run before Lydia gets home. She was a total bear to wake up. Worse than Benny ever was.”
“How’s Benny?”
“He’s good. He’s working part time in fast food. He loves it. He puts together sandwiches. He’s always loved patterns and building and stuff, so it’s perfect. He says he always gets it in the right order. I’m going to Facetime him tonight.”
“Tell him I’ll come visit and he can make me a sandwich,” she says.
“I will. He’ll love that,”
I miss my brother, my whole family really. They’re only a few hours away, but I don’t get to see them very much. I sigh.
“How’s your mom doing?” I ask Angela.
“She’s on a singles cruise. She got burned out on the online dating—too many men her age want someone who’s, like, twenty-five to admire their beer bellies and watch sports with them, apparently,” Angela sighs.
“Sounds about right,” I confirm, “You know I keep getting guys who only want me to watch them watch sports while bringing them snacks quietly—or the ones who want me to listen to them talk about sports. That’s always fun too,” I say sarcastically.
“Yeah, your track record is not the best. Of course, those are the good ones who didn’t steal from you.”
“Yeah, thanks for bringing that up,” I say, “I’m kind of worried about my new job. I mean, I like it. But there’s two problems—”
“One is that the dad is too hot, right?”
“That’s problem one. Problem two is if this guy finds out about my credit card debt he’s not going to think I’m responsible enough to take care of his child. Or to use the credit card for expenses.”
“But you are responsible,” Angela declares.
“I am unless a boyfriend wants to borrow money. Then apparently I’m a complete moron and give him my credit card.”
“Without changing the limit on it. Or asking about the bill.” She adds.
“I did ask,” I say, “He said he paid it off.”
“And you didn’t double check because…” she trails off, eyebrows raised.
“Because I’m an idiot,” I profess, “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by checking up on him. I trusted him. I wanted him to know I trusted him. Then I got screwed over.”
“This means I’m not going to give Muffin Hottie my PIN number,” she says, “But how can I get him to ask me out? He was friendly today, talked about my sweater, said the weather’s getting colder at night…”
I want to hug Angela. She is the sweetest person ever, but she doesn’t have a lot of confidence.
“Easy,” I say, “you ask him. You don’t wait. Life is too short. You say, ‘hey, Muffin Hottie, I get off work at five, want to go for coffee or drinks or something?’ Maybe learn his name first. Muffin Hottie sounds like you objectify him.”
“I do objectify him every chance I get, especially when I’m alone with my detachable shower head.”
“Ugh, Angela, do NOT tell him that. Just ask him out.”
“Two things. One, I am not asking him out. I can’t handle the rejection. And two, who have you been thinking about when you’re alone with the shower head, because you are red as a beet, girl!”
“Shhh!” I hush her, embarrassed, “No one. I’m embarrassed for you because you said something so personal.”
“Excuse me, who am I talking to? I thought you were my friend Reva who bought me three Fast and Furious DVDs and a pack of double-A batteries and called it the vibrator special.”
“Fine, I just—we’re standing outside a grocery store, not at home,” I mumble. I’m kind of irritated that she knows me so well. She knows I’m lying.
“It’s the boss, right,” she insists, finishing her éclair. “Not surprising really, when you consider that he’s gorgeous and grumpy and you love withholding guys who give you a challenge.”
“So I attract assholes is what we’re saying here,” I disclose, slumping against the building.
Angela is right. Apart from the fact that Ridge is handsomer than anyone I ever dated by a factor of one hundred, he’s my type. Condescending, acts like a jerk, which convinces me that he’s been hurt and needs my love and patience…demanding, uncompromising…yeah, he’s my catnip, or my kryptonite. The worst thing for me. The thing I can’t resist. This time not only is it an unsuitable guy I’m crushing on, it’s my boss. My actual Miss-Moneypenny-drooling-over-James-Bond boss. I am such a cliché it’s actually annoying.
“You need to get laid,” she says wisely, “you haven’t slept with anyone since Danny. You’re horny and lonely and this sexy guy lives in the house with you. You’re bound to have thoughts and fantasies. Either you go hook up with someone or you buy a Costco pack of double-A batteries and torture yourself at home thinking about him and how he’s forbidden fruit.”
“You’re so mean.”
“The word you’re looking for is right. As in, Angela, you are so right. How are you still single when you’re beautiful, sexy, smart, and so wise?”
“I ask myself that all the time. Muffin Hottie would be lucky to have a chance with you. I would never have made it through the past year without you. You deserve someone wonderful, sweetie,” I tell her.
“Thanks for the pep talk. Still not asking him out. Is it lame to wear the same sweater tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yes, it is. You don’t want him to think you wear dirty clothes to work.”
“He might think I’m just really good about getting laundry done fast.”
“You weren’t going to wash it. You were gonna hang it on the chair and wear it again,” I say.
“Damn. You lived with me. You know too much,” she laughs, “I gotta get back to work now.”
She goes inside after hugging me goodbye. I throw away the rest of my éclair and coffee, call the driver and go back to the house. I change into workout clothes and go for an extra-long run. I check out the entire posh gated community where I live now, and it is street after street of massive brick homes, some with pools and cabanas, some with tennis courts, some with both. I am amazed at the sheer number of people who can afford to live in a place like this. I run until the timer on my watch goes off. I head home to shower before Lydia arrives from school.
There are shopping bags on my bed, clothes the shopper selected for me. I pull on leggings and a pretty tunic—a heather purple French terry with a drawstring funnel neck, very comfortable and more athletic and casual than I expected. I love it. I braid my hair and put on the supple leather booties the shopper sent over. They look fantastic. I’m like a much fancier version of myself in this outfit, and I can see this as a definite job perk.
She comes in like a tornado, which I’m beginning to think is normal for her. Lydia dumps her boots by the door, her backpack on top of them, and flops on the couch in one noisy movement. I sit down beside her, hands in my lap.
“Shoes,” I say simply.
She raises one eyebrow at me like I have got to be kidding. I just wait for her to do it. Finally, she groans, heaves herself up and takes her boots to her closet. I hear the clatter as she throws them in and bounds back to me.
“Nicely this time. Set them down, side by side,” I say in my best patient teacher voice, “We have time for you to do it right. I’m not in a hurry. We have arts and crafts after lunch, but take your time.”
She narrows her pretty eyes, stalks back and fixes the shoe situation. Then she empties her folder and hangs up the backpack at my prompting. It’s a long process with lots of sighing and mumbling. She sits beside me while we go over the papers in her folder. She reads me the stapled sight word reader, only stumbling over a couple of words.
“I had first graders in class last year who couldn’t read that well!” I tell her truthfully, “We had to work hard to get them to be able to read something with this many words on a page.”
“I can’t read ‘could’.” She grumbles.
“You just can’t read it yet. We’ll practice. I’ll make flashcards while you do your craft stuff,” I say.
I won’t have any trouble making flashcards for her—there are enough supplies in that activity closet to cover two classrooms at the charter school with some to spare. I would’ve been thrilled to have half that stuff last year to use with a bunch of twenty-five kids, much less one.
“There are flashcard apps,” she says, just leaving it there.
“Want to see if you can afford any of them with the three bucks you have left?” I offer.
“Maybe there’s a free one. I don’t want to spend my iTunes money on learning,” she says as if learning is a filthy word. I don’t let myself laugh.
“Okay, I’ll look,” I say. “Go change and wash up for lunch.”
I figured out from Mrs. Whitman that the massive wardrobe of adorable little girl clothes is mostly worn for play at home after school, and for going places with her dad, so when she comes back in leggings, knee high leather riding boots and a cashmere sweater that I bet I can’t afford, I’m not surprised. If I had cashmere, I would never eat in it because of I do not trust myself to not be clumsy and spill something. She’s just wearing this to lunch at home. Rich people are just different.
Lunch is an excellent soup that Lydia eats very little of. When she’s done—quickly because she wants to go do arts and crafts—I get up reluctantly, taking my bowl to the kitchen and making her do the same. I also nudged her until she thanked Mrs. Whitman for lunch. She isn’t exactly a rude child, but the manners could be freshened up.
While she rolled out clay and smashed the potato masher into it to make a grid pattern, I looked up Dolch word lists and made flash cards for her, making a game out of it after. She played on the iPad for a while, giving me time to chop vegetables and chat with Mrs. Whitman. When Ridge got home, we were playing another round of the sight word game I made out of construction paper and index cards. We were using little plastic Disney Princesses as game pieces. He stood in the door of the playroom. I was so aware of him. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I can smell expensive cologne on him, see that he’d had some kind of meeting today since he was wearing a designer suit and a dark blue silk tie. He looks mouth-watering in that suit. My heart thuds. I misread a sight word, causing Lydia to crow victory and jump up and down. I hope he thinks I let her win. I hope he doesn’t realize I was so flustered by him that I screwed up a kindergarten sight word.
“Reva made me this game!” Lydia says, bounding to him.
Ridge scoops her up in his arms and hugs her. When she wiggles away, she runs to grab a card and show him.
“This says ‘him’. I know that word now. Did you know that him starts with the /h/ sound just like ‘he’? Reva said so!”
I laugh because she thinks I invented letter sounds apparently. He looks at me over her head.
“You can buy a game, you know,” he says coolly.
“I know. I liked making it for her. She decided to be Jasmine, and I’m—that one,” I say, pointing to the ugly stepsister she chose for me. Not flattering, I think.
“Lucky you. I always have to be the sea witch from The Little Mermaid. Or whatever the ugliest one is…” he drifts lightly.
“You play princesses?” I nudge.
“Why not? I’m a dad,” he chuckles.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I think, that a tough guy like Ridge is secure enough to play dolls. It’s not like anyone’s going to question his manliness. I mean, he looks like he could be Superman under that suit, or something more wicked and dangerous. Batman, I decide. Rich, troubled, gorgeous—yeah, my type. We pick up the game, discussing what to do later. When Lydia suggests we all watch the Lego Batman movie after supper, I almost laugh. It’s like she can read my mind. I wonder if I’ll be hopelessly, stupidly attracted to the animated Lego dude.
Later, I sit on the couch with them, keeping to my side. Lydia stretches out between us, her head on a throw pillow on my lap. I stroke her damp hair and love the sweet shampoo smell of her. The movie seems to go on forever. I can’t concentrate on it because Ridge is sitting there three feet away from me, his jacket and tie off, his shirt open at the collar. He’s the very picture of a handsome businessman relaxing with his family at home, except he has that dangerous edge to him—the broad shoulders and muscled arms that let you know he’s more than an office drone. That somewhere, sometime, he’s been a total badass.
Instead of watching the cartoon that Lydia’s giggling over, I’m seriously reminding myself every two minutes not to stare at my employer, even though I feel sparks between us. I can’t imagine he doesn’t feel the chemistry crackling. Except—he’s probably a mature adult who doesn’t walk around lusting after his staff the way I ogle him. I mentally groan in frustration.
I try to focus, but it’s not happening. I glance at the clock with relief.
“Bedtime, sweetie. Go brush your teeth and pick out a book
,” I tell her.
Lydia jumps up and runs to the bathroom. I reach for the remote to turn off the movie at the same time Ridge does. Our hands touch, and this time it’s me who leaps back like I’ve touched the stove when it’s on.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say, backing away, “I’ll just go get Lydia settled in.”
“Right,” he says, looking totally unfazed by the half of a second of accidental physical contact that has every nerve ending in my body buzzing with awareness.
I wait for Lydia, read her a book, kiss her and leave the room as soon as Ridge steps through the doorway to tuck her in. I retreat to my room and call Benny.
“Hey, buddy,” I say when he appears on the Facetime screen, “How’s it going?”
“I miss you. You look red. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m good,” I say quickly, “How’s work?”
“Fun. I like to put on the olives because you gotta space them out just right. You use eight olives for a foot-long sandwich so you spread them out. That way, the person gets olive all the time and not just on one piece. That would make me mad if I only got olives on part of my sandwich,” he says seriously.
“You don’t even like olives!” I say.
“Yes, I do. I like these ones, they’re salty,” he says, “The black ones. The green ones are not good.”
“You tried black olives! That’s so great. I’m glad you like your job. The little girl I take care of now likes olives too. In fact, I caught her in the pantry trying to eat some yesterday right before dinner.”
“She could ruin her supper! Mom doesn’t like it when I ruin my supper,” Benny says.
I miss him so much my chest hurts. He’s had a haircut so his blond hair is really short on the sides now. He has on his shirt from work even though it’s his day off. He’s so proud to work there, and I’m proud of him. My sweet baby brother Benny. I haven’t seen him in nearly two months. He eats olives now. There’s no telling what else I’ve missed.
“Are you still going to the therapy place and doing art?” I ask, “Did Mom take you today?”
“No,” his brow scrunches up and I know he’s not happy, “They say I can’t go there anymore. I have a job, so I can’t. Mom says it means I am doing too good, and it’s not a bad thing. But I think I’m in trouble there, and she won’t tell me.”
