Yours, Mine and Ours

by Jacqueline Diamond

  "There goes Dad," Caitlin added.

  Robin turned and waved as Flint's Volvo churned reliably down the street. "As long as we follow the schedule, I don't suppose it matters where we are."

  She knew in her heart that Flint wouldn't approve, but darn it, today was Saturday, and how often did the kids have a chance to go to the beach with friends?

  She shepherded the youngsters home. En route, the three peppered Robin with questions and with accounts of the games they'd been playing that morning.

  It amazed her that they accepted her so readily. Despite maintaining a friendly air, inwardly Robin wasn't sure she was ready for this cozy relationship.

  The more she looked at them, the more the triplets resembled a cross between her and Flint. But that might be her imagination. She didn't know anything about their mother's appearance.

  While the kids went to change into beachwear, Robin inspected the family room. One wall bore a dozen photographs of the children at various ages, and of their parents.

  The late Mrs. Harris had a lovely face. She had blue eyes, much like Robin’s, and blonde hair, as well. Neither of those similarities meant much, though. The children showed a range of coloring—the boys blond, Caitlin darker--that obviously reflected the genetic traits of both parents.

  More telling was the fact that Mrs. Harris's face revealed sharp bone structure, possibly indicating Scottish descent, while Robin had the broader cheekbones of Scandinavian ancestors. When the three children walked into the room, she could see her cheekbones echoed in Caitlin's and Brick's faces. Aaron showed signs of developing the more chiseled features of his father.

  "Your mother was beautiful," Robin said. "What was her name?"

  "Kathleen," said Caitlin.

  Robin had thought she was prepared, but hearing the name spoken aloud sent a shiver, up her spine. She felt a surge of sympathy for the woman in the photograph, the woman who had given birth to these precious children and had loved them so much.

  "She must have been very special," Robin ventured.

  "Daddy talks about her a lot," said Aaron.

  "He doesn't want us to forget." Brick planted himself, legs apart, arms wrapped around a beach ball.

  "Did you fix our lunch?" Caitlin asked.

  With a start, Robin realized she hadn't given it a moment's thought. "We'll buy something at the beach."

  "Daddy doesn't like us to eat junk food," Aaron announced, only to be shushed by his siblings.

  "He makes exceptions," Caitlin assured Robin.

  "All the time," said Brick.

  Robin couldn't help laughing. "Just this once," she said. "But from now on, we have to follow the rules. You don’t want me getting fired, do you?”

  “No!” they shouted, their little faces transforming into masks of horror.

  “Relax.” Robin hadn’t meant to panic them. “Just…well, you get the idea. Everybody have his or her gym clothes and books?”

  They double-checked their backpacks as if their lives depended on it. Each one nodded in turn, and Caitlin said, “Check.”

  “Let's go."

  They squeezed into her small car and rattled to the beach, caravaning behind the Andrews' sedan. Robin found it ironic that she parked not fifty feet from the space her car had occupied overnight.

  As they joined the Andrews family on the sand, Robin discovered how unprepared she was for dealing with children. First Aaron pointed out that she'd forgotten the sunscreen. Fortunately, Sarah had brought plenty. Then she realized she didn't have a blanket to sit on, either, so she settled for planting her jeans bottom in the sand.

  Within minutes, the children were complaining of hunger as they watched their two friends munch sandwiches. After treating them to hamburgers and sodas all around, Robin discovered that feeding four hungry people on fast food was a lot more expensive than buying a quick meal for herself. If she kept this up, she would spend her entire salary before she received it.

  When, after half an hour of romping in the surf, the children declared they were thirsty again, Robin wasn't about to cough up money for another round of soft drinks. Vowing to bring a Thermos next time, she left the triplets with Sarah and Marty while she trudged to Gigi's apartment.

  Naturally it proved impossible to escape without detection. As Robin came down the stairs with bottles of water, her mother darted out of the shop, and Robin had to sketch in the details of the morning.

  "Life is a perfect circle." Gigi closed the shop and hung her Gone to Commune With Spirits sign. "I knew the spirits would bring you here."

  "The spirits had nothing to do with it," grumbled Robin as her mother followed her to the picnic scene.

  The triplets bounded over immediately. Unlike most children, who never seemed sure how to react to Gigi, the Harris triplets immediately found her fascinating.

  "Can we call you Granny Gigi?" asked Caitlin. "Our grandparents live far away."

  "Would you tell my fortune?" Aaron pleaded.

  "What did you bring us to drink?" asked Brick.

  Delighted as always to find herself in the spotlight, Gigi agreed to be called Granny and told Aaron that his palm showed he was a very smart little boy. Finally the kids scampered off to build sand castles.

  Robin's hope that her mother would go back to work were dashed when Gigi plopped herself on the Andrews' blanket and began interrogating Sarah. "How long have you two been married?" she asked, and went on to pose such questions as, "Did you ever know a young man who died?" and "Did you ever have an unhappy love affair?"

  Sarah's frown lines deepened as she grew more and more confused. Robin was relieved when her mother's friend Irma arrived and called Gigi away to hear the details of last night's bar mitzvah.

  "Your mother is an interesting woman," Sarah said tactfully.

  Believing the truth to be the best policy, Robin explained about the mysterious spirit.

  "I wish she'd asked me that outright." Sarah shook her head. "Marty and I were childhood sweethearts. Whoever this ghost is looking for, it isn't me."

  By the time Robin thought to check her watch, it was after two o'clock. She called the children over and made them tackle their workbooks, although privately she agreed that it was a waste of sunshine.

  The trio made short work of their math problems and handwriting exercises. Then they waved goodbye to their friends, piled into her car and read a few paragraphs of their books en route to the community center.

  As they dashed into the building, gym clothes over their arms and sand flaking from their swimsuits, Robin calculated that they had about three minutes to change in the rest rooms. But they'd made it.

  Her sense of relief lasted until they rounded a bend in the corridor and ran straight into Flint.

  Chapter Seven

  "There is, I presume, an explanation?" Flint said.

  Robin's heart thudded into her throat. The way he towered over her was downright intimidating. "Children, go change for gymnastics," she said.

  Her stern tone did the trick. Without protest, the triplets vanished.

  "Well?" Flint forced out the word through clenched teeth. "I left you a simple task, Miss Lindstrom. A simple schedule, I would have thought, to follow."

  Robin pulled the crumpled page from her pocket. "Right here," she said.

  Flint snatched it away. "I see workbooks at one and reading at two. No mention of a beach. That is, I presume, where they got the sand."

  "You don't specify the location." Robin was determined to stand her ground. "If you check my car, you'll find the children completed several pages in their workbooks."

  "At the beach?"

  "At the beach."

  "What about reading?" he demanded.

  "I'll admit, it got short shrift." Robin refused to lie. "You did promise to be flexible."

  "I did?" Flint's forehead puckered. "I don't seem to recall—"

  "I remember it clearly," said Robin.

  Caitlin hurried around a corner, wearing gym shorts and a T-sh
irt. "You didn't fire her, did you, Daddy? She was very strict. We wore our seat belts and she put on sunscreen, and we chewed our food like we're supposed to."

  "What exactly did you eat?" demanded Flint.

  Caitlin blinked as if recognizing her mistake. "I had lettuce and tomato."

  "That would be on your hamburger?" said her father.

  The little girl nodded unhappily.

  "Believe me, I won't be buying them any more fast-food lunches," Robin assured him. "I can't afford it." In response to his dubious look, she added, "I forgot about packing a picnic. I'm not used to being a nanny, but I'm getting there."

  Brick appeared, with Aaron tagging along. The boys, less interested than their sister in the interactions of grownups, grabbed Caitlin and dragged her off.

  "Why don't you guys go have coffee?" the little girl called. "Spend some quality time together." The boys hauled her out of sight.

  "I don't believe it," said Robin. "She's matchmaking! It must be a little-girl thing."

  Flint made an incoherent noise halfway between a chuckle and a snarl. "All right, Robin. I'm not going to make an issue of today, since you did get them here promptly. But in future I expect you to toe the line."

  "Yes, sir," said Robin.

  As she met his gaze, a troubling thought jolted her. This man and I have had children together.

  It was a startlingly intimate realization. Normally, that would mean they had made love. In an odd way, Robin felt as if they had.

  In another way, she couldn't imagine making love with Flint. He was too hard and controlling. His mouth would torment hers, his hands would claim her with relentless ferocity, and the demands of his body would drive her beyond the safe limits she'd always maintained with men. Robin didn't want to be possessed. Not by anyone.

  "Let's go watch the children," she said. "I'd like to know what they're learning about gymnastics."

  Flint gave a short nod and pressed one hand on the small of her back to guide her toward the gym. From the shallowness of his breathing, she thought for a minute he must have read her mind. Or maybe he was simply squelching his annoyance about the disrupted schedule.

  *

  The gymnastics class met Robin’s standards for safety, with proper equipment and warm-ups, Flint was pleased to learn. By five o’clock, the children were so wiped out from their activities that Aaron dozed off in the car.

  Flint had insisted the kids ride with him. Robin's car was too small and, in his opinion, not solid enough to protect the children. He hadn't considered that issue when he hired her. Well, he didn't suppose she'd be driving the children around very much. Like food, gas was expensive.

  Perhaps it hadn't been such a bad idea to take the triplets to the beach, Flint conceded. They'd made only a few expeditions to the ocean this summer, despite living so close, and being accompanied by the Andrews family meant extra supervision.

  None of the other nannies had brought Robin's freshness and energy to the job. Despite her flaky approach, she cared about the happiness of her charges. That was definitely a plus.

  None of the other nannies had filled out jeans and a blouse the way Robin did, either. Flint clamped his jaw tight and tried not to think about her supple movements or the color that flooded her face when they argued.

  No wonder the children reacted so positively. Her enthusiasm was contagious, even if sometimes misplaced. He'd been right to hire her.

  At home, he stationed the kids in front of a documentary and took out the ingredients for dinner. At the supermarket that afternoon, he'd purchased food for a week's worth of nutritious meals. Tom the handyman had arrived on schedule and, after paging Flint for permission, replaced the stove top. The shiny replacement was an improvement over its scratched predecessor.

  Tonight's menu called for stir-fried beef, rice and a salad. Flint decided to start on the cooking himself. He’d learned the basics after Kathy's death, tutored by Maureen and a series of books. On the housekeeper's day off, he did his best to dazzle the children with his culinary finesse. Their response was usually on the order of, "Can't we have spaghetti instead?"

  He had a feeling Robin would suit them fine.

  By the time she let herself in, Flint had started the rice and begun chopping the meat into thin strips. "Get lost?" he asked as she leaned in the doorway.

  "Nope. Got dessert." She held up a half-gallon of chocolate chip ice cream. "Is this enough?"

  "I allow one hard candy apiece for dessert." Flint realized how miserly that must sound. "We make exceptions for special occasions, like tonight."

  "What's so special?" Robin put the ice cream in the freezer.

  "The arrival of our new nanny."

  "I'm honored." She peeked into the family room. The children must have been settled, because she turned around and asked, "Need help?"

  He didn't, but Flint wanted to keep her in the kitchen with him. He’d enjoy having her present as they prepared the food, chatting idly and laughing at their near-collisions, the way couples did. They weren't a couple, of course, but since they lived together, they might as well act companionable.

  He handed her a head of lettuce and some tomatoes. "Why don't you fix the salad?"

  She retrieved an apron from the pantry, then poked around until she found a wire twist to tie back her hair. Flint appreciated that she checked the cupboards and drawers instead of interrupting him to ask where he kept things. Other housekeepers had driven him to distraction with their constant, unnecessary queries.

  As expected, they kept nearly bumping into each other. Robin had to reach across him to retrieve a knife, and he had to lean over her to pluck the ginger from the spice rack. Each slight touch became magnified in Flint's awareness. He could have sworn his nerve endings registered every air current that moved between her body and his. No doubt that would fade as they grew accustomed to each other.

  Robin rinsed and dried the lettuce, then tore it by hand. "Wouldn't the salad taste better with some croutons or cheese?"

  "The kids wouldn't eat it," said Flint as he stir-fried the beef.

  "They're that picky?"

  "Pickier."

  She flipped a strand of hair. "I never realized how little experience I have with kids and food. As a teacher, it's easy to fix a special snack, but celery stuffed with peanut butter wouldn't exactly make a good meal."

  "Celery stuffed with peanut butter?" Flint had never come across that one. "It sounds healthier than it ought to be."

  "It’s delicious." She tossed the salad, picked up a tomato wedge that fell onto the counter and threw it back in.

  "Shouldn't you rinse it?" Flint said.

  "Why? Didn't you clean the counter?"

  "Yes, but I didn't sterilize it."

  "I didn’t sterilize my hands when I washed them, either," Robin said.

  "Hands are different."

  “Why?”

  Because my instinct tells me so, he wanted to retort, but knew that wasn't scientific. "We don't wash our hands with the same kind of chemicals we use on the counter."

  "Our skin is continually shedding cells." Robin took the ranch dressing from the refrigerator. "Aren't you worried about skin cells getting into the salad?"

  "Are you always this stubborn?" he asked.

  "I'm not—" She stopped in mid sentence. "Am I?"

  "I've never met a woman who argued with everything I said, until you."

  She beamed at him. "Aren't you lucky? And I don't even charge extra." Before Flint could think of a reply, she called, "Whose turn is it to set the table?"

  All three kids swarmed in, even though according to the chart on the fridge it was Brick's turn. The table got set in record time, and Flint pretended not to notice that a couple of napkins were crumpled and the forks were on the wrong side of the plate. Not even he could expect perfection from seven-year-olds.

  As the five of them sat down to eat and he gazed at the shining faces of his children, it occurred to Flint that they felt more like a family than
they had in a long time And as Robin had said, she didn't even charge extra.

  *

  Robin awoke at seven-thirty on Sunday morning. She stretched, noticed the time, then pulled the sheets over her head and went back to sleep.

  Someone shook her awake. "Go away," Robin said. "It's Sunday."

  "I wanted to ask you something." Flint sat on the edge of her bed. Robin checked the clock and realized half an hour had passed. "We agreed that you get Sundays off. I thought, however, that you might want to make an exception today, since you're just getting to know the children. We could arrange another day off when you need it for a teaching interview."

  That sounded like a reasonable proposition. "Okay." Robin sighed. "I'll be up in an hour."

  "We leave for church in forty minutes," Flint said.

  "Don't they have a later service?" Robin yawned, then realized that one strap of her silky black nightgown had fallen, baring a considerable portion of upper chest. She slipped the strap into place.

  "There's only one service and it starts at nine." Flint removed himself from the bed.

  Robin groaned and dragged herself into the bathroom. She showered, wincing at the hot water, then put on a dress, although most Southern California churches accepted casual wear. Still, she ought to set a good example.

  She couldn't remember the last time she'd arisen this early on a weekend. But she could use a day off for a job interview, if anything came up. And she devoutly hoped it would.

  Yesterday hadn't been so bad, she mused. Flint had mellowed after their confrontation at the community center. She'd actually enjoyed cooking dinner with him.

  She hoped breakfast would prove equally pleasant. When she entered the kitchen, she found him loading the dishwasher with a preoccupied expression on his face. To Robin's relief, the coffee pot was half full, so she poured a cup. In her current state, she knew she'd never locate the cream and sugar, so she drank it straight.

  The first draft was only halfway to her befogged brain when Caitlin looked up from reading the comics in the breakfast nook. "Where do you usually go to church, Robin?"

  The little girl wore a starched dress and a navy straw hat. As Robin staggered to the table, she wondered if Flint would expect her to starch the dress.