"Sometimes I go to Buddhist services, Protestant, Baha'i, Catholic, Jewish—whatever," Robin said. "I don't have a regular house of worship."
Flint frowned. "In my experience, regular attendance promotes self-discipline."
Robin set her cup down with a clunk. "I thought the purpose of church was to promote spirituality, not discipline."
When Flint retreated, she chalked up one round for her side.
Breakfast turned out to be frozen whole-wheat waffles. Robin wondered why anyone would bother making junk food out of whole wheat. Even under a thick coat of syrup, the waffles tasted like wood chips.
Brick and Aaron ran in from the den. "Brick's hitting me!" Aaron wailed.
"I am not!" Brick shouted, then hedged his bets by adding, "Anyway, he hit me first.”
"Both of you to your rooms," Flint snapped. The boys pulled long faces and stomped away.
In the bright light of a Sunday morning, Robin decided that these children couldn't possibly be hers. No descendant of Robin's would possess that much energy at such an hour. While it was hard to dismiss the notation in her medical records, she intended to try. After all, if these children were hers, she either owed them more than she could possibly give or she ought to leave at once.
The note hadn't listed her name on the same page as Kathleen Harris's. Maybe the memo had been stuck in her file by mistake. Perhaps that was why the clinic was shutting down. Its sloppy record keeping must have produced a lot of lawsuits.
Thinking about this was giving her a headache.
Robin's morning wooziness didn't wear off until after church. She was glad no one quizzed her about the contents of the sermon. She remembered an anecdote she'd read about President Calvin Coolidge, a man of few words. One day when his ailing wife missed church, she asked him what the subject of the sermon had been. "Sin," he replied. When she insisted on learning what the minister had said, Coolidge was reported to have answered, "He was against it."
Robin assumed that Flint's minister was against it, too.
They ate lunch at a soup-and-salad cafeteria that offered enough variety to satisfy the children, especially when they discovered the muffins. Then they changed clothes and headed for the park.
"The children should work on their pitching," Flint explained. "Aaron’s getting teased at school."
"He throws like a girl," Brick said.
"Not like me." Caitlin sniffed. "I throw overhand."
"You couldn't hit a cow in a tunnel," Brick sneered.
"You stop it!" Caitlin's voice rose to a shriek. "You're always trying to make me look bad in front of Robin."
"I don't have to make you look bad, you just do it naturally," her brother retorted.
"Stop it now!" boomed Flint's voice, silencing all dissent. "Brick, you have a fifteen-minute time-out."
At the park, Brick sat chafing on the sidelines while Flint worked on Aaron's throw. The boy had a hard time coordinating his movements and kept stamping his feet in frustration.
Robin and Caitlin found a swing set. As they floated back and forth, Caitlin plied her with questions. Where had she grown up? Did she have a boyfriend? Could Gigi really tell fortunes?
Aaron's complaints finally brought his lessons to an end, and Flint called that it was Caitlin’s turn.
"I'm swinging!" she shouted.
"Come here now!"
"I already know how to throw a ball, Daddy!"
"Caitlin!" The ominous note drew the little girl from her perch.
Aaron, meanwhile, had collapsed near Brick. Within seconds the two were throwing handfuls of grass at each other. Robin tried to lure them to the playground equipment, but Aaron whined that his arm hurt and Brick protested that he was still having a time-out. Robin didn't hear whatever smart-aleck remark Caitlin made to her father, but a short time later Flint stormed over and dragged them all to the car.
They hadn't been at the park half an hour. How could so much go wrong in such a short time?
Robin was determined to stay out of this. She was only the nanny. These were Flint's kids, and he knew them better than she did.
At home, Flint sent the children to their rooms. "I can't understand it," he said as he and Robin retreated to the back patio with the Sunday paper. "I schedule time to play with them, and all they do is complain."
Robin buried her nose in the crossword puzzle. .
"I don't like Aaron being teased about his pitching," Flint went on. "And Caitlin's losing her athletic interests. I’d hate for her to buy into that stuff about girls not playing ball. She won't admit it, but I think that's what's going on."
Robin tried to think of the answer to nine across, a group of islands in the Atlantic. She wasn't sure where the Azores were, but they fit the spaces, so she wrote them in.
"I was going to plan a party for their birthday, but they're so negative about everything, I'm not sure that's a good idea," Flint went on.
"Birthday?" Robin pricked her ears. "Their birthday is coming up?"
"August fifth. Well, fifth and sixth," Flint said. "Brick was born just before midnight. Caitlin was born one minute after midnight, followed by Aaron. He's the youngest and he acts it, doesn't he?"
Robin had undergone her procedure during Christmas vacation. That would mean the triplets had been born a little over seven months later. "Were they full term?" she asked, hoping the answer was yes.
"Nearly two months early," Flint said. "They were such cute little things. When did they grow so big? Not to mention disobedient."
Robin’s excuses were poofing away like popped balloons. How could she go on pretending the triplets were someone else's children? Springing to their defense, she admonished Flint, "At seven, kids deserve the freedom to make some of their own decisions."
"Freedom has to be earned," he said. "I won't tolerate irresponsibility."
"Look at it from their perspective," Robin responded. "Did they choose to practice pitching? Did you ask them?"
"I want our time together to be productive," Flint grumbled.
"And was it?"
He leaned forward in his chair. "After twenty-four hours on the job, you’re an expert on my kids?"
That wasn’t the point. "I know a thing or two about kids because I've taught a lot of them. A teacher has to change her tactics to suit the children's learning styles. Each class is different. You figure out what works for them, and build on it."
From the angle of Flint's chin and the narrowing of his eyes, she could tell he didn't intend to lose this argument. "I don't believe in catering to children's whims. They have to learn to fit into this world on its own terms."
"But in the real world, each of us has choices," Robin stated.
"Fine." Flint stood up. "It's time for you to fix dinner. We're having the liver and onions that Maureen couldn't cook, because if it sits in the fridge any longer it will spoil. Let's see how much choice you can give the kids about that."
It was a direct dare. Robin stood to face him. "As long as I fix the liver and onions, you won't interfere?"
"No sending out for pizza."
"I won’t cheat," she said.
"It's a deal," he said. "Do it your way. I could use a good laugh."
As she went to fetch the children, Robin wondered if she'd bitten off more than she could chew. Or perhaps, she mused, she was preparing to cook more than she wanted to chew.
She gathered the triplets in the boys' room. "You guys get to help me make dinner.”
They cheered.
"But we have to fix the liver and onions."
The kids groaned. "Give us a break," said Caitlin.
"What else are we having?" Aaron asked.
"Let's go find out." In the kitchen, they discovered that Flint had set the ingredients on the counter. The side dish was lentils—more grousing from the kids—with frozen peas for the vegetable.
"This is the most disgusting meal in the history of the world," said Brick.
"Let's make it more disgusting," said
Robin. "But you guys have to eat it."
"What do you mean, more disgusting?" asked Caitlin.
"We can add anything we want," Quickly, Robin added, “No worms.”
"How about chocolate chips?" Aaron’s sly grin reminded her of Gigi.
"Scrambled eggs," Caitlin suggested.
"Sugar," said Brick.
"Let's do it." Robin had sworn to give them choices, and now she had to live by her decision. "First, everybody wash hands."
An hour later, when they called Flint in to dinner, the children proudly served up their dishes—lentils with scrambled eggs, peas flavored with sugar, and liver and onions sprinkled with chocolate chips.
Chapter Eight
At the sight of Flint's horrified expression, the triplets burst into laughter.
"Are we really going to eat this?" he asked.
"You promised," said Robin.
Flint transferred a slice of liver to his plate and poked at it. "Is this what I think it is?"
"You have to eat the whole thing," chortled Aaron.
It was far from the most dignified meal in history. Even Flint couldn't resist making faces as he downed his dinner, and the children shouted with glee as they ate their own concoctions.
"Anybody want to make this again tomorrow night?" Robin asked.
With one voice, the four Harrises said, "No!"
"This is fun." Aaron beamed.
"It's like having Mommy back," said Caitlin.
The humor faded from Flint's face. "That was inappropriate, Caitlin. No one can replace your mother. Ever."
"Of course not," Robin said quickly. "You must miss her a lot. I'll bet you had lots of fun when she was here, didn't you?"
The youngsters agreed, and Flint's grim expression softened. He didn't broach the matter again until after the children were in bed.
"I suppose you've gathered that I don't want my children forgetting their mother." He and Robin were finishing the newspaper in the family room. Two lamps glowed in the summer evening.
"I wish I’d known her," Robin said. "She must have been special."
He told her how Kathy had worked her way through law school, struggled with infertility and helped support the family while he established his business. "She deserved better from life than she got," Flint said. "She hadn't even begun to reap what she'd sown when she died."
He'd never recovered from his anger at her death, Robin could tell. "You have a strong sense of justice. It outrages you when life isn't fair."
Flint rattled the business section. "I never thought about it that way, but it's true. People who play by the rules ought to be rewarded."
Robin wished she could ease his mood. "Speaking of rules, why don’t we play a game? You mentioned dominoes."
"Too tame." A gleam lit up his eyes. "This calls for War."
"That sounds like a guy thing." Robin watched dubiously as Flint crossed to the closet and removed a game box from a shelf.
"It's simple. Each person tries to take over the world. The fighting gets vicious, and then I win." He opened the box and set the board on the coffee table.
Never mind who the game appealed to; those were fighting words. "You expect to win, do you?" Robin challenged.
"Against an inexperienced player? Not to mention a do-gooder like you?" He grinned as he taunted her. "You’ll be so busy protecting your countries, you won’t be aggressive enough to win."
"Try me," snapped Robin, then remembered what had happened the last time she issued that dare.
Flint must have been remembering their hand-to-hand combat in the dance studio, too, because he shot her a smile of such masculine arrogance that Robin ached to take him down a few pegs.
"Here's the rule book." He tossed it to her. "Let me know when you're ready."
As he’d indicated, players challenged each other, massed their troops and rolled dice, wagering one or more soldiers in a battle to take over country after country. It was designed for three or four players, which meant the weaker competitors could be eliminated until two finalists squared off.
In this case, there were only two players to divide up the world. Robin would have preferred a less dog-eat-dog game, but she had to show Flint that she could whip him.
That wasn't quite the way it worked. Robin held on to South America and Africa for a long time, even making incursions into Europe and Mexico. The problem was, she discovered as her armies dwindled, that she didn't possess Flint's willingness to risk huge numbers of soldiers on one throw of the dice.
With a sinking heart, Robin retreated toward the South Pole. She couldn’t lose the world to a self-centered, destructive warlord like Flint! Throwing her forces together, she took a couple of big risks. It proved to be too little, too late.
Flint had conquered the earth. Which, Robin reflected, was what he probably figured he deserved in real life, as well.
"I'll beat you next time," she threatened.
Flint laughed. "The only one who ever beats me is Brick, because he doesn't know the meaning of fear. I’m not looking forward to his teenage years. By the way, the loser picks up the pieces."
"And what does the winner get?"
"He gets to gloat."
Robin made a face but swept the pieces into the box without comment. Then, as she stood to put the game away, she stretched painfully. Leaning over the low table had cramped her back.
"Are you all right?" Flint returned the box to the closet. "Next time we'll use the kitchen table."
"I'm fine." Robin tried a few stretching exercises and discovered soreness in a few muscles she'd forgotten she possessed. "I may have to call in sick at work tomorrow, though. I'm not looking forward to it—my boss is a real slave driver."
"We can't have that." Flint stopped behind her and ran his hands up her back. "Where does it hurt?"
"Low down." Robin braced against the wall and let him press the aching muscles. His thumbs found each knot and teased it out, then moved upward to provide delicious relief between her shoulder blades.
"You have delicate bones." Flint's hands spanned her rib cage. "Graceful, which is what I'd expect from a dancer."
"Offstage, dancers aren't graceful at all," Robin said as he completed his massage and stepped back. "We run into things because we're accustomed to having lots of space to move around in. Like this."
As she spoke, she pirouetted toward him, making a wider turn than she'd intended. Although she hadn't meant to demonstrate her clumsiness, Robin succeeded in bumping him hard in the hip.
Flint caught his balance by reaching past her to the wall. They both registered at the same time that he'd trapped her within his arms, and Robin was about to apologize when she saw his eyes glaze with desire.
Flint's mouth caught hers without warning. Hard and demanding, it was indeed the mouth of a conqueror who takes what he has won, a man who doesn't need to ask permission for anything.
An answering hunger swept through Robin as Flint's tongue probed her mouth. He seemed to transform into someone fierce and primitive, and as for her…Where had her prickly resistance gone?
Flint drew away for a moment, stroking her hair as he regarded her in the dim light. Then his mouth claimed hers again and fire burned through Robin. With a deep groan, she pressed against him.
Where had it come from, this yearning to merge with Flint? He was too strong, too dangerous to play with. There had always been a part of Robin that held back, that stayed apart from her physical responses. Now, for the first time she sensed that someone might be able to arouse her beyond reason. Robin wound her arms tighter around Flint, her skin afire with longing to be touched and caressed.
Abruptly, he released her, his breath ragged in the cool air. "I didn't mean to..." He gave a low cough. "This was an unfortunate lapse. It won't happen again." With that, Flint walked out of the room.
Robin sank onto the couch, embarrassed and confused. In their embrace, she'd discovered a side of herself that had lain dormant until now. Why had he broken off
so abruptly?
As she glanced toward the spot where they’d stood moments before, she saw what must have struck him like a blow—a family photograph on the wall, Kathy's face shining as she held three babies on her lap. Even through his passion, the sight of it had torn him away from Robin.
How could she compete with a dead woman? But she didn't want to compete with Kathy. True, growing up in such an unorthodox household, Robin had sometimes longed for a stable, reliable husband. But not for a rigid figure like Flint. Not for a man who would gladly fill the world with time clocks for people to punch.
She couldn't deny that she found him intensely attractive. His elemental male strength aroused an instinctive response from her. But she refused to yield to a man who couldn’t respond in kind.
He was right—they mustn’t let this happen again.
Although at this hour she was off duty, she went to check on the children. Upstairs, outside the boys’ room, she heard a low noise—a child crying. Her heart squeezed.
Robin stepped inside, noticing how a night-light threw odd shadows that intensified rather than softened the gloom. Still, it helped her see that Brick snoozed undisturbed in the upper bunk.
In the lower, Aaron lay curled into a ball, sobbing into his teddy bear. Ducking to avoid the overhead bunk, Robin sat beside him.
"Bad dream?" she whispered.
He gave a barely perceptible nod. "I have nightmares. Like a baby. Don't tell anybody."
"Does your father know?"
"He comes in sometimes," Aaron admitted. "But don't tell Brick and Caitlin."
"I won't. Besides, everybody has nightmares once in a while, even grown-ups." Robin gathered his small shape into her arms. He nestled against her, his instinctive trust filling her with warmth.
My child. Robin had had a hard time grasping exactly what that meant until this moment. Now she felt his heartbeat ripple through her. She ached at the thought of his unhappiness, as if their nervous systems had become fused.
"Can you tell me about it?" she murmured.
"I was—I was lost in this dark house, and I kept hearing voices, but whenever I got close, they went away." Aaron snuffled. "I miss Mommy, even though I don't remember her much. Caitlin says you could be our mommy."
Yours, Mine and Ours Page 9
