Kids Is A 4-Letter Word

by Stephanie Bond

  “Maybe,” John admitted. “But I didn’t know she had a serious boyfriend, and now I do.” He leaned toward her, softening. “Don’t you like Jo, Claire? I know she likes you.”

  She mulled over his question, hugging herself and working her mouth. “I guess she’s okay. She said she’d give me her Nancy Drew books for helping her with decorating the house.”

  He felt a little relieved. “That’s great. How about let’s go downstairs and watch television with the boys? That is—” he grinned at her “—if they haven’t killed each other by now.”

  She grinned, too, and took his hand as they left the room.

  “Dad!” Jamie yelled from the bar as they walked into the den. “Billy drank two whole cups of cola!”

  John nearly staggered with the knowledge of the effect the caffeine and sugar would have on his already active toddler. He’d be bouncing off the walls. “He’s not supposed to be drinking it this late.”

  “I know,” Jamie said in a grave tone that announced he was really gleefully waiting for John to pronounce Billy’s punishment.

  Billy looked up from his seat on the floor, his chin stained dark from the sweet drink. “I drink pop,” he said, holding up the cup for John’s inspection.

  John pressed his lips together, trying to hide his frustration. “Jamie, how did he pour soda into that little cup from that great big bottle?”

  Jamie didn’t hesitate. “He’s too little, so I had to help him.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll let you clean up this mess while Billy and I visit the potty.”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “Bad potty.”

  But John didn’t give in to his toddler’s resistance this time. When Billy succumbed to tears, John scooped him up, talking to him in a low voice, but heading to the downstairs bathroom off the foyer.

  John set Billy on his feet just inside the closed bathroom door and squatted to talk to him. “Billy, don’t you want to be a big boy?”

  Billy nodded, sniffling through his tears, but calming.

  “Then you have to learn to pee-pee like a big boy.”

  “Daddy a big boy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jamie a big boy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Billy a big boy?”

  John pointed to his son’s diaper. “Big boys don’t wear diapers. Big boys pee-pee in the potty.”

  Billy’s lower lip protruded and the tears welled again. “Billy want to be big boy.”

  John sighed in relief. “Good. If you learn to use the potty, we’ll throw away the diapers and then you’ll be a big boy, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed happily.

  “Okay, so here we go.” John took him by the hand and led him toward the commode and the bright red and blue potty-chair sitting next to it. They’d gone less than a step when Billy froze and began to howl, yanked his hand loose and ran back to press his face against the door.

  “Bad potty,” he cried. “Monster get Billy.”

  “No,” John said soothingly. “Good potty. Watch Daddy.” As John unzipped his pants, he smiled over the age-old fatherson lesson. “See,” he said patiently. “Daddy’s a big boy.”

  “Mean, monster potty,” Billy insisted, grabbing at the doorknob to escape.

  Exasperated, John zipped up, then declared, “I know you have to go after all that cola. Come over here and stand by Daddy.”

  Billy shook his head wildly. “Billy no be big boy.”

  He strode to his son and lifted him, but Billy stiffened and shrieked hysterically when they neared the commode. Finally, John relented and carried him out of the bathroom. They were both exhausted.

  “Claire, why is Billy so scared of that darn potty-chair?”

  She looked up at him from her cross-legged position in front of the television and shrugged her thin shoulders. “He’s difficult.”

  John’s prediction about the combination of caffeine and sugar on his youngest son proved to be hair-raisingly correct. After an hour of chasing, catching and reprimanding, John wearily dropped onto a bright green beanbag chair and watched little Styrofoam balls pop out of the splitting seams. “We need furniture,” he said to the ceiling. A paper airplane sailed over, scant inches from his nose. He blinked, but remained otherwise motionless. Children were like an anesthetic, numbing a parent’s normal reflexes.

  “What are those, Daddy?” Claire asked, pointing to the television.

  John lifted his head and glanced at the screen, then froze. A perky brunette was extolling the virtues of a new and improved tampon design. He watched as the device expanded impressively when dipped into blue water. All moisture left his mouth.

  By his estimation, it would be at least two, maybe three years before Claire would begin her cycle. Isn’t that what Annie had told him once? Oh, God, help me. He cleared his throat. “That’s a…thing, yeah, a thing that…women use…in the bathroom…when they’re, uh…old enough to…have a baby.” Not bad.

  “Oh,” was her only comment. The commercial had ended, and she turned her attention back to the teenage situation comedy she’d been watching.

  He lay his head back and mentally patted himself on the back for handling the matter so smoothly. But he’d call his sister, Cleo, tomorrow and ask her to talk to Claire when they went shopping next weekend, let her know what she could expect to happen over the next few years. His gut tightened at the thought of his little girl maturing, and boys buzzing around her like little bees with big stingers. He groaned and pushed the tormenting thoughts from his mind. He had enough to worry about in the present without heaping on future problems.

  His thoughts skipped around, searching for a more pleasurable resting place, and settled on Jo Montgomery. Despite his insistence to Claire that he wasn’t entertaining thoughts of marrying Jo, he had to admit the idea of wedding and bedding a gorgeous woman who liked his kids held more appeal with each passing millisecond. Smiling, he absorbed her image fully into his mind, remembering their close encounters of the day. If he had kissed her, would she have kissed him back? He puckered involuntarily. Those velvety dark brown eyes, that wonderful dimple, that luxurious mouth.

  Which was probably kissing another man right now.

  John frowned. His dream woman was most likely sharing a romantic dinner with her boyfriend, discussing plans for having their own family someday soon.

  “NO KIDS,” Alan told the maître d’. “Smoking is fine, but no kids.”

  The balding tuxedoed man nodded quickly and consulted his seating chart. He frowned in concentration, then gave the hostess a table number. “Right this way, sir.”

  Jo squashed a twinge of annoyance at Alan’s words as they were led to a table partially hidden by miniature palms and giant ferns. She, too, had had more than one good meal disturbed by rowdy children. She just wished he wouldn’t announce his disdain for kids quite so often and so publicly.

  Alan looked around the table suspiciously, pulled out Jo’s seat for her, then took his own.

  “Don’t you want to check under the tablecloth?” Jo asked, her voice slightly sarcastic.

  Alan grinned, then reached to cover her hand with his. “I don’t want anything or anyone to spoil our dinner.”

  “Tell me about Atlanta,” she said, opening the menu. While he talked about his business in the city, Jo forced herself to concentrate on his words. John’s face kept appearing in her mind and she couldn’t seem to find anything on the pricey menu that looked as good as fried chicken from Houchin’s Deli. A waiter appeared and took their wine and food order, then left them alone. Jo realized she had never felt so uncomfortable around Alan—and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “Oh, sure,” she said, conjuring up a smile. “I guess I’m just preoccupied with the Patterson account.”

  “Baby-sitting, isn’t it?”

  “Day cares,” she corrected. “Twenty-one day cares.”

  “I can’t believe there’s so much
demand for that kind of service,” Alan said, shaking his head. “Why do people have children if they’re not willing to raise them?”

  The waiter arrived with the wine, so Jo bit back her retort. As the pale liquid splashed into their glasses, she gathered her thoughts, but saved her reply until the man had moved out of earshot.

  “Some people have to work, Alan,” she said tightly, lifting her glass to take a sip. “So they have to place their children in day-care centers.” The wine tasted sharp and slightly bitter.

  “If it takes both parents working to make a living, then they shouldn’t have children,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What about single parents?” she pressed.

  He took a long drink, then held up his half-empty glass to inspect the wine, nodding in satisfaction. “With both people working and kids to deal with, too, no wonder the divorce rate is so high.”

  Jo felt her ire rising by the second. “What if one of the parents has passed away and the survivor has no choice but to work to feed his children?”

  “This is starting to sound personal.”

  Jo shrugged and looked away.

  “This new client of yours—Mr. Extra Crispy—is he by chance a widower?”

  Her pulse vaulted, but she tried to sound nonchalant. “As a matter of fact, he is.”

  His expression softened and he nodded congenially. “And you feel sorry for him. That’s understandable.” He stroked the back of her hand, smiling. “I’m just glad we’ll never have to worry about it.”

  Toying with the hem of her linen napkin, Jo spoke quietly. “Alan, just because we don’t want to be parents doesn’t mean you should hold it against other people who do.”

  He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward in a conciliatory manner. “You’re absolutely right—if other people want rug rats underfoot, it’s nothing to me, right? Just as long as they don’t insist on bringing their monsters to nice restaurants.”

  As if on cue, something flew through the wall of ferns and smacked Alan on the temple. In disbelief, he watched a buttered dinner roll bounce onto their table and stop beside the silver candlestick holder. A woman’s big blond head appeared immediately through the same opening. She smiled apologetically, her eyes shining.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. Preston got carried away and threw his bread.” She poked an arm through the foliage and swiped a napkin at the trail of butter on Alan’s head, then grabbed the roll and disappeared with a smile.

  Alan clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes dangerously in the direction of the ferns. “Of all the—”

  The reappearance of the woman’s head cut him off.

  “Tell the man you’re sorry, Preston,” she said in a pleading voice. She held a small boy horizontal by his waist and thrust him into Alan’s face.

  “No!” the boy yelled, and stuck his tongue out, nearly licking Alan’s nose.

  “Say it,” his mother cajoled. “Say you’re sorry and Mommy will buy you a toy on the way home.”

  “I sorry,” the little boy snarled.

  “There,” his mother said brightly. “He’s such a good boy.” And they promptly disappeared again.

  Jo maintained the silence for a full minute as she watched Alan slowly wipe the remains of the greasy mess from his cheek with shaking hands. “That,” he said with venom in his voice, “is a prime example of a parent who doesn’t know the merits of discipline. Imagine, that child will be operating a vehicle one of these days.”

  She tried to keep her eyes down, but her shaking shoulders must have given her away.

  “Josephine,” he said in a shocked voice. “This is not funny.”

  “I’m s-sorry, Alan,” she said, fighting to keep down the giggles. “But if you could have seen the look on your face—” She erupted into laughter, holding her napkin over her mouth to muffle the sound.

  “Oh, and what kind of message are we sending these pintsize terrors when we laugh at their antics?”

  Dabbing at her eyes, Jo said, “Lighten up, Alan, he’s just a little kid.” A movement across the restaurant caught her eye and she glanced over, then froze in horror.

  Melissa and Monroe Patterson were striding toward their table, all smiles.

  6

  JO’S STOMACH somersaulted. She jerked her head over to look at Alan, who was wiping his face so intently, he hadn’t yet noticed the couple.

  “Alan!” she gasped, holding the cloth napkin to her forehead. “I feel faint—please get a pitcher of ice water.”

  He glanced up, frowning with worry. “You’ve never felt faint in your life.”

  “Well, I do now!” she said desperately, lurching forward. “Would you just find the waiter and get me some water?”

  “Okay,” he said, his eyes wide. “I’ll be right back.”

  He had just walked out of earshot when Melissa Patterson glided up to the table. “Ms. Montgomery,” she exclaimed coolly, extending her hand. “What a nice surprise.”

  Jo shot to her feet and yanked a smile from thin air. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson.” Pumping their hands furiously, Jo angled her body to block the couple’s view of Alan’s receding back.

  “We were just leaving,” Mr. Patterson said with a smile, “when Melissa looked over and saw you sitting here.”

  Mrs. Patterson craned her neck to peer around Jo. “I see we just missed your husband, John.”

  Jo nodded emphatically, then changed directions abruptly, shaking her head just as emphatically. “No, that’s just a friend—a friend of mine and John’s, actually,” she said cheerfully. She used the napkin to dab at the perspiration on her forehead. “John is…home with the children, of course.”

  Smiling tightly, Mrs. Patterson said, “I hope you enjoyed the visit this morning—your stepchildren are just so adorable.”

  Jo couldn’t stop nodding. “John’s children are adorable, aren’t they?” Then she cleared her voice, and glanced over her shoulder, alarmed to see Alan returning. She swung back to the Pattersons. “Well,” she said brightly, “don’t let me keep you.”

  “Hello,” Mr. Patterson said to Alan as he walked up and stood next to Jo.

  “Hello,” Alan said politely, extending his free hand, holding a pitcher of ice water in the other. He looked to Jo for an introduction.

  “Oh,” she said, straightening. “Alan, this is Melissa and Monroe Patterson. And this is Alan Parish.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Melissa said, smiling wide. “I hear you’re a friend of John Sterling’s.”

  Alan looked confused. “Well,” he said with a small laugh, “Jo knows him a little better than I do.”

  The Pattersons laughed uproariously, and Jo joined in belatedly, elbowing Alan into a small bewildered smile.

  “Well, we’d better be going,” Mr. Patterson said, and his wife nodded, waving as they walked away. “We’re looking forward to the presentation Monday.”

  Jo slid into her seat and heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I see you recovered,” Alan said, setting the pitcher of water on the table.

  “Not quite,” she mumbled, ignoring the water and downing her glass of wine.

  He sat down. “Did I miss something?”

  “N-no,” Jo stammered, unable to meet his gaze.

  “What’s the connection between the Pattersons and your other client?”

  She opened her mouth and let the words fall out, hoping they would make some sort of sense. “Remember I told you the man has kids? Well, they go to the Pattersons’ day care I visited this morning, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” Alan said, already losing interest.

  But Jo’s anxiety had reached dizzying proportions by the time their entrées arrived. Although her salmon smelled delicious, she did little more than push it around on her plate.

  “Jo,” Alan chided, “you’ve hardly eaten a bite. Are you still feeling ill?”

  “Yes,” she said truthfully, the full weight of her lie wallowing heavily in her stomach.

  “Sho
uld we go?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “My appetite’s gone, that’s all. Enjoy your meal.” It took her a few more minutes to convince Alan they should stay, then, to distract him, she asked him to tell her more about his business trip. With an air of satisfaction, he described the deal he’d arranged with a former competitor, punctuating the details of the final meeting with a flourishing twist of his fork. When he finished, she asked, “Did you get to have any fun?”

  He shrugged. “A couple of dinner shows that were pretty good.”

  “Were you able to find the watch you were looking for?”

  Alan shook his head and smiled, a beautiful picture of curvy lips and straight, white teeth. “No, but I did find something for you today.”

  Her heart blipped. They’d often joked about looking for a ring, but surely he hadn’t bought one—not today. “S-something for me?”

  He grinned. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but you know I can’t keep surprises. I left it in the car—I can’t wait to give it to you.”

  “What is it?” she asked, smiling tremulously and raising her refilled wineglass for another deep sip.

  Alan tilted his head and gave her a sly smile. “Let’s just say it’s something you’ve needed for a long time, something we’ve both been putting off. I bought one to match for myself.”

  She inhaled sharply, choking on the wine sliding down her throat. Collapsing into a seizure of coughing and sputtering, she quaked in her chair, aided in no way by the backslapping, arm-jerking actions of Alan and a nervous waiter. When she’d finally regained composure, Jo asked again, “What did you buy?”

  But he only shook his head. “Let’s wait until I take you home, I’ve already given away too much.”

  Jo sweated through dessert, and fretted through cappuccino. By the time they pulled into the driveway of her duplex, she was nauseous with dread.

  “Go on in,” Alan encouraged with an engaging grin. “I’ll get the surprise.”

  The few steps into her living room seemed like her last, taking her to the pit of doom. Jo’s head spun. What was she going to tell him when he gave her the ring? Her mother’s face popped into her head. “Tell him yes, Josephine, what else?” Then Hattie’s face appeared, her finger wagging. “Is he the man who floats your goat?” Then John Sterling’s face appeared. “Either you’re being untruthful, or the man’s an idiot.”