The Great Baby Caper (25 page)

“What do you suggest?”

He gazed at her with longing. “If
only you’d come back with me to London.”

Courtney shook her head. “You mean
give up my life here, my dreams and ambitions, make all the sacrifices myself.”

“But Courtney, you’re going to
become a mother.”

“No kidding,” she replied. “And you’re
going to become a father. I intend this to be an equal opportunity marriage.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, why don’t you give up
your businesses, settle here, become an American citizen, and take care of our
child while I work?”

“Courtney, that’s totally
unrealistic.”

“And it’s realistic to ask me to
make the same concessions?”

He fell silent.

“I suppose we could try both,” she
suggested after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we could split our lives
between here and London.”

“And shuttle a small child back
and forth?”

She gave a groan. “Okay, it’s not
a perfect solution. I’m only trying to offer options.”

He reached out, took her hand, and
braved a smile. “Truth to tell, I suppose we’ll both get a taste of a
bi-continental marriage in coming months, since I will have to travel to London much more often. Will you come with me?”

“I’ll try to, when I can,” she
replied as gently as possible. “With all that’s going on at corporate, it won’t
be easy.”

He scowled. “Courtney, are you
sure—”

“Sure about what?”

“Sure you’re being forthright
about your feelings?”

“What does that mean?”

“I still say you won’t give on
this because deep down, you’re still angry at me—and especially at my
grandfather.”

Courtney took a long moment to
steady herself. “Mark, you still don’t get it. Yes, I was angry at you for a
while, but I’m pretty much over that. We have a child coming, a lot to
consider. We need to be grownups about this. But to me, the real issue in our
marriage is that I’m the only one being asked to do the giving, to make the
sacrifices. I don’t see you offering to radically change your life as you seem
to expect from me.”

“Is it that simple?” he countered.
“What about your feelings toward my grandfather?”

She gave a sigh. “Yes, I suppose
I’m still angry at him, but that has no bearing on our problems.”

“Doesn’t it? Then answer me this:
If Grandfather’s behavior has no bearing on our problems, then why are you
still working for him?”

Flustered, she replied, “To
further my career.”

“And not to gain revenge, to win
against him?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Then I still don’t think you’re
being honest.”

“Funny, I was about to say the
same thing about you.”

They stared at each other with
tension and mistrust, then he said sadly, “Frankly, Courtney, this is why I’ve
avoided this discussion. We seem to be at an impasse, which hardly encourages
me regarding our future together.”

Hearing the pain in his voice,
Courtney was filled with regret, with compassion for him and concern for their
marriage. “Mark, I think you’re forgetting something. In many ways, we’re still
strangers.”

“Are we?” His gaze infinitely sad,
he reached out and touched her face. “Well, this stranger loves you.”

Feeling equally torn, she
whispered back, “How can you be so sure?”

“You don’t believe me,” he accused
bitterly.

“Mark, I want to,” she said
miserably. “But the truth is, you can’t really love someone until you get to
know them and share yourself on the deepest level.”

“We’ve shared.”

“In bed we have. But you haven’t
really revealed your deepest thoughts and feelings—about losing your parents,
even about why you pursued me in the first place.”

“I don’t think I know what you
mean.”

“Then we’ll need to revisit this
subject some more, won’t we?”

Staring at his anguished face, Courtney
wished she could somehow magically make things right, but she couldn’t. They
seemed perfect together in bed, but otherwise their goals and ambitions were so
different, their conflicting lives so difficult to mesh. Could there be a
meeting ground for them?

Back
to Contents

“Mrs. Billingham, we have a major
problem here,” exclaimed the frantic female manager at the east Denver store.

On Monday afternoon, sitting at
her desk with the phone at her ear, Courtney sighed. “Can you elaborate,
please?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see
this to believe it.”

Courtney gave a dry laugh. “That’s
what everyone else has said. But I can’t just hop all over the place in a
hovercraft, you know.”

“Well, I’ve got videotape, and
believe me, you’ve got to
see
this to—”

“Okay, then,” Courtney interrupted
wearily. “Why don’t I just come over there?”

“Oh, would you?”

Courtney rolled her eyes. “I’m on
my way.”

Hanging up, Courtney hesitated a
moment, then dialed Mark’s cell number. He answered tensely. “Yes?”

“Are you busy?”

At once his tone softened. “Hi,
darling. I’m on a conference call with three of my key staff in London, but it can wait.”

“Oh, never mind, then.”

“Courtney, tell me what’s up.”

“Well, there’s a problem at the
east Denver store, and I’m on my way there now.”

“Give me their address and I’ll
meet you.”

“But your call—”

“It can wait, Courtney.”

She gave him directions, feeling
grateful that he was willing to drop everything for her.

Twenty minutes later she walked up
to the store in the strip mall to find a “closed” sign posted. After she
knocked, the young female manager, Nickie Keenig, let her in, greeting her with
a nervous smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mrs. Billingham.”

“Thanks, Nickie.” Courtney stepped
inside, only to gasp at the sight of the store. It was a complete shambles.
Racks had been overturned, merchandise pulled off shelves, packages of toys
ripped open and their contents scattered everywhere.

“What happened?” she cried.

“As I said, you’ll have to—”

“Right.
See
it to believe
it.”

“The security tape is in my
office.”

The two women were heading away
when a British-accented voice called out, “Great Scot, what in the name of
Bedlam is going on here?”

Both women turned to the doorway,
and Courtney smiled at the sight of Mark, looking very dapper in his beige,
long-sleeved shirt and brown slacks. She realized she felt really buoyed that
he had come to join her. “Mark, come on in. This is the store manager, Nickie
Keenig. Nickie, meet my husband, Mark.”

Nickie grinned and extended her
hand. “So pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, Ms. Keenig,” he said,
shaking her hand.

“Nickie and I were about to go
view the video of this newest catastrophe,” Courtney went on. “Want to join
us?”

“Indeed.”

The three hurried to the back
room, where Nickie ran the video on a small TV screen. Black and white
surveillance footage floated by, at first revealing a store operating normally,
with a few mothers shopping, some with small children.

“That’s shortly after we opened
this morning,” Nickie explained. “Then this.”

Nickie fast-forwarded the tape,
then started up again at a point where, amazingly, ten small children of
various shapes and sizes ran screaming into the store, followed by two adult
women. The youngsters wore matching T-shirts, caps, and shorts, the women
casual summer dresses. Courtney noted that the children’s’ T-shirts sported
writing on the fronts and backs, but she couldn’t actually make out any words.
Several of the kids carried foam rubber bats and balls; all created an
incredible racket, shouting or howling Indian yells as they stormed the store,
sending customers fleeing in their wake.

Courtney watched flabbergasted as
the group went to work. Several began swinging bats at each other; four others
threw themselves down on the floor and staged temper tantrums, their little
arms and legs thrashing wildly, while the rest of the crew began pillaging
shelves and dumping over racks. Nickie and several store clerks tried to
intervene, racing about and waving their arms, to no avail. Soon horrified
customers fled the store with their own children. Meanwhile, the adults
directing the small troupe kept applauding, cheering, and otherwise egging on
the children.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this!”
Courtney exclaimed. “Who are these people, and what is written on the
children’s T-shirts?”

“They’re the Brat Brigade,” Nickie
explained.

“The
What
Brigade?”

“Brat Brigade.” Nickie motioned at
the screen. “If you’ll look there, you’ll see me confronting the adults, and
one of the women waving papers in my face.”

“What papers?”

“She claimed they’re a theatrical
troupe, and they were paid by corporate to stage a performance at this store.”

“You’re joking,” interjected Mark,
who appeared every bit as baffled as Courtney.

“That’s what I told the woman, not
to mention I threatened to call security.” Again Nickie motioned at the screen.
“As you can see, that’s when both women gathered up the kids and left. One of
them even had the audacity to scold me for having my facts wrong, while the
other one bragged that they had two more stores to visit this morning, anyway.”

“Two more stores?” cried Mark and
Courtney in unison.

Before Nickie could respond, her
desk phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Oh, hi, Roger. Heavens, you
say they’re
there
now? Well, I have Mrs. Billingham here with her
husband, and I’ll tell them.” Lowering the receiver, Nickie said, “Its Roger
Cambridge. The troupe is at the south Denver store now. And there’s a news crew
there filming them, too.”

“A news crew?” cried Courtney,
aghast. “Tell Roger to detain them all, and we’ll be right there.”

“You got it.”

Courtney and Mark rushed out of
the store and into the parking lot. “My car okay?” he asked Courtney, taking
her arm.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Do you have any idea who might
have done this?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

Mark quickly drove them to their
next stop. When the two stepped inside the south Denver store, it was only to
find it in a similar state of disarray, with only a stunned-looking Roger
Cambridge present; the poor man stood helplessly surveying the carnage.
Courtney introduced Mark to Roger, then asked him where everyone had gone.

Roger sadly shook his head. “I’m
sorry, Courtney. Nickie passed on your order to detain everyone, but I’m afraid
I couldn’t convince that troupe of hellions, their handlers, or the news
people, to stick around.”

“That’s okay, Roger. I’m sure you
tried.”

“Do you have security footage?”
Mark asked.

Roger nodded. “This way.”

He took them to his office and
showed them the security video of the troupe creating general chaos, this time
with reporters and cameramen covering the calamity from every angle.

Courtney shook her head. “Any idea
who alerted that news crew?”

“I think one of the women leaders
said she had,” replied Roger.

“But why would they do any of
this?” exclaimed Mark.

“Both women claimed they’d been
hired by corporate,” replied Roger with a skeptical air. “But they left before
I could verify anything.”

“Any idea where they went?”
Courtney asked.

“Well, I heard one of the leaders
mention the Pueblo store.”

Mark and Courtney looked at each
other and simultaneously cried, “Let’s go!”

While Mark drove them toward Pueblo, Courtney called the office to alert her entire staff about the new assaults. She
also spoke with Janis Jacobs, asking her to run interference with the local
news channels, to try to convince them not to run the piece they’d filmed at
the south Denver store, even though Courtney realized their chances there were
slim to none.

An hour later when she and Mark
rushed through the doors to the Pueblo store, they at last caught the troupe in
the act! Stopping in her tracks with Mark, Courtney spotted several children in
“Brat Brigade” T-shirts running around howling like banshees, while others were
busy rifling merchandise and dumping over racks. A three-year-old boy was using
a crib mattress as a trampoline, squealing gleefully as he bounced up and down,
while an older girl broke new speed records, careening past Mark and Courtney,
pushing a baby carriage crammed full of three screeching toddlers. There were
no customers to be seen, and the young assistant manager, Chris Whitman, was
chasing several of the termagants, waving his arms. Off to the side Courtney
recognized the two women leaders of the troupe whom they had seen in the
videos; again, both were playing the role of cheerleader, urging on the rowdy
bunch with bravos and applause.

Even as Courtney and Mark stared
flabbergasted at the scene, he was hit in the head by a foam rubber ball. At
once he stuffed two fingers in his mouth and whistled, loudly. “Hey, you little
hooligans, I’ve got an expectant mother here!” he shouted in a voice that
brooked no nonsense.

All of the children froze in their
tracks to stare at Mark. Courtney shot him a chiding look for blurting out news
of her pregnancy, though under the circumstances, she couldn’t really blame
him.

Chris Whitman rushed toward
Courtney. “Mrs. Billingham, wow, I’m so glad you’re here! As you can see we’ve
been invaded, and, er . . .” Abruptly he broke into a boyish grin. “Are you
expecting?”

“Never mind that,” Courtney
responded primly. “What’s going on here, Chris?”

“Ma’am, I wish I knew,” he
answered.

Meanwhile the two women, both
sporting frowns, marched toward Mark and Courtney. Courtney noted that one was
middle-aged, plump, and wore glasses; the other was younger, dark-haired, and
sharp-featured. The children, still appearing subdued from Mark’s scolding,
began to gather behind their leaders.

“Is there a problem?” the younger
woman asked Courtney.

“Darn right there’s a problem,”
Courtney answered. “I’m Courtney Billingham, CEO of Bootle’s Baby Bower. What
on earth do you people think you’re doing, terrorizing three of our stores this
way?”

“Terrorizing?” gasped the woman.
“Why, I’ll have you know we’re a perfectly legitimate theatrical troupe,
organized by Ms. Lucille Deaton here, a prominent psychotherapist.” She pointed
to her middle-aged companion.

The other woman spoke up archly.
“I’m Ms. Deaton, and as to your absurd accusations, I happen to believe that
children who act out their hostilities in a safe environment are more
emotionally healthy overall. That’s why May and I organized The Brat Brigade to
give our youngsters an opportunity to work out their anger and aggression. We
perform at birthday parties and other celebrations.” She paused to grin
proudly. “As a matter of fact, other children just love watching The Brats
perform. It makes them feel empowered.”

Mark gestured angrily at an
overturned rack. “How empowered would these youngsters feel if one of these
falling
props
gave him or her a concussion?”

Ms. Deaton had the grace to appear
embarrassed.

Courtney gave Mark a grateful
look. “That’s right, this is anything but a safe environment for allowing young
children to run rampant—and I’m sure you’ll be the first to sue us if any of
you have an accident. And you still haven’t explained what you are doing here.
You have no right whatsoever to ransack our stores, disrupt our trade, and scare
off our customers this way—not to mention putting your children and many others
at risk.”

The woman named May gasped in
dismay. “But we were hired by your corporate special promotions coordinator.”

“You were
not
,” Courtney
replied.

“Well, I never!” Expression
outraged, May dug in her bag and pulled out some folded papers. “I have here
written authorization from your corporate offices. We received that along with
the legal release we demanded—and a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars
to cover our services this morning.”

“
Five thousand dollars
?”
cried Mark.

Lucille Deaton drew herself up
with pride. “You heard May correctly, sir. The Brats may be obnoxious, but they
don’t come cheap.”

“My God,” Mark muttered,
scratching his head.

“This whole thing is ridiculous,”
declared Courtney. “Let me see those papers.”

“Of course.” May handed them over.

Courtney quickly perused the
documents and voiced her thoughts aloud. “Geez, these are both printed on our
company letterhead, meaning they must have been forged—”

“
Forged
?” cried Ms. Deaton.

“Yes, forged, by someone with
access to our offices. Let me see, the first is from Anna Edsel, Corporate
Promotions Coordinator.” She glanced at May. “There’s no such person working
for us. How did she contact you?”

“Ms. Edsel telephoned us,” May
replied, “making all the necessary arrangements. Then she messengered over the
letters you hold, along with our payment.”

Courtney was still staring stunned
at the first letter, and began reading parts aloud. “‘As agreed via telephone,
you are hereby authorized to perform at the three stores designated . . . Your
payment is enclosed, along with the required legal release . . .” Quickly she
turned to the second document. “You are hereby released from any and all
liability that may result as a consequence of your performances . . .
Sincerely, Thomas Cheatham, Chief Legal Officer, Bootle’s Baby Bower.” She
glanced up. “He doesn’t work for us, either. Didn’t the ‘Cheatham’ tip you off
at all?”

“No, not at all,” answered May.
“May I have the papers back?” She smiled nastily. “Just in case we face legal
action from you nice folks.”

Courtney hesitated. “May I make a
copy first?” As May would have protested, she added, “Please don’t worry, we’re
not going to sue you. We’re a baby products company, after all.”