Under Contract (The GEG Series) (21 page)

We dash! Well, I dash ... she rolls. We weave in and around people. “Sorry!” I say as I turn my head to a gentleman after having almost knocked his plated pretzel from his hand. I turn back, just in time to barely swerve around a lady with an oxygen tank. She’s not happy with me. I got that much from all the words she spewed at me. Well, my foot
did
get caught in her tubing and—not being able to stop—I
did
yank her nasal cannula off her face.

This is one of those moments in life that requires slow-motion instant replay—I look that ri-goddamn-diculous!

It’s worth it, though, to beat Agnes. Gram declares victory by raising her right fist and slapping her bicep with her hand.
Gotta love Gram!

“So, what’s the plan?” I huff as I collapse into my seat.

“First stage of the plan,” she says, spreading out bingo packets, “is we play bingo.”

I stare at her blankly.

Blink ... blink, blink.

“Brilliant ... that’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?” She’s fucking senile!
What the hell am I doing here?

She taps my arm and gives me an encouraging smile. “First bingo ... then seed,” she signs.

“Okay, Mrs. Miyagi.” I sign, then bow. She stares at me, thoroughly trying to understand what I said. I roll my eyes and stand up. I turn to her and perform the famous crane kick to perfection. Gram stares at me as if I’m bat-shit crazy. I must be—I just channeled CiCi. I notice the awkward silence around us and look up to find I’m the cause of it.

“Spasm,” I mumble as I sit. Most nod, and some yell out their ailments to me like it’s a competition.

Thankfully, the bingo caller comes over the speakers. His voice is loud and words incoherent. The sea of Q-tip heads hang on to every incoherent word like their lives depend on it. This must be the geriatric version of
Survivor
.

Charley, stop! You love old people. You love their Q-tip heads. You love bingo! You just don’t love the situation you’re in right now.
When I’m right—I’m right. Pure frustration.
Sorry sweet, elderly people, with all of your ailments that I’d prefer to not repeat, I’m done taking it out on you.
Except you, squeaky walker lady! That shit was squeaking three weeks ago! Take your winnings and buy some damn WD-40 already! Okay ... now I’m done.

“O 69!”

Oh ... 69. Mmm ... Mitch ...

I smack my head.

“B 4!”

Yes, before Kitty starts aching.

“Hit the concessions,” she signs after tapping my arm.

“But ...” I say, trailing off. “The last game isn’t done yet.” She shakes her head and shoos me away with a wave of her hand.

“You’re so bossy!” I tell her before giving a disgruntled sigh she won’t hear. She winks.

Sometimes, it’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other for five weeks. I feel like she’s always been a part of my life. You know that feeling you get when you meet somebody for the first time, but they’re so familiar to you? I had that feeling with Mitch, too.
Mitch.
I choke back my tears. Oh, how I miss him. How I want to rip his ball sack off and throw it to Loxy and Vader to play with!

If I can’t resolve this with him somehow, I’m taking myself off the market for good. He’s ruined other men for me anyway! Besides that, I’m pretty content with my track record of having two men abandon me in one year, through no fault of my own. I don’t think three will be a charm in this specific case. No, I’m done. I’m going to spend my free time finding Jesus.
Mitch helped you find Jesus.
Jesus Christ, inner Charlotte ... shut up!
See?!
That was a different Jesus! That was sex Jesus. That was orgasm Jesus. That was “pray for my vagina to make it through another night with him” Jesus!
Jesus, that was good!
Hail Mary, sister!
Amen.
I do the sign of the cross.

Within ten minutes I head back to Gram, silently thanking her for shooing me out ahead of the crowd. The stampede is both impressive and brutal. I crouch down beside her as she’s fixing her tablet to go in her stand. As I unwrap her pie and place it in front of her, I hear a gasp. I look at Gram and she’s flipping someone off. I follow the path of her eyes and my breath hitches.

Mitch.

He’s angrily staring at her through the tablet. His eyes dart to me and I watch them soften, looking ... remorseful.

We stare at each other in silence for what seems like an hour. I half expect tumbleweeds to roll between the tablet and me.

Sensing he will do something cowardly, like ending the Skype call, I speak up.

“You need to apologize to Brogan for being a complete fucking asshole. He didn’t ask you to be a part of his life. You bonded with him. You made him feel important, like he mattered. Unlike his father. You took this poor, innocent kid, built him up, and then shattered him. No explanation, nothing. You just tossed him aside, like he didn’t matter to you. He didn’t do anything wrong. Oh, wait—he trusted you. Big mistake, huh?” I ask, my voice dripping with condescension. I do nothing to push my tears away. I’m just glad for the ability to articulate my words.

Mitch’s eyes are so sad, and they look tormented—
good
! “He deserves an apology, Mitch,” I reiterate. “If you could stop being a selfish prick for one minute to call him, I’d appreciate it greatly!”

“Baby—”

I cut him off. “No! You don’t get to call me that!”

He nods, a defeated look on his face. He leans forward and ends the call.

I exhale and gasp.

I look at Gram. She’s grinning ear to ear. “That went well,” she signs and taps my hand.

“You. Are. Crazy!” I sign dramatically.

“I’m a gardener who planted a seed. Now watch it grow, dear.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Out of sight—out of mind? Not exactly true for him, but it has helped. He needed to see you, to see your eyes. He needed to remember what—who—he is pushing away. He loves you. It was all over his face when he saw you. Now for phase two.” She rubs her palms together.

“What’s phase two?”

“The second half of bingo. Sit. They’re getting ready.” She points to my seat.

She must be senile!

My eyes shoot open. I’m not sure why. I glance at my alarm clock. Six a.m. glares at me in all its green glory. The doorbell rings. Ah, that’s what woke me up! I jump out of bed and make a mad dash out of my room and down the stairs. There are only two reasons somebody would ring the doorbell to a house with small children at this hour: an emergency, or that person has a death wish.

I shush the dogs and jerk the door open.

“Stop!” I push her hand down just before she touches the bell again.

“I’m so sorry, Charlotte,” she says quickly. “I assumed everyone was up, since I was told to arrive at this time.” I can tell she feels bad. I just don’t know who the hell this woman is.

“I’m sorry, who are you and who told you to arrive at this time?” I ask her flippantly, which I don’t mean to do, but I am
not
a morning person.

“I’m Pauline. Maggie’s daughter. Mitch hired me to nanny for you,” she says slowly, as if trying to spark some recollection of this plan.

“Mitch? He hired you? When?” I’m so confused. It’s only been two days since our cyber stare down.

“Um ... yesterday.” She tightens the grip on her purse strap. “He told me you’ve had a difficult time finding the right person. The family I was working for just relocated, so it’s perfect timing.” She smiles, but there is a flicker of hesitation in it. “Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“Did Mitch not tell you I was coming today, or at all? Have you found a replacement? Do you want me to leave?” She turns her shoulder to head back down the stairs.

“No, no, and most definitely no!” I widen my eyes, shake my head, and smirk. “I’m sorry, Pauline, I’m not at my best this early in the morning. Please come in.” I stand back and finally act like I grew up with some manners.

“You sure?”

“Oh yes, please!” I give her my warmest smile. She lets out a sigh of relief and a nervous chuckle. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask as I head toward the kitchen.

“Love some,” she says, following me.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, pointing to the table in the kitchen nook. She sits. “Feel like an omelet?” I ask, probably with too much excitement. Pauline laughs. “What?” I ask as I ready the coffeemaker.

“Mitch said you would try to feed me the moment I walked through the door. He said it was your ‘thing’ and that you’re good at it, so I should just let you.”

“He said all that?”

“Oh, he said a lot of things about you and the kids.” She waves her hand. “Just about talked my ear off last night.” She unzips her purse, shaking her head.

“What sort of things?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can while starting breakfast.

“Hold on.” She shuffles through her purse. “Most of it was notes for me to write down.” She pulls out a notepad. “He gave me your schedule for the week, but told me to double-check with you for any changes.” She looks up at me. “What?”

“Uh ... nothing,” I say and start moving about the kitchen again.

“Oh, that reminds me!” she says quickly. “Mitch booked you a spa day today since Friday is your slow day. You need to be there by nine sharp.” She smiles. I work diligently at the eggs while holding back my tears.

“He told me all about Bennett’s disorders. Vest ... vestibular processing disorder and proprioceptive disorder. He gave me the names of all his therapists at the school and Easter Seals. Gave me the links to several really good websites that explain what he’s going through and how to help him.”

“Pauline?” I stop her successfully, unlike my tears.

“Charlotte? Are you okay?” she asks when she looks up.

“He, um ... he gave you all of that information?” I blow my nose.

“Well, yes.” She looks at me strangely.

The man I met only six weeks ago, only spent three days with in person and spoke with for three weeks via technology, the same man who hasn’t uttered one word to me via any method in two weeks besides calling me “baby” the other night, has told this woman everything about my son as if he were his. If it were the million-dollar question on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
—Josh would’ve lost.

I wipe my tears. “What else?”

“Uh ... he gave me Brogan’s baseball schedule and asked me to have him read to me every day, even if it’s just one chapter. I guess they just finished the first
Harry Potter
a couple of weeks ago.”

“Wait, Broge read to Mitch every night they Skyped?” I knew they spoke every night for an hour or so, but I thought they were just discussing baseball and video games.

“Yes. He said it’s the area he’s been struggling in at school. Brogan reads him a chapter or two and then they discuss it to check his comprehension.” She looks back down to read more from her notes. I stare, dumbfounded, until the popping sound from the bacon pulls me back to the stove.

I get lost in the rhythm of clanking pans and dishes, coffee percolating, et cetera. Pauline just becomes background noise. I really don’t know what to make of all of this.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so head over heels.” She laughs.
That
I heard. “Poor Isaiah.” She shakes her head as I bring her coffee. “I was so grumpy toward him last night after listening to Mitch going on and on about you.”

“Isaiah?”

“My husband. Thank you.” She grabs the mug.

“Do you have any children?” I ask, heading back to the counter for our omelets.

“Twin boys—Cale and Colton. They’re three.” Her eyes twinkle at the thought of them.

“Colton?”

“Yes, in honor of the Colton family. They have always been good to us. Cale is named after Isaiah’s father.”

“That’s so nice, Pauline. I’m sure it means a lot to Gram and Mitch. Where are the boys now?”

“Home. My husband will drop them off at daycare.” She sips her coffee.

“Wait.” I place her plate in front of her. “You’re putting your own children in daycare to spend the whole day with mine?”

“Well, I have to work, Charlotte, or I’d be home with them.” She’s more sad than defensive.