Yours, Mine & Ours (4 page)

She couldn't seem to escape the store that fast, though. She just seemed to need so much
stuff.
The weight kept adding up, for the bricks, the mulch, the stone. And once she hooked on to one of the store's employees, she asked for his help picking out a lawn mower. All the bulky and heavy stuff had to be delivered; there was just no way she could get it in and out of her car.

By the time she edged into the checkout line, her cart was full, and she was daydreaming about some lunch and a nap. As she reached down for her purse, though, she noticed something odd. The items she'd chosen had somehow changed. Somehow, the pink gardening gloves she'd chosen had metamorphosed into a heavier, ugly gray pair. The pretty little spade she'd picked out had turned into a set of gardening tools with sturdy steel handles. Instead of one shovel, there was now both a pointy shovel and a flat blade, neither particularly huge, but definitely sturdier than what she'd originally picked up.

For a second, she thought she had the wrong cart, but there were so many other things that she
recognized—like the matching dishtowels and the porcelain drawer pulls and the shoe organizers and the picture-hanger doohickeys. She glanced behind her, around her. Mike was nowhere in sight. He'd undoubtedly long finished his shopping before she did.

But he was the only soul in the universe—at least, that she could imagine—who would have done this to her.

He couldn't keep pulling this white-knight thing on her.

This time, there would have to be serious payback.

 

Mike should have known that putting in the new faucet would turn into a federal project. Bad plumbing always led to more bad plumbing, even in a new place. Conceivably, the work was hampered by his being a
lot
better lawyer than he was a handyman. And by the dog, who wanted to sleep on his foot while he was lying on his back under the kitchen sink. And by Cat, who crawled up his leg and sat purring on his damned stomach while he was trying to wrench in the new connection.

Several phone calls interrupted him, adding more complications to the sweat-fest chore. The first call, he jumped for—hit his head, then his elbow. But it was Teddy. “Hey, Dad. Grandma said to tell you I'm being good and she wants me to stay overnight.”

Mike could hear the tiny wobble in his son's voice. Teddy wasn't comfortable, being away from him at night. At least for now. “Not overnight, sport. I want you home. But if grandma wants you to stay for dinner, you can.”

His son ran off, then called back three minutes later. “Okay. I'm having dinner here. Grandma says do you want to come?”

“Tell her no, thank you. But call me again if you'll be later than 7:30 p.m., okay?”

“Yeah. Grandma says she's gonna get me my own cell phone.”

“No, she's not…” Mike shook his head. The connection was severed. There were possibly going to be a few complications, living this close to grandparents. Four years old? A cell phone? Not.

The other two calls he let go to the answering machine. Working with water and grease and heat under the sink was a whole lot more fun than talking to his ex. Nancy wanted to arrange a time to be with Teddy.

He'd call her back.

When he got around to it.

Even hearing her voice put a snarl in his mood. He was long over Nancy, but still testy on some of the divorce details. He was working on moving on, getting past it, all those stupid slogan words that divorced people used. But it was one thing to have a failed marriage…another to have your marriage end
because your wife took off with a germ-freak nerd who couldn't weigh more than one hundred and fifty pounds.

That she could desire such a jerk was part of what festered. Even if the marriage had long lost its luster before the divorce, Mike never had any reason to doubt his ex was happy in bed. It wasn't losing her that hurt. It was losing her to such a ninny. His sexual pride still felt stomped on by a bulldozer.

Anyway. He'd had enough of chores by four o'clock. He showered, put on old shorts and his Harvard tee—his favorite, as exhibited by the frayed neck and holes—called the hound and aimed for the deck. Teddy wouldn't be home for a couple of hours. He figured a half hour of slouch time in the shade was just what the doctor ordered.

He opened the door to the deck—and almost tripped over a twelve pack of beer. Cold beer. Dripping, sweating cold. A fancy longneck brand. Bottles.

It was enough to make a warrior weep. Since he only hit a grocery store when he was desperate—those places were terrifying—he hadn't picked up beer or any other side goodies. He glanced around for a note, but he already knew who'd done this to him—even before he turned his head.

One glance was all it took to identify the slim, bare foot perched on the white lawn chair next door.

Her deck was smaller than his, with a lattice
privacy half wall—which was why he couldn't see the rest of her body. But he could see the foot. And the curve of her white calf.

The Sissy Dog was snoozing on her lap, but as if sensing testosterone in the air, she jumped to the ground and sat at the edge of the deck. Slugger was too tired to move—his position on life, twenty-three hours out of twenty-four—but his tail started wagging like a metronome.

Mike ignored the critters. He could hear Amanda talking on a cell phone, even if he couldn't see it. He opened a beer. He didn't want or mean to listen. He just figured he'd hang for a few moments so he could thank her once she finished her call. Except, she kept talking.

“Mom. Come on now. You know I love you, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm just asking you not to call her princess… Yes, I
know
the kitten's name is Princess, but that's entirely different—Molly named her, and I couldn't talk her out of it. Mom…”

The foot lifted. Disappeared from sight. He heard the clunk of a glass, as if she'd poured something and then set the glass down on a metal surface.

“I
know
you called me princess. And you were a wonderful mom. The best. Dad was a wonderful dad. The best. But you two spoiled me rotten. I really want to raise Molly more independent than I was. I don't want her expecting…”

The foot showed up moments later with sex-red color on some of the toes. So. She was drinking, talking to her mother and repainting her toenails all at the same time. Obviously she came from the estrogen side of the species.

“…I didn't mean that, Mom. I'm just saying…I don't have skills. Skills I need. Skills I want. I don't know how to mow a lawn. How to shampoo a carpet. How to do anything
practical.
I knew how to behave at a cotillion, a country-club dance, a symphony. But I never saw Thom coming. He bamboozled me. I should have been too old to be bamboozled. He was cheating right in front of my eyes, and I never noticed the clues.
Mom
. I
know
I'm not stupid. But just because I was smart in school doesn't mean anything now. I need to be smart in life, and I'm a dimwit!”

The left foot was done, raised to be examined, then the right foot was started on. She was drinking wine, he identified, when a bottle showed up on the deck floor.

“No, no. I
love
how you raised me. I had the most wonderful childhood a girl could have. I'm just saying that times are a little different. I want Molly to be more self-reliant. To not expect a prince to rescue her, or to think she
needs
a prince to be happy. I want her to be able to rescue herself. No, no, I swear, I didn't mean it that way…
Mom
…all right! All right! I give up! You can pay for the riding lessons! But no buying her a horse! And I mean it!”

It seemed possible the phone call rather abruptly ended, because there was suddenly a series of muttered swear words from the other side of the lattice, all said in a tone of utter exhaustion. He finally had a chance to speak and he took it.

“Hey. Thanks for the beer.”

There was a moment of total silence, and then a face showed up from the other side of the lattice. She wasn't completely naked, contrary to what his imagination had tried to lead him to believe. Her T-shirt read
Duke.
Maybe it was hers, maybe an old boyfriend's, but whichever, it was even older than his, more frayed, more holey. He gained respect for her right then and there. Of course, he also noticed the shortest shorts he'd ever seen. My God, she might be a redhead, but she did have a set of legs. En route, he did happen to glimpse she was shooting fire from her eyes.

“Were you
listening
to that conversation?”

“Me? I don't know what you mean. I just walked out on the deck a second ago, saw the beer, couldn't imagine anyone who would have left it but you. Appreciate it. Want one?”

“No, of course not. I… Yes.”

He was going to have to rename her the whirling dervish. She put the Sissy Dog inside, grabbed her icer and wine bottle, her wineglass, and zipped down the steps and into his yard faster than he could retract the offer.

Slugger took one look and rolled on his back, assuming she'd want to pet him. She did. Then poured another glass of wine for herself. “I started with wine, so I don't want to mix it with beer, but I'm more than up for sharing a drink.” She took the chair across from him—another Adirondack chair, nothing fancy. Her Duke T-shirt was so oversized that when she bent down again to rub Slugger's tummy, he could see the tips of a lace bra. The view suggested that there was a lot more bra than boob in there. The red toenails shined like Chinese lacquer. Her hair was swooped up, all messy, all wild, held off her neck with some clips.

It was hard to define why he liked the whole package. But he did.

A lot.

“What do you think?” She motioned to the space between their houses. “Do we need a fence? Because of the dogs and kids and all? I like the open space between the properties…but I don't know. A fence still seems like a good idea. At least if you think so. The point is that we should agree on the nature of fence, don't you think? And just for the record, I know perfectly well that it was you who sneaked the tools in my cart this morning.”

He was having trouble following her fast changes in subject. Particularly when his attention was so zealously focused on her bare legs and inadequate neckline. “There was no point in your throwing away
money on tools that weren't going to hold up. As far as I could tell, you weren't worried about price. You were just choosing stuff that had pink handles.”

“Well, yes.”

He wiped a hand over his face. No point in discussing that any further. “If you want a fence between the yards, naturally, I'll spring for my half.”

“I'm not trying to be difficult. It was just an idea. If we both wanted a fence…I just didn't want to act unilaterally. For one thing, there are all kinds and types of fences—”

“I get it. You're not being difficult.” She was. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure why they were talking about fences, either, except for the obvious reason. They wanted protection from each other.

“I've just had a really long day.”

He thought she was trying to explain why she was being difficult again, but then he heard the old song “I Will Survive,” and realized it was her designated cell-phone ring. She lifted a hand and, apologizing to him, said, “This'll be short, but I really need to take it.”

“No sweat.” He took another pull on his beer, put his bare feet on the deck rail and let his head fall back. In two seconds, he realized the caller was her ex-husband.

“I wasn't ducking your calls, Thom. We were busy with the move this week.” And then, “I think it's a little ridiculous that you're pushing for equal custody
when you couldn't even make the last two visitations. This isn't about Molly, and you know it. You just want the child support cut. It's not as if you can't afford it, for heaven's sake—”

She bounced up from the chair, turned her back—as if turning around would make it harder for Mike to hear her. Not.

“I'm not listening to yelling, Thom. Not now. Not ever. I expect you to pick her up on Saturday at noon. Have her back here by seven. I have nothing else to say.”

Once she snapped the phone closed, she whirled around, her smile brighter than glass. “I'd turn off the cell phone but I can't. There could always be a call related to Molly.”

“Same problem here. I can duck calls with the answering machine, but I don't want Teddy to have any problem getting hold of me.” He felt a sudden restlessness. The kind of thing he felt when he was about to do something he shouldn't. She sashayed back to the chair, crossed her legs, all her movements classy and elegant—not a put-on, just apparently how she always was. The call from her ex should have been another turnoff. She was complicated, and so was her life and problems. Every encounter he'd had with her so far indicated she was high-maintenance, trouble, no one and nothing that he could possibly want in his life.

But damn it. She was so upset her hands were shaking.

She noticed him looking at her hands, and immediately said, “It's no secret to anyone. I hate confrontations. I'm terrible at them. My job used to be in advertising. Everybody called me tough. I
was
tough, I swear. But that was my business life. In my private life, well, you could say I flunked the course in fighting altogether.”

“Amanda—?”

“What? Oh. I know. I'm talking too much. I pretty much don't drink at all for just that reason. One glass of wine and out it all spills. My life. And this was such a trying day—”

“And you're nervous around me.”

“—and I'm nervous around you.” She blinked. “I'm not. I don't know where that came from.”

He hunched forward, motioned her closer.

She hunched forward with a curious frown.

He said, “Here's the thing. I've got one priority for this summer. Teddy. To get him set up. To make this a home. Check out the preschools and pediatricians. Find some kids in the neighborhood, locate the parks, the library, the stuff he can get involved in. That's my whole job this summer. And there just can't be any women in that picture.”