Tanya Michaels - Motherhood Without Parole

“Okay,” her new shadow responded.

“Alone, all right?”

“Sure. I’ll wait here.”

Since she’d never been one to carry on conversations from inside the stall of public restrooms, it was a little weird to have PJ calling questions through the door.

“Do you ever watch cartoons?” he asked conversationally. “That’s what I was doing, but my show went off. Neve’s taking a shower and couldn’t play with me. She said when she’s done, she’ll find me some Pop-Tarts or something, but I want waffles. And she takes too long in the bathroom. Always brushing her hair and stuff. Are you done yet?”

When she opened the door, PJ practically fell onto the tile floor. It didn’t take a child psychologist to understand why he might be a little clingy right now. Kate would be patient with his being underfoot.

As long as she could avoid tripping over him, they would be fine. “So…waffles, huh? Let’s see what I can do.”

A search of the freezer revealed that there were no instant waffles to be found. Maybe she had a recipe? It dawned on Kate that she only owned one cookbook—a novelty gift on cooking for your lover. She gestured toward the family room, visible through the wall cutout above the kitchen sink.

“Do you want to watch television? Maybe you can find more cartoons. I can call you when the waf—when breakfast is ready,” she amended, hedging her bets.

“Okay.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Appreciating his agreeable manner, she surprised herself by ruffling his hair. When he shot her a warm, approving smile, confidence filled her. She could definitely do this.

The mothering part anyway. The waffling part grew fuzzier as she pulled one foreign apparatus after another from the cabinets in search of the waffle iron. Her attempt to separate eggs was only partially successful, but how much damage could a little yolk do to the recipe? She’d begun pouring lumpy batter into the iron when her stepdaughter suddenly made her presence known.

“What is that?”

Kate jumped, glancing at the book open on the kitchen island. “A cookbook.” The waffle recipe was on the right-hand page, opposite a tasteful yet provocative breakfast-in-bed photo.

“But he’s not wearing a shirt. And…” Neve took a closer look. “You’re not supposed to let us see stuff like that.”

“Then stop looking.” Kate shut the book with a snap, then shoved it behind her back for good measure. “Speaking of clothes, what are you wearing?”

Neve glanced down, her expression genuinely quizzical. “Shirt and jeans.”

Yes, but the sparkly blue shirt had the word Juicy emblazoned across the chest. What was that supposed to mean? Then again, Kate wasn’t about to start making parental objections before their first breakfast. She knew enough from Patti to choose her battles, and that didn’t include what Neve wore around the house. “All right. I—”

“Are your waffles burning?”

“Damn. Shoot…that’s not what I meant. The first thing.”

Grinning, Neve leaned against the kitchen island as if waiting to hear other things Kate shouldn’t say in front of them.

“Why don’t you go keep an eye on your brother?”

“He’s just watching TV. I can see him from here.” Neve peered around Kate. “You have batter left. If you want, maybe I could make the waffles. I used to help my…”

Heather? Well, that would explain why Paul owned a waffle iron in the first place. “Thank you. I still need a shower. Are you responsible enough to take over kitchen duty?”

“Of course.” The nostalgic expression had been replaced by one of almost haughty adolescent confidence. “Not like I’m gonna burn down the house.”

“Great.” Because I’m not sitting through an arson trial, too.

Kate made it through the shampoo cycle before the water heater gave up the ghost. Rinsing conditioner from her hair with increasingly cold water, she decided PJ must not have been exaggerating about his sister’s bathroom schedule. Just how long had Neve been in the shower? As Kate wrapped herself in a towel, a strange buzzing drew her attention to the bathroom counter. Her phone, in vibrate mode, was pulsing across the cultured-marble surface.

Bangs dripping into her eyes, she answered. “Hello?”

“Kate—wonderful.” Delia’s voice was strained. “Please get down here and tell these kids to let me in.”

“You’re at the house?” When Kate had retired to her room last night, she’d been unable to sleep. She’d called her friend, but Delia hadn’t said anything about coming by today. “I can’t even believe you’re up this early.” Normally the other woman slept in on the weekends—called it powering up for her sixty-hour workweek.

“I’ve been awake since the crack of where-the-hell’s-the-sun. I could come in and tell you about it or I could stand on your front porch all morning using my cell phone minutes.”

Kate laughed, knowing perfectly well her friend had unlimited calling for keeping in touch with clients and property managers. “Give me just a second.” Once she’d shimmied into a pair of slacks and a cardigan, she hurried down the stairs. “Neve? PJ? Open the front door.”

“We’re not supposed to let strangers in,” Neve called from the kitchen.

PJ, engrossed in a cartoon where a sports car was talking to a bear, barely glanced in Kate’s direction.

“It’s not a stranger. She’s my friend—I’m giving you permission.” Since Kate was closer to the door than either of the kids, she opened it herself.

Delia raised her eyebrows. “New bouncers, huh? They’re effective.”

“Maybe you should have tried a cash bribe.”

“Don’t have much on me, but I did bring this.” She held up a bottle of champagne. “How do you feel about mimosas?”

Kate loved Delia but occasionally thought Patti might have a point about their friend’s fondness for alcohol. “Under the circumstances, that’s probably inappropriate.”

“Well, you know me.”

Kate swung the door wide. “You can join us for waffles.”

Or pools of batter, which were what Neve had managed to create.

“Oh, snap,” the girl was muttering in exasperation, trying to sop up the worst of the mess. She shot a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “I think I poured too much. It overflowed and steam went everywhere, so I unplugged it before I set off the smoke alarm.”

Who was Kate to criticize? She hadn’t done much better. “You go talk PJ into cereal, and I’ll clean this up.”

“I’ll try,” the young woman promised.

“Nice shirt,” Delia said as Neve left the room. “What? I liked it.”

That figured.

Delia set the bottle of champagne on the island. “You should put this away for some other occasion. I actually brought it over as a…gift. I won’t be drinking much for a while.”

“Oh?” Had she and Alexander fought about alcohol?

Her friend chose not to elaborate. “So what are you doing with them tomorrow?”

“With who?” Duh. “Good Lord. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.” What would the kids do Monday while she was at work?

She’d been alternately looking into affordable afternoon help and wondering if Neve was old enough to babysit her brother a few hours a day after school. She’d even planned to take off the week before school, to smooth the transition, but now she needed a more immediate course of action. She couldn’t take off both weeks and she was supposed to be finishing up an important project this week.

The ability to meet deadlines—even when they changed last-minute if production was moved up—was critical. The manuals that accompanied each technological product had to be carefully written and proofed. What kind of example was Kate setting for those she supervised if she couldn’t meet her schedules?