If You Only Knew(81)

Most of the contacts in my phone are child-related. I scroll through the list. Dr. Cato, their pediatrician. Dr. DeSoto, their dentist, just like in the book by William Steig, which the girls adore. Donna, the lovely babysitter. Emily’s Mom, whose first name I’ve never managed to catch but whose daughter comes to play at our house sometimes.

Gus Fletcher.

Not child-related.

Gus Fletcher of the smiley eyes. He emailed me his number after the barfing incident, and I put it in my phone. I did that for a reason, didn’t I?

Without waiting another second, I hit his number. He probably has a date. It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night. If nothing else, he’s out with friends. I pray it goes to voice mail.

“Hello?”

I jump at the sound of his voice. “Gus?”

“Yes?”

“It’s... It’s Rachel. Rachel Carver. Rachel Tate Carver?”

“The woman with the pukey kids?”

I smile. “Hopefully they’re not puking right now, but yes.”

“Just for the record, you’re the only Rachel I know. The last names aren’t necessary.”

“Oh. Okay.” My toes curl. It’s safe to say I’ve never in my life called a guy for social purposes. I was always the callee, not the caller.

“What can I do for you, Rachel?” His voice is warm.

“Well, I’m staying in the city this weekend, and I was wondering if you might want to have a drink or dinner with me. Tomorrow. Sunday.”

There’s a long pause.

“I owe you, after all,” I say. “You were a prince that day. And it was nice to see you again.”

“In that case, yes. I accept.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I’m smiling. “Great! I’m staying at the Tribeca Grand.”

“Nice.”

“You have no idea. Want to come see my suite? It’s pretty amazing.”

“Sure. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven is perfect. See you then.”

I’m having drinks with a nice man tomorrow who is not my husband.

A slight warning chimes in my brain. Things are messed up enough without me...without me doing...doing what? I would never cheat on Adam. Even now. I’m sure Gus knows that, too, but I’ll be sure to reinforce that idea tomorrow.

Still, the idea of being with him, almost on a date—almost being the key word here—is deliciously dangerous and enticing, like a dark chocolate soufflé waiting at the end of a meal.

You know you shouldn’t, but you also know you will.

Jenny

I never realized how much I loved solitude until my nieces came to visit.

Also, how great it was to eat an entire meal without something spilling, breaking, dropping or being flung somewhere. Also, the thrill of going to the bathroom by myself.

We got through Saturday just fine. Today, they seem possessed by demons. Starting at five forty-three in the morning, no less.

Because I’m Aunt Jenny, Purveyor of Fun, the girls seem to have morphed from their previously angelic selves—that is, the way they act when my sister is around—to little cyclones of chaos and destruction. Their reverence for my house and its newness is gone. They throw things, eat things, spit things, climb things. After a hectic lunch, I find Grace standing on the counter, hitting the light fixture with a wooden spoon.

“Grace! Honey, no! That’s not safe.” I scoop her off the counter, only to see a tiny butt sticking out of the cabinet where I keep the food processor and its razor-sharp attachments. “Rose, is that you?” I pull my niece out by the legs. “Get out, honey, there are sharp things in there.”

“I love sharp!” she says, trying to wriggle back in. “I want sharp! Auntie, you so mean! I! Want! Sharp!”

Dear God.

Grace begins hitting the cabinets with her wooden spoon, which I have failed to take from her. She gets Rose in the head, making Rose scream like her fingernails are being pulled off.

“Oh, honey! Are you okay?” I ask, wrestling the spoon from Grace’s hand. “Here. Let me get you some ice. Grace, say you’re sorry, baby.”

“I’m not,” Grace states, pushing out her bottom lip. “It was a accident!”

“Well, tell her you didn’t mean it, and you’re sorry she got hurt.”

Grace looks as though her insides are boiling. “No! It was a accident! Accident!”

Soon, I shall call the exorcist.

It dawns on me that Charlotte is missing. “Stay here,” I order the wailing duo. “Charlotte? Lottie, where are you, angel?”

The front door is locked, thank God, so she couldn’t have gone outside. Living room, no. Downstairs bathroom, no. Pantry, no. I race upstairs. The guest room, no. “Charlotte! Answer Aunt Jenny right now!”

If she does answer, I can’t hear her over the banshees in my kitchen. “Charlotte!”

She’s in my bathroom, sitting in the sink, idly kicking her feet and looking out the window. “Auntie!” she exclaims happily. “I’m peeing, Auntie!”

I mutter a curse. She’s peed, all right. She failed to take off her overalls, however, and that means a whole new outfit.

There’s a crash from downstairs. I don’t have time to change Charlotte, so I pick her up, grimacing, and dash downstairs, where I find three broken mixing bowls, apparently pulled from the cupboard.