Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (7 page)

“Not ready to deal with her?” I asked slyly.

“Oh, I’m ready.” MacArthur’s blue eyes gleamed. “Avery will drive directly here and scream herself hoarse giving me what-for. Then we’ll go home to the Castle, and my welcome-back party will begin.”

Jeb nodded approvingly. Men. Not for the first time I wondered how much disturbing stuff I’d have to learn about boys if I happened to give birth to one.

Reloading me in the SUV was a chore. Fatigued and a little depressed, I wasn’t much help fighting bulk plus gravity. We now needed either a step stool or a different vehicle if we wanted to keep the process pain-free. For everybody.

Although Jeb’s sporty Beamer might have offered easier access, it was dangerously low-slung, not to mention tight inside. My heft might have caused us to scrape the highway, and I didn’t want to travel anywhere with my knees jammed against my belly.

“I need phone numbers for Hamp Glancy and Todd Mullen,” the chief reminded me.

“Call her office in the morning,” Jeb grunted, still trying to slide me into the vehicle. “Her receptionist will help you.”

“I need the numbers now.”

“Call Information.”

Impressed though I was by Jeb’s defense of his hippo-wife, I was tired of being lodged in the car doorway while they talked around me.

“My phone’s in my sweater pocket,” I said. “I have four numbers for the Mullens and two for Hamp. Not that you’ll ever need the Mullens’ home number again.”

After Jeb pried my phone free, Jenx jotted down the numbers. She returned the phone once I was settled inside.

“I can’t promise I won’t have more questions for you later.”

“Tomorrow at the earliest,” Jeb said sternly. “And call me first.”

Tough talk from my husband always made me swoon. Jenx liked it, too. She gave a mock salute and clicked her heels. Jeb closed the passenger door and climbed in the driver’s seat.

“How the heck did you get in and out of the car yesterday without me?” he said, referring to my trip to the airport to retrieve Mom.

“Chester helped. He brought a goat prod.”

Back at Vestige, the homestead Leo and I had built from remnants of an old farm, I noticed that MacArthur’s black Audi was the only car still parked out front.

“The good news is everybody except Avery is gone,” I told Jeb. “The bad news is everybody except Avery is gone. You get to deal with her. I’m going straight to bed.”

“Can you climb the stairs without assistance?”

“Ha-ha,” I replied. Then I wondered if I still could.

We entered via the front door, the one closest to the staircase. My plan was to make eye contact with no one, certainly not my mother and not even Chester if he was still there, never mind any of the dogs. I was a monstrous pregnant woman on a mission. I needed to get my big body into bed, and nobody, but nobody, better get in my way.

Climbing that steep staircase was getting harder every day, but I could still manage it. I had just cleared the landing when I heard Avery shriek a profanity, presumably at Jeb for handing her MacArthur’s car key. The back door slammed, and I savored the tranquil atmosphere of my home minus my ex-step.

Once upstairs I paused outside Abra’s room. Yes, the Alpha princess had her own bedroom, complete with designer décor. One result of Anouk’s pet psychic counseling was that Sandra now had her own room, too, at the opposite end of the hall. Although it was hours before Abra’s bedtime, I felt a wave of sentimentality tinged with anxiety. How many nights like this had there been when the felonious Afghan hound was on the lam? She always turned up, either sooner or later, usually in need of a day at the doggie spa and a good criminal attorney.

It must have been a delayed reaction to the death and destruction at 318 Swan Lane. I could probably chock the whole thing up to late-stage pregnancy. In any case, I leaned against the wall outside Abra’s empty room and sobbed like I’d just had my heart broken for the very first time.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but I do know that tears and snot commingled on my cheeks, ran down my chin, and dribbled onto my shirt. I tried wiping them away with the sleeves of my sweater because I didn’t have tissues and was too tired to search for any. Eyes closed, I sobbed and snuffled like a certified wreck of humanity.

Until a familiar voice said, “Whiskey, I have tissues.”

I opened one eye and focused on Chester, who extended a small hand stuffed with what I needed.

“Thanks, buddy,” I hiccuped. “How long you been standing there?”

“Long enough to evaluate the situation, gather tissues and deliver them. Sorry you’re so sad. Are you worried about Abra?”

I wanted to slide all the way down the wall to the floor, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stand up again, even with Jeb and Chester assisting. I buried my bloated, tear-streaked face in a wad of tissues and blew my nose.

“I’m not worried about Abra,” I lied. “That hound’s better at taking care of herself than I am. I’m just very, very tired. That’s all.”

Chester cocked his head. “Being tired makes you cry?”

“It does tonight, but you made me feel lots better. You’re the best next-door neighbor anybody ever had. I hope you liked your party.”

He nodded vigorously. “It was perfect, except for Anouk getting shot and Abra and Napoleon running away. And your clients’ house blowing up. Your mom taught me a new game,
Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
”

“That’s not a new game, Chester. It was around when my mom was a kid.”

“Well, it’s new to me. I’ve never played ‘party games’ before. Just computer games and chess.”

At that moment, he looked so divinely happy I wanted to bawl all over again.

“I’m a mess, Chester, and I need to go to bed. This baby’s coming soon, very soon. Will you promise me something?”

“Sure, Whiskey. Name it.”

I leaned toward him in a move that was nearly disastrous, physics and gravity operating as they do. For the briefest instant, I thought I would topple on top of him, then I regained my balance and leaned back against the wall.

“I need a driver. Jeb’s got recording sessions in Grand Rapids every day this week, and I don’t want him to cancel. I have places to go, and I shouldn’t drive in this condition.”

Behind his glasses, Chester’s eyes widened. “I don’t have a license, Whiskey, and I won’t for six and a half years. Can’t your mother drive you?”

“I didn’t mean you, Chester, and, no, my mother can’t drive me because I won’t let her. You’ll feel the same way about Cassina when you’re my age. What I meant was, can I borrow MacArthur?”

“No,” Chester said with surprising firmness, “but you can borrow Helen.”

“Who’s Helen?”

“My personal assistant. The one who’s babysitting Avery’s twins tonight. Helen has been my driver since MacArthur left.”

“Won’t she have different duties now that MacArthur’s back?”

“No worries. I can keep her on the payroll while she drives you.”

I shook my head. “I’ll pay her. I didn’t expect to borrow MacArthur for free.”

“Money’s never an issue,” Chester said. We both knew that was true. “Consider Helen’s services a prenatal present from me.”

When I hesitated, he added in a low voice, “Jeb wouldn’t want you to borrow MacArthur, but he’ll have no issues with Helen. She’s a grandmother.”

With my due date less than a week away, this was probably a short-term gig for Chester’s P.A. Even if my Ob-Gyn had guessed wrong on Baby’s arrival time, how far off could she be? Nobody kept a kid in her womb for more than, say, forty to forty-two weeks, right?

I said so to Chester.

“Actually,” he began, “a woman named Beulah Hunter was pregnant for almost a year and a half back in the 1940s.”

“What?” I was suddenly wide awake and horrified. “How is that possible? Nobody told me that was possible.”

Chester pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It isn’t normal or usual, but it is possible because it happened. It’s the longest normal-birth pregnancy on record.”

“I don’t want to hear that it’s possible!” The pitch of my voice was rising.

“Relax, please,” Chester said. “In Beulah Hunter’s case, the fetus was abnormally slow to develop. Your fetus isn’t. Face it, Whiskey, you’re huge.”

“Yes, I’m huge. I’ll be insane and huge if this goes on much longer.”

“What’s going on up there?” Jeb was dashing up the stairs.

“Whiskey got excited when I told her about Beulah Hunter,” Chester said.

“Who’s Beulah Hunter?” Jeb said.

“Someone who was pregnant for a freakin’ year and a half,” I screeched. “No woman of child-bearing age should ever hear that story.”

Abashed, Chester told Jeb, “I just want to lend Whiskey my driver.”

Jeb turned to me. “You want to learn to play golf?”

At that point, I took some deep breaths and we started over. Jeb and Chester insisted that I sit down. Forget about sitting. I waddled to our bedroom and flopped on my bed like a beached whale. Later I would change into my nightgown and slide under the covers, with a little help from Jeb. First, I wanted to get off my feet. Second, I wanted to end our conversation. I asked Chester to tell Jeb about his P.A.-slash-driver, and how she might make our lives easier.

“Her name is Helen Kaminski,” Chester said. “She used to be a crossing guard at Magnet Springs Elementary School. Before that, she was a cashier at Food Duck and a server at The Tin Pan Diner. Out of uniform Helen looks like a cross between Betty White and Doris Roberts.”

Grinning, Jeb said just one word. “Perfect.”

I said, “When can she start?”

“Did somebody say ‘Helen Kaminski’?” Mom stood in the bedroom doorway, a kitchen towel in her hand. “I went to high school with her, only back then she was Helen Plonka. What’s she up to now?”

“Well, come right in, Mom. You can keep Chester’s party going ’til I start snoring.”

“I think that’s a bad idea on a school night, Whitney, and you didn’t answer my question about Helen.”

“It’s the same person,” Chester informed her. “She used to be my driver, but now she’ll be Whiskey’s driver until Whiskey can drive again.”

“Isn’t she the one babysitting Avery’s twins?” Mom asked.

Chester nodded.

“Who’s going to take care of them while Helen takes care of Whitney?”

“Uh, that would be Avery’s job,” I said, giving her the fish eye. “Avery will take care of Avery’s kids. It’s what mothers learn to do.”

“Not that mother,” my mom said.

“It won’t be a problem,” Chester said. “I have two other full-time P.A.’s, and I don’t keep them busy. Leah and Leo will have round-the-clock care.”

Which reminded me that we still needed to find a nanny for our own baby. Now that Deely Smarr was unavailable, I’d have to launch a search. Or maybe I could hire Helen Kaminski, assuming Chester really didn’t need her anymore and we got along. Crossing guard, grocery clerk, food server, and driver. Plus, according to Chester, she looked like a geriatric TV star. What more could you want in a nanny?

“Can you send Helen over here first thing tomorrow morning?” I asked my neighbor. He promised to have her here by eight.

“Make it ten,” I said as I slid into sleep.

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark, and Jeb was undressing me.

“Is Mom gone?” I whispered.

“Uh-huh,” Jeb said. “So is Chester.”

I sniffed the air. “What’s that God-awful stink?”

“Sorry, babe. Sandra got into the garlic-artichoke dip.”

“Don’t tell me she’s in our bedroom.”

Another doggie fart was proof positive.

“She’s on our bed!” I said. “I can hear her nightgown rustling. No dogs sleep with us, remember? Those are the rules.”

“Aw, with Abra away, Sandra’s lonely tonight.”

“Nice try,” I said, reaching for the bedside lamp. When I pulled the chain, Sandra appeared in a circle of light on the pillow next to my head. She wore a stiff white nightie made of crinoline.

“I hope you’ll put that much energy into dressing our kid,” I told Jeb.

He said, “Right now I want to undress you.”

As he leaned in for a kiss, I blocked him with my hand.

“First, remove the dog.”

My philosophy about breakfast
in bed is that life doesn’t get any better. Also, it’s fleeting. As the poet might say, “Slather ye toast with marmalade while ye may.” Tomorrow you’ll probably be gulping cold coffee between diaper changes.

I knew that was going to happen to me, although I might have a week until it did. So I was reveling in the “right now.” Jeb had brought me a tray containing my own little slice of nirvana—dark roast coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, hot oatmeal with maple sugar and bananas, and sourdough toast with, you guessed it, marmalade. Yum. Moreover, he had planned the meal so that I would have plenty of time to feast before Helen Kaminski came by for our chat about her becoming my temporary driver. I had already decided not to mention the possible future nanny gig until I made sure I felt comfortable with her.

Mom appeared in my bedroom doorway with a pot of steaming decaf. “Refill?”

When I nodded, she poured. She also started talking.

“Whitney, you didn’t seem at all curious last night when I mentioned knowing Helen Plonka from high school. You might want to ask what I remember about her.”

“Helen Plonka?”

“That was her maiden name. She’s a widow like I am. Like you used to be. We graduated together, class of ’62.”

“What happened? Did she steal your boyfriend?” I sensed something ominous.

“Heavens, no. But she tried. Helen had a crush on your father, a genuine case of unrequited love. She threw herself at him senior year, but he chose me. He gave me his letterman jacket and his class ring. Helen never got over it.”

“Never? That’s a long time, Mom. If she’s a widow, she married someone.”

“Arthur Kaminski, a real loser. He cheated on Helen for years. Then he died.”

I sighed. “I need to know this because…?”

“Information is power, Whitney. A standard background check isn’t going to give you that kind of detail. Only your mother can.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t hire—I mean, borrow—Helen to be my temporary driver?”