One Sexy Daddy (12 page)

Marion was not a quitter. She spied the crisscrossed trellis that held the coiling growth of clematis and ivy and remembered with some fondness how she and Stacy would climb that trellis in order to play with the Peterson children after bedtime.

Marion wasn't more than one hundred and thirty pounds on a good day.

One-forty on a bad one.

And one-fifty on a really, really bad day.

With the confidence of a husky, athletic girl,
Marion pulled on the trellis carefully and noted its unyielding strength. Then, after a quick glance around to assure herself that no one could see her from the road, she put her foot on first one and then another rung of the trellis. As a landscaper's daughter, she was careful to not crush the purple blooms of clematis.

The trellis was overgrown, its staking was uncertain, her sneakers sometimes could not get purchase. But she pulled herself up to the second-floor bedroom window with as much pride as a mountaineer on Everest's peak.

She used the hem of her broomstick skirt to clean a window pane on the second floor. With one hand coiled at her forehead to block the sunlight, she could make out a man. Sprawled on the bed. Fully clothed. But where was Stacy?

Marion rubbed years of dirt from another window pane and craned her neck.

Where was her sister?

That was the very last question she posed to herself before her sneaker slipped, the rusty nails holding the trellis to the house split asunder, and the ivy vine tore free from the brick with a sound not unlike that of a rubber suction-cup bath mat being ripped from a tub.

Trellis, tendrils of ivy and clematis, a cloud of purple petals, and Marion Brandweis fell to the front yard of Old Man Peterson's house.

After the gaggle of smirking paramedics and the not-in-the-mood-for-nonsense fire chief drove away in the ambulance—cherries blazing and sirens at full volume in case any citizen of Deerhorn hadn't yet heard about Marion's mishap—Adam gathered up his drawings of the new school. He admired the tree-festooned ones Stacy had done and while they weren't what he intended to show the mayor, he nonetheless put them in his portfolio case.

When he arrived at the mayor's office, Betty was huddled over her desk with a phone.

“And then I heard that Stacy got into the ambulance with her sister and that the daughter—you know, his daughter—got to sit up front with the chief, thinking it's all a great adventure. Yes, that's right—I always knew that Stacy had more fire inside her than anyone else ever suspected. That's a girl who's going to get what she wants out of…oh, I gotta go.”

Betty put down the phone. She clipped a heavy silver earring on her ear, the one she took off when she made calls. She glared at Adam.

“Good morning,” she said, the hostility of her tone completely at odds with her words. “Go on in, he's waiting for you.”

“Betty, I want to apologize.”

“Talk to the hand,” she said. “Because the ears don't want to listen.”

Adam found Mayor Pincham standing at the bookcase of legal tomes that had never been opened throughout his twenty-year administration. Nonetheless, with this backdrop, the mayor managed to look regally somber—no mean feat in a white suit jacket, navy-blue polo shirt and plaid golf pants.

“Sorry I'm late,” Adam said. “Had a little emergency back at my house.”

“I heard,” Lefty Pincham said. “Adam, I'm not going to pretend my wife didn't get five phone calls about this before breakfast.”

“Busybodies.”

“Small town, Adam,” he said, shaking his head. “That's the way it is.”

Adam opened his portfolio on the conference table. On top of the stack of drawings was the one Stacy had altered, and when he reached out to put it at the bottom of the stack, the mayor pounced.

“Why, Adam, this is wonderful!” he said, enthusiasm breaking through his dour mood. “Ex
actly what I was hoping to see. Trees, lush and inviting. Trees that soften the institutionalness. Trees making us look like we're one of those preppy schools out east, not that I've ever been out east. And the ivy—very majestic. Makes it look like Deerhorn's had a school of this caliber since the previous century.”

“You'd like it?”

“Absolutely. I'll recommend that the Village Council approve this immediately and you should prepare an estimate for what the trees and foliage will add to the projected cost.”

“I'll have the final budget for you by the end of the week,” Adam said, putting the rest of his drawings in the portfolio. “I have to go on site. The crew is coming up from Chicago tomorrow and we're going to break ground by next week.”

“Happy to have you in charge,” Mayor Pincham said and then he held up his finger as if recalling a matter best forgotten. “But Adam, there's something I need to discuss with you before you go.”

“What is it?”

“Stacy.”

Adam tensed. “Is it about this morning?”

“We are deeply saddened by Marion's accident.”

“The paramedics thought it was a sprained wrist.”

“Which can heal, but a broken heart…well, that's a different matter.”

“Who's got the broken heart?”

“No one at the moment. At least, we don't think so. But I've been asked, by certain concerned citizens, to find out your intentions.”

“Intentions?”

“Marriage.”

Adam stared.

“Are you just sleeping with her for sport or is it leading up to something?” The mayor prodded.

“As a gentleman, I'm not going to talk about my relationship,” Adam said stiffly.

Lefty put his arm around Adam's shoulder—but because he had less height than Adam, he ended up stretching up on his toes to do it. Nonetheless, the mayor was at the height of his powers, using the fine political skills he had honed over a lifetime of running Deerhorn.

“I'm a man of the world,” he said. “And so are you. You're protecting the lady. So am I. Let's both do our jobs. How about I pose the question this way—will you need me to call Manny Mellman, our local jeweler, to get you a discount on a ring?”

He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I'm expected in Vegas pretty soon,” Adam said. “But I don't plan on visiting any wedding chapels.”

The mayor relinquished him and righted the cuffs of his white jacket.

“Will we be expecting to see you in Deerhorn for summer vacations?”

“No.”

“Are you going to be using our fine post office to deliver letters and postcards?”

Adam thought about Stacy's rules.

“No.”

“Then I apologize in advance for what I'm about to do,” the mayor said. “But if I don't do it, my wife is going to make me sleep on the couch for a week.”

It was then that Lefty Pincham hauled off and slugged Adam full in the face.

 

“W
HAT DID SHE SAY
?” Karen asked when Stacy returned from the bank of pay telephones.

“She's coming to the hospital to pick you up and you'll play at Pam's house.”

Karen sighed dreamily.

“Pam has the best dolls.”

Stacy was grateful that Mrs. Pincham had agreed to take Karen, had even said that she was planning on inviting Karen over today anyhow and that Stacy had simply saved her the call. But the real generosity was in offering to come to the Geneva Memorial Hospital—forty miles from Deerhorn, in the next county—to pick up Karen since Stacy didn't have a car.

That Mrs. Pincham had not, by word or intonation, made any reference to the exposure of Stacy's relationship with Adam was striking evidence of the mayor's wife's status as a saint.

Could it be that Deerhorn had evolved to the point that two consenting, otherwise unattached adults could have an affair without provoking a tempest in a—?

“But no tea party?” Karen asked.

“Not today,” Stacy said. “Marion's husband is taking the day off to take care of the boys, but I know I'm going to need to help out at their house when Marion gets bandaged up.”

“What about tonight?”

Stacy had no idea, but the outer doors of the emergency room slid open before she could say another word. A thin, reedy wail preceded the mayor, who held his right hand in a towel.

“Mayor Pincham!” Stacy leapt to her feet. “What happened?”

“His face connected with my fist,” Mayor Pincham whined, pointing his towel at Adam.

Adam, coming up behind him, rubbed his jaw.

“I've got an election coming up in November,” Lefty added indignantly, “and just how am I going to campaign with this hand? My fingers are broken!”

“Everyone knows you,” Stacy said. “And no one ever runs against you. They don't need to shake your hand. You'll still be mayor.”

She looked up at Adam.

“What did you do to Mayor Pincham?”

“Me? I didn't do anything. This animal you call your mayor slugged me.”

“Because he's taking advantage of you, Stacy,” the mayor explained. “It's just physical for him. He hasn't got a matrimonial intention in his body.”

“That's none of your business,” Adam charged. “And if you weren't an injured man, I'd—”

“Mayor, I asked him to make love to me,” Stacy said.

Everyone shut up. Even the mayor, who was a skilled conversationalist and enjoyed the sweet sound of his melodic voice. Even Adam, who felt as if he had come into a land more foreign than any across borders made by nations. Even Mrs. Pincham, who had just swept into the emergency room as Karen darted out past her to the sidewalk to meet Pam. Even Marion, who had emerged from the emergency room with her right arm bandaged and a sizeable list of chores the doctor had told her not to perform for several days.

“I asked him to make love to me,” Stacy repeated more calmly, even as the native Deerhorn listeners gasped. “I'm not getting any younger and I don't expect I'll ever marry. I thought I should experience lovemaking, well, at least once.”

The mayor glanced once to the right and once to the left to be assured of relative privacy.

“And you've…made love?”

“More than once.”

This shocking and brazen admission was followed up by a declaration that shook Adam to his core.

“I've done it and I enjoyed it,” Stacy said. “But now it's over.”

“Over?” Adam asked.

“Over,” Stacy confirmed. “It was wonderful. You were so kind.”

“It wasn't kindness—”

“But I don't wish to continue our relationship.”

“Now, Stacy, I can understand a woman might have physical needs that drive her to ill-advised leee-ay-zons,” the mayor offered before his wife's heel firmly connected with his foot.

“Come along, Lefty,” she said, tugging sharply at his sleeve. “Let's find a doctor to take a look at that right hand of yours. Stacy, would you take Pam and Karen home? Bobby's not doing anything useful—tell him he can take care of the girls.”

“Delighted,” Stacy said, carefully avoiding Adam's heart-struck gaze. “Do you think there's any chance that Bobby would want a part-time job baby-sitting Karen for Adam?”

“He sure would,” Mrs. Pincham called out from the end of the hall. “That kid spends more money on CDs and junk food than a kid has a right to.”

“Adam, we've solved your baby-sitting problem,” Stacy said.

“Adam, by the way, I'm very sorry about the
punch!” the mayor threw over his shoulder as his wife hustled him through the double doors of the emergency room.

Adam stared at Stacy. Her eyes were wide and moist, but her arms were crossed over her chest. He figured her for stubborn, but he wasn't ready to give up.

“But we're not talking about baby-sitting. We're talking about a relationship.”

Stacy's lips pressed together firmly.

Marion hopped on one foot and then another.

“Oh, all right, I'm going!” she finally exploded. “I guess you're not going to say anything good while I'm around. I'll put the girls in the car.”

“My car,” Adam said, pulling out his keys. “Stacy came in the ambulance with you, remember?”

He waited until Marion was out of earshot and then he leaned close.

“You were just fooling, right?”

“About what?” Stacy looked at him from out of the corner of her eye.

“About it being over.”

“No. I wasn't. It was wonderful. But it's over.”

Adam looked around. The lobby was empty except for a woman at the reception desk who was reading the Milwaukee newspaper.

“Sure. I hear you,” Adam conceded. “And you looked very convincing. Sounded really firm. But everyone's gone. You can tell me now.”

“It's over, Adam,” Stacy said. Her chin tilted upward. “You're a wonderful lover. Handsome, sensitive and considerate. Skilled, even. A lot of fun, too. But it's over. And if you want me to baby-sit Karen, I'll do it for eight dollars an hour. But that's all it would be. Baby-sitting.”

“You're serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“You can't let the judgment of a bunch of hicks—”

“They are not a bunch of hicks. This is my town,” she glanced around. “This is technically the next county, but Deerhorn is my town. And our morality is different from yours. I can be forgiven for one lapse. But not two.”

“—small-minded—”

“If they're small-minded, I'm small-minded. Because I feel the same way. Making love because you're committed to a man is the way it should be. Making love should be for married folks—or at least for people who are in a relationship. No, no, don't say it. This isn't a relationship. I wanted to know what making love was all about. Now I know. It's wonderful. You showed me that it's a gift, a beautiful gift that God and nature gave people. Thank you. I will always remember this and you fondly. And now it's over.”

She walked out the doors, into the sunlight without a backward glance.

“Stacy, don't do this.”

But she was already gone.

Adam stared.

It was the first time in his life a woman had ever left him.

 

O
N THE WAY HOME
from the hospital, the girls sang
Old MacDonald's Farm
and planned a Barbie-doll party they would hold in Pam's bedroom.

Marion, seated between the two girls in the back seat, dictated to Stacy a list of the things she needed to do today but couldn't on account of her injured wrist.

“Call the past-due accounts, tally up the bills from the suppliers, make a pie for the church bake sale—”

No one, but no one, made any mention of Adam and Stacy's relationship.

When Adam pulled into the Pincham driveway, the girls flew out of the car. Karen looked back once to yell goodbye.

“I don't need a baby-sitter,” Adam said tightly. “I need you.”

“You need a baby-sitter,” Stacy corrected. “And Bob Pincham is a very responsible teenager. He'll do just fine.”

Adam looked doubtfully at the front door, out of which appeared a long-limbed, sullen-faced youth with hair the color of a lemon Popsicle.

“Looks like he's going through another one of his phases,” Marion opined. “Hello, Bob.”

“Hey,” Bob said, putting his elbows on the passenger door. “My ma called. I'm baby-sitting, right? I charge five an hour.”

“I don't know,” Adam said. “What kind of qualifications do you have?”

“It's the hair, right?” Bob asked. “Most adults don't understand the hair.”

“You're right. I don't.”

“Everclear.”