Kids Is A 4-Letter Word (3 page)

Jamie seemed quietly preoccupied with making tortuous faces at the little girl in the car next to them. Both of the older children appeared adept at tuning out their little brother—an acquired skill, Jo noted.

She welcomed the next red light, and used the-opportunity to unfasten her seat belt and retrieve the blanket, but Billy was wound up and not ready to relinquish his control over his captive audience. The car to her left honked and Jo looked over to see the woman passenger had rolled down her window. Jo frowned and did the same, only to hear the woman screech, “Can’t you control your own children? That boy of yours is scaring my Kathy.”

Jo craned her neck in time to see Jamie cross his eyes at the little girl. “Jamie!” she admonished over Billy’s cries.

“I’m Peter!”

“Stop making faces!”

Jamie glared, and sat back in a huff, then shouted, “Itsy, Bitsy Spider.”

“What?” Jo asked, wincing at the decibels Billy reached.

“Sing ‘Itsy, Bitsy Spider,’” Jamie yelled. “It’s Billy’s favorite.”

Jo rolled her eyes, and declared, “I don’t sing.” But minutes later when Billy had turned blue from his efforts at
breaking the sound barrier, she sighed and started singing low and off-key.

Billy stopped midscream and looked at Jo expectantly.

“You gotta do the hand motions,” Jamie supplied in a bored voice.

Jo leaned forward and slowly banged her forehead against the steering wheel.

J
OHN
S
TERLING
shifted in his first-class seat, then folded a stick of sugarless gum into his mouth and began chewing to ease the pressure in his ears. Somewhere behind him in coach an infant started crying, and he hoped the mother knew enough to give it a bottle or a pacifier to suck on. An instant later, he bit down on his bottom lip and shook his head in self-recrimination. As if he were some parenting guru to dole out advice.

The faces of his children passed through his mind—Claire and Billy so blond, Jamie as darkly redheaded as himself. His heart wheeled, as it always did when he thought of his rambunctious crew. Once the plane reached cruising altitude and the drink carts emerged, he inserted a credit card into the phone slot on the seat in front of him and released the receiver. Within a few seconds of dialing, the flat peal of his home phone sounded in his ear. After five rings, the recorder picked up and Jamie’s gruff little voice came on the line.

“This is the Sterling house, home of the great Peter Pan. Leave a message at the beep and my daddy’ll call you back. Oh, and talk fast.”

John smiled and injected extra cheer into his voice. “Hey, kids, it’s Dad. Just calling to see how things are going. I’m sure you’re being very good for Miss Michaels, because we’re lucky to have her and we
really
need to keep her around, right, guys? I’ll be home in time to tuck you in.” John swallowed. “Daddy loves you. Bye.”

Surmising Miss Michaels had taken the kids to the park in the unusually warm weather, John breathed a word of thanks
to have acquired a nanny of her qualifications on such short notice. Both Miss Springston
and
Miss Anderson had left him in the lurch, but at last he’d found someone whom he could trust.

He dialed again and Susan’s voice came on the line.

“Just checking in,” John said, opening his pocket calendar on his knee. “Anything going on this afternoon?”

“Mr. Tyler called around two-thirty about the zoning for the Standler Mall. He needs to talk to you ASAP.”

Susan sounded especially nasal today, he noted with mild irritation, scratching abbreviated notes on any patch of white space he could find.

“And Stewart phoned—he wants you to speak at the builders’ association luncheon next Thursday.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Miss Michaels call?”

“Oh,” Susan said with sudden recollection in her voice. “She quit.”

John’s heart and pen stopped. “She what?”

“She quit,” Susan repeated.

John nearly dropped the phone, but juggled it back to his ear. “Wh-who’s with my kids?” he sputtered.

“Jo Montgomery.”

Recognition tickled the perimeter of his brain. “The interior designer?”

“That’s correct.”

In the past month, John had learned it was best to speak calmly and clearly when dealing with Susan, even when she didn’t
Especially
when she didn’t. He sighed. “Susan, start from the beginning.”

“Miss Montgomery stopped by your home today, and apparently your nanny walked out while she was there. She couldn’t find anyone to watch the children, so she took them back to her office.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” Susan sounded very serious.

Incredulous, John yelled, “You let a woman I don’t even know take my children away from my home and to her office?” An older man sitting next to him lowered his newspaper to stare. John passed his hand over his face. Too late, he realized he’d gone too far. The phone line fairly crackled with Susan’s indignation.

“Sir, contrary to popular belief, a secretary is not the gatekeeper to her boss’s personal life.”

John sighed again, this time contrite. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I can’t believe Miss Michaels just up and walked out.”

“Yes, sir.” Susan cleared her throat. “Well, Ms. Montgomery said she’d take them back home after she met with a client, and asked that you meet her there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Susan.” John hung up, annoyed and worried. He flipped to the back of his organizer to find Jo Montgomery’s card. Four times he dialed the number, only to receive a busy signal on each attempt.

Never more than a split second from his mind, the children had crowded his brain all day, leaving less room than usual for demanding work pressures. John brought one hand up and absently stroked his chin. He missed Annie every day. Unbidden, hot tears pricked his eyelids, but he bit the end of his tongue hard and the moisture vanished just as quickly. Life goes on, he’d told himself a million times in the two years since her car accident.

Moving from Atlanta to Savannah a month ago had been a good step for him and the children. Christmas in their new, empty home had been heartbreaking, but less brutal than last year in Atlanta. Jamie and Claire would enter new schools in a few days for the last half of the school year, and he’d promised himself he’d start looking for a suitable mother for his children as soon as possible. Someone like Annie…dear, sweet Annie, who wore bright aprons and made chocolate-chip cookies and gave puppet shows for all the kids in the neighborhood.

John had met several women since Annie’s death, anxious to salve his deep wounds, but he hadn’t been able to conjure
up an interest in most of them. The few who had warranted further consideration had soon proved themselves to be less than ideal mom material—most of them were too involved with their own career. Three months ago, his sister, Cleo, had sat him down and explained the harsh reality.

“John,” she’d said, smiling sadly, “you’re not going to find an exciting career woman who’s willing to give up everything she’s worked for to take care of someone else’s kids. And you’re not going to find many single women in Atlanta who
aren’t
career-oriented.”

Thus the move to a smaller town where he thought his chances of finding a homey wife might be better. Not that he had anything against working women. Some of the most interesting women he’d met were just as driven to succeed as their male counterparts. But he felt his children deserved a full-time mom to make up for lost time.

John nodded his head firmly in silent determination. He’d date every eligible woman in Savannah until he found another woman like Annie, someone for whom mothering was…first nature.

“H
URRY UP
!” Jo screeched, practically dragging the children through the door of her small office building. As she trotted down the hall, Billy perched on her hip and her briefcase bouncing against her other leg, she could hear Hattie saying, “I’m sure Jo will be here any minute. She had to…er…”

Her beloved aunt turned from the man and woman standing before her and stared at Jo coming down the wide hallway, the older woman’s glassy eyes bulging in shock. The consummate professional, Hattie recovered quickly. “She had to…pick up the children, of course.” She beamed at Jo. “Darling, I was getting worried about…all of you.”

“Forgive me for running late,” Jo said, setting down her briefcase and extending her hand to the coifed, well-preserved woman standing beside Hattie. “I’m Jo Montgomery, and you must be Melissa Patterson.”

“And my husband, Monroe,” the woman said, inclining her
blond head slightly. “Oh, aren’t they precious?” Mrs. Patterson reached over to tweak Billy’s rosy cheek.

The toddler gave her a toothy grin, and said, “Me Billy.”

“And who else do we have?” Mr. Patterson smiled warmly at the other two children.

Jo swallowed nervously. How would she explain this situation? “This is Claire and Ja—Peter. Claire and Peter.”

The tall, thin man with heavy black glasses leaned over to shake hands with the older children, then straightened. He smiled at Jo, his eyes dancing. “Ms. Montgomery, I must admit, in our eyes you already have an edge over your competition for our day-care account.”

“Well,” Hattie injected brightly, her eyes warning Jo to keep quiet, “why don’t I take the children and let the three of you talk business?”

“Who are you?” Jamie asked, frowning at one of Hattie’s trademark feathered hats.

Jo laughed nervously and scrambled to cover Jamie’s gaffe. “Today Aunt Hattie is…Mary Poppins, right, Hattie?”

Hattie nodded, reaching for Jamie’s hand. “Yes, indeed. Let’s go fetch my umbrella, shall we? And I’ve got three lollipops in my office that need licking.”

“Any green ones?” Jamie asked hopefully, already won over.

Hattie smiled brightly. “Let’s go see.”

Claire glanced at Jo with questioning eyes, but Jo nodded encouragingly and handed Billy to his sister. A remarkable feeling of relief swept over her as she saw the children walk away with Hattie. Free at last. Had she been gone only two hours? It seemed like two lifetimes. She turned to the Pattersons and awkwardly swept her arm in the direction of the meeting room. Her muscles had grown weak lugging Billy around. “Shall we?”

“Ms. Montgomery,” Melissa Patterson said as they walked, “you failed to mention you had three children when we spoke on the phone. I’ve very glad we decided to consider your design firm for a bid on our account.”

Jo’s smile froze and she nearly stumbled, but caught herself and kept moving forward, flanked by the Pattersons.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Patterson continued. “It’s crucial that the interior designer we hire for our day-care chain is in tune with children. We don’t think we could have built such a successful business had we not raised five of our own.”

Panic spiraled through Jo. The Pattersons owned twenty-one day-care centers in and around Savannah. Her business had been mercilessly slow, and she’d taken a calculated risk by investing heavily in a new sophisticated computer system. Last week her accountant had announced he wanted his quarterly fee in advance. And this morning’s past-due loan notice was still vivid in her mind.

This business was her livelihood—and her aunt Hattie’s. Adding the Pattersons to her clientele would provide her with the capital she needed to recover and expand. The Pattersons were looking to overhaul and update every day-care center they owned. This project promised to be so lucrative, the couple were conducting interviews just to select firms to
bid
on the job. Jo knew she could do a top-notch design job for them. But she couldn’t take steps to acquire the account under false pretenses—could she?

“Well, the children aren’t really mine,” Jo said, then at the startled looks on the couple’s faces, added, “I didn’t give birth to them, that is.”

Mr. Patterson smiled. “Adopted?”

“Er, no. Their father—”

“Ah, stepchildren.” He gave her an understanding nod.

Mrs. Patterson touched her arm. “Very admirable of you to take on three of them, and a toddler at that.”

Jo swallowed. Ethical quicksand.

Mr. Patterson squinted at Jo and laughed. “I thought it was a bit odd that a dark-haired woman like you would have blond and redheaded children.”

“Do they take after their father?” Mrs. Patterson asked.

Jo had no idea. “Um, yes.”

“Is he a blonde or a redhead?” the woman pressed conversationally.

“Um, kind of…strawberry blond,” Jo improvised, beginning to perspire as they entered the meeting room. She hadn’t given John Sterling much thought since their telephone conversation this morning, but now pictured him as an affluent absentee father who obviously neglected his children. Jo frowned, then turned her attention to the matter at hand—saving her business.

Upon entering the conference room, Jo guided the Pattersons into comfortable stuffed chairs around a small, elegant dark cherry table. Walking toward a computer in the corner of the room, Jo was alarmed to find herself shaking. The day’s events and her own little lie of omission were beginning to take their toll.

Only then did Jo realize how disheveled she must appear to her wealthy clients, and, for an instant, she panicked. In less than two hours, those kids had ruined a two-hundred-dollar outfit and had undone an image of polished self-confidence she’d worked for years to develop. An instant later, she’d made a decision: So what if she let the Pattersons believe the kids were hers? She needed this account desperately. John Sterling and his brat pack owed her that much, right?

She took two deep breaths and faced the couple, remaining on her feet to give herself authoritative leverage. “I’d like to demonstrate a computer package I’ve invested in which I think you’ll agree gives my firm an edge over every design company in the area.” Jo sat down before the computer workstation and forced her quaking hands to still as she placed them on the keyboard. Within a few keystrokes, a large overhead screen mirrored the display on Jo’s monitor.

“The program allows me to build structures to any specification and populate the rooms with furniture, wallpaper, window treatments, floor coverings and accessories. All of my major suppliers provide their patterns and colors on databases which the program accesses. I can develop a room’s theme with only a few movements of the computer mouse.” Jo demonstrated,
pulling together a child’s bedroom using an outerspace motif in less than two minutes.

“If you decide you’d like to see the design in a different color,” she went on, “we can view the change right here without spending an additional cent.” Two mouse clicks changed the room from dark blues to deep golds. The Pattersons murmured and nodded appreciatively, exchanging glances. Jo’s confidence flooded back as she launched into the real selling point of the package.

“We can stroll through the rooms I design for you on-line just as a person would naturally. We can turn the camera, so to speak, and view the room from any direction, any angle.” Jo showed them the stunning effects of the program which bordered on virtual reality.

“Once a scheme has been decided upon,” she told them, “the program also estimates materials needed and labor hours required, depending upon the complexity of the decor. I can have an updated estimate within seconds of making changes.” The presentation was powerful, and after twenty minutes, the Pattersons seemed appropriately dazzled.

Watching their expressions, Jo pushed down her uneasiness about misleading the couple. Children or no, she was the best person to do the work. She’d spent hours wooing the Pattersons to her office and cataloging ideas for the project—she wasn’t going to lose this crucial job to a competitor just because she wasn’t maternally inclined.