Making Your Mind Up (8 page)

“The health center! I thought maybe one of the nurses would keep an eye on Jojo for me if I paid them enough. Unless you know anyone who could help? That's why I stopped,” Sacha gabbled on wildly. “Because you know more people in the village than I do. I went to every house on our road this morning but nobody would take her. Can you think of anyone around here who'd look after a baby for the day?”

As if Jojo was the school hamster. Lost for words, Cressida gaped at Sacha.

“Well?”
demanded Sacha, increasingly frantically.

“Um…well, no.”

“Oh, for crying out
loud
.” Sacha looked as if she might actually burst into tears. “
Bloody
Astrid. What have I done to deserve this?”

Jojo was screaming and Sacha was stuck.

“Unless…I suppose I could take her,” Cressida offered hesitantly. “If it would help. I mean, I'm not a qualified babysitter, but I've done lots of babysitting in my—”

“You?”
Sacha's eyes widened in disbelief.

Cressida, who'd seen the film
The
Hand
That
Rocks
the
Cradle
, understood completely.

“No, sorry, it was just a thought. Of course you wouldn't want—”

“Oh my God, are you kidding? I can't believe it! Don't you have to work?”

Taken aback, Cressida said, “It's my day off.”

“But this is brilliant! Why didn't you say so before?” Reaching over and flinging open the passenger door, Sacha yelled, “Quick, jump in.”

And that had been it. Back at Sacha and Robert's house, Cressida learned that Jojo was only bellowing at the top of her voice because she hadn't been fed or changed this morning. Normally, Sacha explained, she was a placid, cheerful baby. Sacha, having showered and dressed at warp speed, left Cressida with the keys to the house and a shouted promise over her shoulder that she'd be back by six.

Evidently Sacha had never watched
The
Hand
That
Rocks
the
Cradle
.

Then again, if Cressida hadn't happened to come along when she did, Sacha might well have dumped Jojo into the unsuspecting arms of the health center's receptionist.

Which didn't stop Cressida being absolutely petrified when she stopped to consider the situation in which she'd landed herself. For the next nine hours she was responsible for the well-being of her ex-husband's baby. What if something should happen to Jojo? What if she was sick and started to choke? What if a truck smashed into the house? What if Jojo accidentally drank bleach or fell over and broke a leg or took a tumble downstairs? Cressida blanched at the thought. Oh God, everyone would think she was a deranged child abuser. She couldn't do this; she just couldn't.

Except she had to, because there wasn't actually anyone else around to take over the job.

Cressida looked at Jojo, who was sitting on the living room floor solemnly chewing a small animal cracker. After several seconds, Jojo dropped the cookie and broke into a delighted grin, revealing two pearly white bottom teeth. Seemingly unconcerned at finding herself alone in the house with a virtual stranger, she held out her arms to Cressida.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Her heart melting, Cressida crouched down in front of her.

Still grinning, Jojo laboriously maneuvered herself into a crawling position before clutching at Cressida's trouser leg in order to haul herself to her knees. Then she imperiously raised her arms again, like the pope.

And Cressida picked her up.

“Aunt Cress? It's me!”

The back door opened and banged shut, heralding Jojo's arrival. Cressida, in the kitchen putting together a mushroom risotto, called out, “In here, sweetheart,” then turned and opened her arms wide, keeping them outstretched as Jojo bounced into the kitchen and gave her a kiss.

“Trying to fly?”

“Trying not to get onion and garlic smells all over you.” Cressida indicated the chopping board and waggled her fingers. “Good day?”

“Brilliant. Swimming, tennis, and making cupcakes. I was going to bring you some, but we ate them.” As they both worked full time, Sacha and Robert paid for Jojo to attend a summer vacation day camp run by one of the private schools in Cheltenham. Luckily Jojo enjoyed it. Watching her at the sink as she ran the cold tap and glugged down a glass of water, Cressida experienced a rush of love for the girl who had brought more happiness into her life than any other living person. Jojo was twelve now, with fine, straggly dark hair, her mother's neat features, and Robert's long legs. Today she was wearing denim shorts, the sea-green T-shirt that Cressida had bought her last Christmas, and beneath it a padded pink bra she didn't need but had insisted on buying because when you were twelve everyone at school teased you if you didn't wear a bra.

“Are those from the garden?” Jojo had noticed the freesias in a vase on the kitchen table.

“No. Someone gave them to me.”

“Oo-er.” Jojo raised her eyebrows. “Man or woman?”

“As it happens, a man.” Cressida tipped the chopped onions into the frying pan and turned up the heat to maximum.

“Aunt Cress! Is he your new boyfriend?”

“I made a card for his mother. He wanted to thank me, that's all.”

“But he brought you flowers. Proper ones, from a shop,” Jojo emphasized, “and he didn't have to do that, did he? So does that mean he'd
like
to be your new boyfriend?”

Time to change the subject. Vigorously stirring the onions in the pan, Cressida said, “I shouldn't think so for one minute. Now are you going to give me a hand with these mushrooms?”

“That's what I call changing the subject.”

“OK then, no, he definitely doesn't want to be my new boyfriend. And it's just as well because he lives two hundred miles away. And these mushrooms still need to be chopped.”

“But—”

“You know, I had such a lovely time this afternoon,” said Cressida. “I was thinking back to the very first time I looked after you. You were ten months old and you couldn't talk at all.”

“Ten months.” This time Jojo was diverted; she loved hearing about the antics she'd gotten up to as a baby. “Could I walk then?”

“No, but you were an Olympic crawler. Like a little train. You were eleven months before you started to walk.”

After that first successful day, Sacha had known a soft touch when she'd seen one. Less than a fortnight later she had asked Cressida to babysit again, and Cressida had been only too happy to oblige. A week after that, Sacha and Robert had been invited to a smart wedding in Berkshire, and Jojo and Cressida had spent a glorious day together, culminating in Jojo taking a series of tottering steps across the living room floor before stumbling triumphantly into Cressida's arms. That evening, when Sacha and Rob had arrived to pick her up, Cressida had remarked on how active she'd been. Sacha, smiling smugly, had said, “Oh yes, she'll be walking before long. She's very advanced for her age.”

Astrid hadn't come back. She was replaced by a series of unsuitable nannies and even more wildly unsuitable au pairs. If Sacha had asked Cressida to give up her job in the lawyers' office and look after Jojo full time, Cressida would have done it in a heartbeat. But that had never happened. Maybe it would have been just too weird. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that Jojo had once accidentally called Cressida Mummy. Whatever the case, Cressida carried on babysitting whenever she was asked and helped out during emergencies. It was a situation everyone was happy with.

“What's the worst thing I ever did when I was little?” Jojo was at last slicing the mushrooms.

“The most embarrassing, you mean? Probably the time you took your diaper off in the middle of the supermarket and left it in the rice and pasta aisle.” Cressida paused, then said, “It wasn't a clean diaper.”

“Eww!” Shaking her head and laughing, Jojo said, “Tell me the best thing I ever did.”

Cressida pulled a face. “Can't think of any.”

“That's not true! Tell me!”

“Oh, sweetheart. The best thing?” Abandoning the sizzling onions, Cressida enveloped Jojo in a hug. “I really couldn't say. There are too many to count.”

As Tyler pulled up outside Piper's Cottage, a sludgy white splat hit the windshield of his rental car and a large bird, possibly smirking with satisfaction at having scored a direct hit, flew off over the rooftops of the houses opposite. The splat was huge and, typically, situated in the dusty fan-shaped space precisely where the car's windshield wipers didn't reach.

Was this an omen?

Lottie came to the door looking pink and out of breath.

“Oh, hi!”

“Haven't interrupted anything, have I?” Tyler half smiled, although she was dressed in a sleeveless white top and jeans, so anything too salacious seemed unlikely. “If this is a bad time…”

Lottie gave him a look and opened the door more widely, allowing him to see the Dyson behind her.

“Chance would be a fine thing. You just caught me trying to cram six weeks' worth of housework into thirty minutes. The kids have been writing their names in the dust on the TV.” Wiping her forehead Lottie said, “Sorry, come on in. Don't trip over the cord. Is this about work?”

She was gorgeous. Curvy, smart, and bursting with vitality. Watching as she bent over to pick up a can of lemon Pledge, a duster, and a bottle of spray cleaner, Tyler said, “Actually, I was wondering if you'd have dinner with me tonight.”

“Oh.” Lottie looked surprised.

“If you're free, of course.”

“Well, I can ask Mario to watch the kids. That shouldn't be a problem.” Clearly unsure as to the nature of the invitation she said, “Would this be so we can talk about work?”

“We can talk about work if you like. We can talk about all sorts of things.” Tyler smiled. “How about if I pick you up at eight?”

“OK. Fine.” Her eyes bright, Lottie said, “Although I'd better just check with Mario, make sure he can take them. Give me two minutes.”

She disappeared into the kitchen to make the call. Since eavesdropping on a telephone conversation between Lottie and her ex-husband wasn't polite, Tyler waited in the living room. His gaze fell on the gray crumpled rag she'd evidently been using in her cleaning blitz and had forgotten to pick up. Tyler took it from the window ledge and made his way out through the still-open front door.

It was garbage collection day in the village. Everyone had their black wheelie bins—God, he
loved
that quaint English expression—outside their front gates. When he'd finished wiping off what the bird had so off-puttingly deposited on his windshield, Tyler dropped the cloth into Lottie's wheelie trash can and headed back inside the cottage.

“There you are,” said Lottie. “I thought you'd chickened out and made a quick getaway.”

“I just went out to—” Tyler's cell phone burst into life. “Damn, sorry.” Apologetically he pulled it from his shirt pocket.

“No problem, Mario's taking the kids for the evening. I'll see you at eight o'clock.” Keen to get back to her thirty-minute cleaning frenzy, Lottie ushered him out. As he prepared to answer the business call, Tyler heard the Dyson being switched back on in the living room.

He smiled to himself, already looking forward to the evening ahead. In the space of a few days his life had changed beyond recognition and he'd met Lottie Carlyle, who was sexy and beautiful and like no girl he'd ever met before.

Oh yes, things were definitely looking up.

* * *

Tyler heard the noise even before he stepped out of the car at five to eight that evening. An unearthly wailing was coming from inside the cottage. Mildly alarmed—that couldn't be Lottie surely?—he made his way up the front path and rang the doorbell.

“Hi, you must be Tyler.” A tall male with an air of resignation opened the door and shook his hand. “Mario. Sorry about the racket, we're having a bit of a crisis.”

So this was the ex-husband. Stepping over the threshold, Tyler followed Mario into the living room, where a giant box of Legos had been upturned in the center of the floor. Lottie, looking harassed and still wearing her white top and jeans, was sitting in one of the armchairs cradling her son on her lap. Nat was sobbing as if his heart would break and, judging by the sodden state of Lottie's top, had been doing so for some time. At the sight of Tyler he redoubled the volume of his howls and buried his face in Lottie's neck. At the other end of the room Mario was unzipping sofa cushions and searching inside them.

“What's happened?” Tyler wondered if someone had died.

From upstairs Ruby yelled down, “It's definitely not in the laundry closet.”

“Nat's lost his blankie.” Struggling to brush her son's hair out of her own eyes, Lottie winced as his howls of grief rocketed to new levels in response to her words. “Shhh, shhh now, sweetheart, it's all right.” She rocked him patiently and rubbed his back. “We'll find it, don't you worry. It's here somewhere.”

Mystified, Tyler said, “What's a blankie?”

“It's a comfort blanket. Nat's had it since he was a baby. He can't sleep without it.” Lottie checked her watch and grimaced. “God, sorry about this. And I haven't even had time to get changed. Look, any minute now we'll find his blankie and I can be ready in five minutes, that's a promise.”

Ruby's voice floated down to them. “It's definitely not in the bathroom.”

“Hey, no problem.” Holding up his hands, Tyler sensed an opportunity to gain some much-needed points in his favor. “I'll help you look for it. A comfort blanket, you say. Well, it doesn't have legs, so it can't have run off anywhere, can it?”

“We know it's in the house.” Lottie nodded firmly and shot Tyler a grateful smile. “Blankie always turns up in the end. Nat's just left it in a safe place somewhere and it's turned out to be a bit too safe.”

Right, a comfort blanket. Picturing a pale blue cashmere blanket with satin edges, Tyler said gently but efficiently, “So, Nat, let's start the search party, shall we? And any clues you could give us would be great. Like, where do you remember seeing it last?”

Nat, his chest heaving, sobbed piteously, “On th-the w-w-window ledge over th-th-there,” and pointed across the room.

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Surely not.

Feeling sick—Jesus, he
never
felt sick—Tyler said, “And the…uh, blanket is what color?”

Lottie, still attempting to soothe her distraught son, shrugged and said, “No color at all, really.”

“It h-hasn't got a c-c-color,” Nat wailed. “It's my blankie.”

Oh, seriously fuck.

“Not in here.” Mario had finished investigating the innards of all the sofa cushions. “It's a piece of old stretchy cotton material,” he explained to Tyler, “from a onesie Nat used to wear as a baby. About a foot square, kind of grayish and gross-looking.”

“It's NOT GROSS!” roared Nat. “It's my
blankie
.”

Tyler prayed his face wouldn't give him away. He'd played poker often enough through college, but this was on another level altogether. He could feel his palms sweating and—

“You were here this afternoon,” Lottie said suddenly. “You didn't happen to notice if it was on the window ledge then, did you?” Her eyes were full of hope.

It was no good, he couldn't deny it. He couldn't lie to her. But he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth in front of Nat either. His mouth dry, Tyler inclined his head fractionally in the direction of the living room door, indicating that Lottie should follow him.

Lottie left Nat curled up in a heartbroken ball on the armchair and joined Tyler out in the hallway. “Look, I'm really sorry about this. I suppose you're worried we'll miss our table at the restaurant, but I just can't—”

“It was me. I took the blankie.” The words—words he'd somehow never imagined hearing himself say in his lifetime—spilled out in a rush.

“What?”

“I thought it was an old cleaning rag. You'd been cleaning this morning and it looked like you forgot to take it out with you.”

“Where is it?” From her expression Lottie had already guessed there was no happy ending in sight.

“I used it to clean some bird sh…some bird stuff off the car.” Tyler kept his voice low. “It was pretty messy. Your trash was out, so I threw it in there.”

Lottie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh no. I don't believe this. And now the cans have been emptied. Oh God, what are we going to
do
?”

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. It was an accident.” Struggling to explain, Tyler said, “But how was I supposed to know it wasn't a cleaning rag?”

“But you just took it!” With a trace of exasperation Lottie shook her head. “If you'd asked me first I could have stopped you. Or mentioned it afterward, so I could have fished it out of the trash.”

“I meant to. I was going to, but my phone started to ring and you wanted to get on with your vacuuming. Look, I know Nat's upset right now, but he's seven years old. Maybe it's time he gave up this comfort blanket business anyway. I mean, he can't carry on indefinitely, can he? This could be just the opportunity you need to break the habit.”

“Oh God.” Lottie sighed. “You really don't have any experience of children, do you?”

“But—”

“YOU STOLE NAT'S BLANKIE!” shrieked a voice above their heads, and Tyler's heart plummeted still further. The next moment Ruby came thundering down the staircase, an accusing finger pointed at his chest. “You stole Nat's blankie and threw it away! Nat, it was that man, the one who told the lies!” Deftly dodging around Lottie's outstretched arm, she shot into the living room and yelled, “He says you're too old for a blankie anyway, you're seven and only babies have blankies, and now it's gone and you're never going to see it again
ever
!”

Hot on Ruby's heels, Lottie blurted out, “Nat, he
didn't
say that. And it was an accident, OK?”

Tempting though it would have been to walk out of the front door, climb into his car, and drive off, Tyler followed Lottie into the living room. He'd thought nothing could be worse than the sound of Nat's sobbing, but the stunned silence that now greeted him beat it hands down. The little boy, white-faced and trembling with shock, looked as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. In disbelief, he stared up at Tyler and whispered, “You threw it away?”

Tyler nodded and exhaled slowly. “I'm so sorry.”

“In the wheelie trash bin!” Ruby made the pronouncement with relish.

“He didn't mean to,” said Lottie.

“But it didn't fall in by accident, did it?” Her dark eyes widening, Ruby blurted out passionately, “And what's Nat going to do now without his blankie? He'll just
die
!”

“He won't die,” Mario said flatly as Lottie scooped Nat back into her arms and attempted to console him.

Knowing even as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say, Tyler ventured, “Could you not make another, er, blankie? Like maybe a better one?”

Everyone gazed at him in horrified disbelief as if he'd just suggested they all cheer themselves up with a kitten-throwing competition.

“Maybe not.” Tyler's hand moved to his wallet instead. “Look, could I at least give you something to make up for what happened? You could buy yourself—”

“There's no need to do that,” Mario cut in. “Really. We can deal with this. Come on, Nat, let go of Mum now, she needs to get ready to go out.”

“Not with
him
.” Nat's body stiffened and his voice rose. “Mummy, don't go with that man. I want you to stay here with me. I want my blankie back!”

Lottie was clearly torn.

“Look, I think you should stay,” said Tyler. “We'll have dinner another night. I wish there was something I could do to make things better, but I can't. I'll just leave you to it, OK?” It wouldn't have been the happiest of evenings anyway, under the circumstances. Keen to be out of the cottage, Tyler moved toward the door. “And Nat, I really am sorry. If there's anything at all I can do—”

Nat sobbed, his tear-stained face buried in Lottie's shoulder. “G-go away. Go h-home to America. And n-never come b-back.”