7. Then Comes the Baby in the Baby Carriage
Chapter 7
Then Comes the Baby in the Baby Carriage
A fter the ever so rude interruption of Maddock in his monster truck, I resume my normal routine for the next week: evening feedings and stories with Leonie and sunny autumn mornings where I forget about how the little beastie woke me up numerous times throughout the night. All I can think about is her happy smile, serving coffee and pancakes with the best smile I can muster, rinse and repeat.
I hardly think about Maddock except when the roll-off dumpster service trucks drives past, hauling away load after load from the Tickle estate. An equal number of work trucks go the other way with signage for electricians, plumbers, and carpenters.
I hardly notice him when he enters and exits the Coffee Loft across the street, wearing work boots and a flannel. His stubble makes him look rugged. There must not be a mirror in the chateau.
Not that he needs to look in one to know he’s handsome.
Not that I think that.
But I’m looking in the mirror right now, wondering if that line next to my left eye used to be there. Pfft. Pageant queen? More like pancake queen and I don’t mind.
Not much.
Though sometimes, I wouldn’t mind having someone ... you know, a special person. One I could ask about is whether this wrinkle makes me look old or if this skirt makes my butt look big. I already know the answers, but would it be so bad for someone to love me so much that they’d tell me I’m beautiful? To love me despite the imperfections?
Leonie lets out a roar from her spot, bolstered on the bed. I playfully pounce, giving her tickles and nuzzles. She’s the sweetest little pea and I’m lucky that she landed on my doorstep.
She simultaneously helps me forget the stack of unopened bills, the letters from my mother, and the little itch in the back of my mind that so desperately wants to be scratched.
“Not today, Maddock,” I singsong to Leonie even though she has no idea what I’m saying ... and I have no idea how I’m feeling other than conflicted about how much I liked when his gaze strayed to me ... and the pit of disappointment inside when it didn’t.
To distract myself, I do the “This Little Piggy” song while gently pinching my little girl’s toes. Content for a moment, I pack up her diaper bag for the day. My phone buzzes and I read the message from Mara. All three of her kids have the stomach bug. That means no sitter today.
“Since they don’t make hazmat suits that fit five-month-olds, it’s take your daughter to work day,” I say to Leonie, trying to muster up enthusiasm.
My shoulders sink, but I tell myself I can conquer this single motherhood gig without succumbing to illegal activities. Sure, it’s all I know, but there is another way. A better way than my mother’s role modeling.
I won’t land in jail, leaving Leonie to fend for herself.
But today will require some creativity of the not-illegal sort.
My single-wide isn’t far from the Laughing Gator Grille, but I need to bring reinforcements, so I pack the Porsche full of baby accouterments, including her swing, jumper, activity mat, and bouncer.
Then I call in backup.
Molly eyes my red Porsche Spyder. It’s among the top ten fastest models ever made and there’s no way she’s getting behind the wheel. I rarely do these days.
Yes, I trust her more with the baby. Leonie is nestled safely in her stroller. I will not be held responsible if Molly runs over Mrs. Halfpenny’s “dog,” Frodo.
While I review the rules, her phone beeps incessantly.
She says, “I accept payment on my new app: PayMo.”
“My flip phone doesn’t host apps.”
She bunches up her lips. “Will you make me cream brool?”
I huff. “Yes. Fine. I’ll make you crème br?lée. But this is the last time. Eggs are getting expensive.”
“And so am I,” Molly sasses back.
“Well, if Chick Jagger would do his job, maybe your hens would start producing more chicks you could open a farm stand.”
She looks from side to side. “Um, the mayor is in meetings out of town.”
“Your rooster is in meetings out of town?”
“He has important assemblies and summits to attend.” Her phone beeps again.
“You don’t know where he is, do you?”
“It’s not like I’m his assistant. He has business to take care of. So do we. Are we going to the Grille or not?” Her phone rings this time. No doubt, it’s Roxanne.
I point to her device. “Check that now. No talking or texting while walking.”
“Okay, sidewalk police,” she mutters. The call goes to voicemail, but Molly reviews the messages. Her eyes light up with the kind of fervor that tells me she just got some juicy gossip.
“Um, I’ve gotta go. Sorry. I’ll take a rain check on the cream brool.”
“But you didn’t even help me.”
“It’s early. You interrupted my beauty sleep.” She dashes off, phone to her ear.
I rock back, wondering how I’m going to get myself, the baby, and all her gear to the restaurant. I’ve already cut back the weekend hours. The Coffee Klatch—or Klatch for short, what the group of old timers call themselves even though they drink sweet tea—who camp out and complain about low crop yields and weevils weren’t too pleased about that. But it’s Wednesday and the guys are going to be lined up and cantankerous if the front door isn’t unlocked in ten minutes.
“Who else can I call?” I zip through my mental list of contacts.
A truck rolls by with out-of-state plates. The taillights glow and the rise and fall of a tinny voice comes through the vehicle’s sound system, rude during this early hour.
No surprise, it’s Maddock and he must be on a call. During the Hogwash Hunt, cars stop at the entrance to Sunnyside Mobile Home Park & Campground all the time because the cell service drops off on the Tickle property and beyond.
I start pushing the stroller toward the truck and then stop. Nope. I’m not going to bother him. He’s busy.
Turning back, I tell myself I’ll return for Leonie’s stuff later. She’ll be content in the stroller for a little while.
On cue, she fusses. One of her socks is missing. Of course. I tickle her foot, earning a little laugh, and replace the sock.
Making a U-turn with the stroller, I approach Maddock’s truck as his voice booms through the speaker. Sounds like an important call.
“Never mind. We’ll find another way.” I’m about to turn around again, when the unmistakable sound of a power window lowers, followed by him calling, “Honey!”
I freeze. Been caught. Leonie’s little face wrinkles, the precursor to a cry. This is her active time and she’s been in the stroller too long without movement or stimulation.
Biting my lip, I raise my hand with a slight wave—the kind you give a neighbor when you can’t, or don’t want to, stop to talk.
“What are you doing here?” he asks from on high in his fancy truck.
“I live here.” And I’m not ashamed, despite what Jesse said about me belonging on Marais Way. It’s not even one of my dreams. I’d be satisfied with plumbing that doesn’t leak.
He looks around, expression mild.
“Early for a walk. The sun is hardly up.”
“On my way to work.”
He peers into the carriage. “With a baby?”
I shift from foot to foot, not wanting to explain my predicament. Yes, I need a family-friendly car. But since I’m stuck with the Porsche until Leonie is old enough to safely and legally sit in the two-seater, it’s travel by foot or borrow a vehicle.
Just then, Leonie decides to roar her way into the conversation.
Maddock does the one thing I don’t want him to do. He opens the truck’s door and approaches us. His close-cropped brown hair is clean like he cares. He wears faded denim jeans and a flannel over a T-shirt as if he wants to seem like he doesn’t care that much.
“What do we have here?” He approaches cautiously like one would an actual lioness and her cub.
“This is Leonie.”
Face contorted as if he’s afraid he might catch cooties, Maddock cranes his neck. “She has pipes.”
“Yes, and she’s about to wake up the neighborhood. No one wants Mrs. Halfpenny’s dog barking at this hour.” I gently rock the stroller to soothe the baby.
“She doesn’t turn off at night?”
“Are you talking about the baby or the dog?”
He chuckles.
I quickly explain that the deputy sheriff gets a panicked call once a month from Mrs. Halfpenny and has to surreptitiously change out Frodo’s triple-As.
Maddock runs his hand through his hair. “Only in Hugwash Holler.”
“Hogwash,” I correct as the sun peeks through the buildings in the east, meaning the clock is ticking—on Leonie and the opening hour.
“I still say that it sounds to me like you’re saying Hugwash.”
I can practically see the Klatch fuming from here. “Sounds to me like you’re not going to get pancakes today.”
He pumps his hands. “Are you this sassy because you woke up on the wrong side of the bed or is it because you haven’t yet had coffee?”
Despite my threat, I can’t afford to turn away business. I shoot him a sharp glare and expect one in return. Instead, he wears a smirky, smoldery smile as if he’s figuring out what makes me tick.
Relenting, I say, “Will you help me?”
His eyebrow arches and his eyes dart from the Coffee Loft down the street to my house.
“I mean with the baby.” The request comes out of desperation with Leonie having already pulled the pin on her itty bitty baby grenade and the Klatch being a reliable source of a daily twenty dollars.
We already had a falling out once over me being too headstrong and stubborn for my own good. Mrs. Daley more or less made things right. I’m on thin ice as it is with the Klatch.
Maddock’s eyes widen. “You want my help? What’s the magic word?”
“Never mind.”
Leonie doesn’t like this and starts wailing. Forgetting about Maddock, I coo and coddle her until she decommissions the nuclear event.
He slowly backs away. Good. I don’t need his help. But as the sun reflects off the Porsche, I’m reminded that I really, really do.
Turning around, I call, “Please, will you help me?”
He halts, hand on the door of the truck. His eyes land on me and with the way the early morning sun glows, I almost trick myself into thinking they spark.
“Can you please push the stroller to the restaurant?”
He straightens. “Uh. Yeah. No. Probably not. I’m not equipped.”
“It’s right there.” I point.
“Looks like you have a line forming at the front door already.”
I continue to gently rock Leonie in the carriage. “Exactly. You have long legs. It’ll take you two minutes tops to get there.”
“What if she starts crying again?” He steps closer, gazing at the baby as if assessing a digital clock counting down to detonation.
“I’ll be there waiting for you,” I assure him.
“I take it you’re going to drive over there?” He eyes the Porsche.
“Yes. I have a bunch of stuff to bring. That way, I can open, pour the Klatch their sweet tea, and get everything set up for her. So will you?” Desperate now, I tip my head toward the carriage.
“How about I drive,” he says.
“Um, my vehicle isn’t exactly street-legal.” I cough-whisper the last part.
He raises an eyebrow. “I see.”
“You neither saw nor heard anything.”
He lets out a long breath as if resigning himself to helping me.
The sun dapples the top of the stroller and I pull the little shade up so it doesn’t get in her eyes. This brings with it a cascade of dangling toys and she lets out a happy coo.
“She’s content. Will you please push her there?”
Maddock pockets his keys, looks around as if checking to make sure no one is about to witness this, and rolls his fingers as he grips the stroller’s handlebar.
My lips ripple with amusement. “Is a big bad firefighter like you afraid of a baby?”
He tucks his chin. “What? No?”
I sense a question in his voice.
She kicks her feet, sending a sock sailing. I stash it in the cupholder for now.
I clap him on the back. “You can do this.”
“Yeah, of course. Duh. No big deal.”
It sounds like he’s talking himself into it, which doesn’t give me a lot of confidence.
Drawing a deep breath to drum up some of my own, I say, “This is how it’s going to work. I’m going to drive a quarter of a mile to the restaurant. You’re going to push Leonie, sing nursery rhymes, and enjoy it.” And hopefully, our deputy sheriff will continue to look the other way if he runs my plates and sees that my registration is expired.
It’s not because I defy the law. More like I don’t have the cash to pay the fees.
Squinting, Maddock asks, “What’s in it for me?”
“Aside from spending time with my adorable baby?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Babies smell.”
“They smell amazing like—” But there are no words to describe Leonie’s sweet baby scent.
He wrinkles his nose as if to remind me about dirty diapers.
“Most of the time,” I mutter, recalling the close call last week in Missy’s Corolla.
Looking down the street, Maddock seems to measure the distance. I’m running out of time. The Klatch will either riot and break the Grille’s windows or call in a wellness check, which will unnecessarily bring Jesse into the situation. He’s already overlooked the fact that my vehicle’s registration is expired and we won’t discuss the lapsed insurance policy. That’s a problem for another day.
“Look both ways when you cross the street. Watch for cracks in the sidewalk.” I’m suddenly nervous about Maddock pushing the carriage.
“Exactly how much time do you spend in Hogwash?” he asks.
My meeting out of town was the first time I’d left in a month. I point to the farm road to our left and Shady Lane, the slightly less overgrown road that leads to the Tickle estate and beyond, to my right. “There’s a road right there and you never know what kind of beast mobile might come barreling down here.”
He lets out a slightly annoyed breath.
I smile. “Obey the speed limits.”
He shakes his head slightly and sets off, pushing the stroller. Ignoring how I’m inexplicably attracted to this man, like a race day, I spring into action, sliding behind the wheel like the pro I used to be. Maddock and Leonie are only halfway to the restaurant by the time I get there. That might be a record other than the time Mrs. Halfpenny called to tell me someone was on the restaurant’s roof. Turns out it was Chick Jagger. Now that I think of it, that was the last time we saw the mayor. Don’t worry, I ushered him down to safety.
Once parked, I wave my hands, okay, flail like there’s a fire, as I rush toward the Klatch. “I’m coming.”
Hank grunts. “I was starting to consider heading over to the Coffee Loft.”
“They don’t sell sweet tea,” I say, ushering them inside.
“They don’t have a counter like this either,” Dick says, thankfully on my side.
Buck adds, “But Tallula always opens on time.”
“It won’t happen again,” I say as Maddock and the carriage come into view.
I could carry out the duties of opening this place in my sleep—I did once, early on when Leonie came into my care, and I hadn’t gotten used to the late-night interruptions. Everything is on and operational, mostly, when I hear Antoine’s old Plymouth rumble into the rear lot.
Clapping my hands, the old timers proceed with their klatching and I hold open the door for the stroller which Maddock pushes like he’s on the wrong side of a steamroller. Leonie wails and I scoop her up, wave Maddock off, and flip on the grill at the same time, Antoine asks, “Where’s the fire? I just saw the firefighter run down the street.”
“Running away is more like it. He might be afraid of babies. Or allergic. I didn’t ask.”
Antoine chuckles and takes Leonie, bouncing her. The guy has five kids, which includes a set of twins, so I don’t give him the baby safety spiel.
His two-minute morning greeting with her affords me time to get all of Leonie’s gear from the car. I’m panting and out of breath all morning, but the rest of the day is me rotating her from my arms to the various hand-me-down bouncers, saucers, and baby activity centers I’ve set up behind the counter, making it so I have to pass through an obstacle course when Mr. Soto comes in for his afternoon milkshake.
By the time Antoine shuts off the grill and says goodbye, I contemplate spending the night right here. My feet ache, my hair frizzes, and I’m frazzled, but the baby is as animated as ever.
At least she’s not crying.
“We made it.” I rub my dry eyes. “Survived the day.”
Then the door jingles. I forgot to lock it and turn off the bright overhead lights and flip over the Open sign. Maybe I can fire up the restaurant in my sleep, but not shut it down for the day ... at least not while looking after a baby.
“We’re closed,” I call.
Footsteps approach.
I pop up and nearly collide with Maddock who’s peering over the counter.
He’s tall, but so am I. Still, I have to lift my gaze to meet his eyes. It’s like he wishes he could tower over me. Maddock is the kind of guy who’s used to being in charge and having women tripping over him.
Well, not this woman. Instead, I’m flipping and flapping over him, which I still can’t quite explain, but the twitchiness inside just won’t quit.