Chapter 4
Monday morning came at Jonah Lawson like a freight train with no brakes and a vendetta.
Atlas had been up twice in the night—once at one-fifteen, screaming like an eagle, and again at four, doing that low, hitching whimper that was somehow worse than the screaming because it meant he couldn’t settle.
Both times, Jonah had paced the ground floor of the Summer House in the dark, bouncing his son against his chest and murmuring the kind of nonsense that only a sleep-deprived father could produce.
“You’re fine, buddy. You’re totally fine. We’re all fine. Everything is fine.”
Liar. Nothing was fine. Atlas was warm and cranky and kicking like he knew it was Monday and Daddy had to go to work.
And there was no Mommy.
“Welcome to this millennium, kid. We’re on the single-parent treadmill together.”
By six-thirty, Atlas had finally surrendered to sleep in the crib he’d recently been moved to in his very own room across the hall. Jonah had even held a tiny “graduation” ceremony for him, but the humor had been lost on an infant.
Right now, Jonah had exactly ninety minutes to shower, eat something, review his notes for Broussard’s lecture, and get to Northwest Florida State College in Niceville before the most exacting chef-instructor decided to make an example of whoever walked in late.
He showered in four minutes, pulled on jeans and a pullover that passed the smell test, and checked on Atlas, who was sleeping with his arms flung wide and his mouth open like a chunky starfish.
Jonah stood there for five seconds longer than he should have, watching his son’s chest rise and fall, feeling the thing he always felt—that swelling, stupefying love that sat right next to the fear that he was going to screw this up.
He stepped away, checking his watch to confirm he had time to eat and do a hand-off to…
He murmured a curse. To who?
Upstairs, the main floor was quiet. Too quiet.
The kitchen, which on any given morning was a revolving door of family members making coffee and arguing about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher, was empty.
The coffee maker was on, the pot nearly gone, but no one was sitting at the island, no one was out on the deck, no one was anywhere.
Jonah poured the dregs into a travel mug and pulled out his phone, scrolling back to last night’s texts.
Right. There it was. Meredith, ten-forty-seven p.m.
Meredith: Leaving early for Lakeside. Like, crack of dawn early. You’ll need to find someone for Atlas. Sorry. You’ve got this!!!
Three exclamation points. His sister’s enthusiasm for a spreadsheet was one thing, but using unnecessary punctuation to soften the news that she was abandoning him was a bold move for Miss Perfect.
He took a sip of coffee and ran through the mental roster.
Dad would be at Lakeside, too. It was the first day of the big project for Pippin…whatever they did.
Aunt Vivien. He vaguely recalled her mentioning something about a meeting with a new client to stage an “upscale waterfront rental.” Okay. Rich people’s condos waited for no soon-to-be chef.
“All right, all right.” He breathed the words.
Aunt Crista? He took a few steps through the house to the back hallway toward a shared home office that was nearly always in use.
Today, it was quiet. In the guest suite across the hall where Crista was staying with little Nolie, he saw a bed neatly made with military precision.
Oh, yes. She mentioned going to the bungalow to… do something with…something.
Dang. Atlas had been crying and Jonah hadn’t paid attention, but he should have. His options were way too thin. That left—
“Good morning!” Kate Wylie came down the stairs in a light blue top and white linen pants, her dark auburn hair pulled back to show off a bright red pair of glasses.
Behind her, Emma descended in that careful, contained way she’d been moving since she arrived. She wore AirPods, with her gaze down. He didn’t know her deal, but he recognized teenage armor. He’d worn it for years after his mother died.
“Hey, Kate.” Jonah summoned his most charming, most desperate smile.
“You okay?” she asked.
It must have been more desperate than charming. “Yeah, so, funny thing. I have class in about an hour and I seem to have misplaced my entire support system.”
Kate’s brown eyes softened with understanding. “Of course, Meredith’s gone to Lakeside with Eli.”
“No sign of Vivien or Crista, either.” He made a face. “That leaves…”
Coming to the bottom of the steps, she glanced at Emma.
“We’re doing a girls’ day,” Kate said. “Shopping, sightseeing, taking in this mythical 30A place. Meredith left her car for us and drove to Lakeside with Eli, but I guess we could…take him?”
Emma said nothing, but Jonah read her body language and total lack of enthusiasm for an additional passenger on their outing.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “I’ll figure something out. I should have last night, actually.”
Kate set her bag on the counter and looked at him with the practical gaze of a woman who solved problems for a living. “Honestly, we could stay home with him.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no. Anyway, he was up half the night, all fussy and clingy. I’m not going to strap you guys with that.”
“What about Maggie?” Kate suggested. “And my mother? I don’t think they’re doing anything today but resting from a busy weekend.”
Babysitting Atlas was not…restful. Plus, he wasn’t crazy about the idea of handing over his most prized possession to two nearly eighty-year-old women, regardless of how much he loved and trusted his grandmother.
“They raised five kids between them,” Kate reminded him, reading his expression. “With nary a bottle warmer or video monitor in sight.”
“I don’t know…” But what he did know? Time was ticking away.
“Go ask them,” Kate urged him. “Emma and I will wait until you’ve sorted it all out.”
“I’ll get a Pop-Tart,” Emma said, walking toward the pantry.
With a nod, he headed to the garage and took the stairs to the apartment two at a time, remembering how he and Dad had built out the unit during the month when he was trying to get his life together.
That seemed like eons ago—Carly was alive and pregnant in California, Kate helped him apply to the culinary program, and Dad had been by his side when Jonah threatened to spiral into the old Mom grief that wrecked him.
He had such a different world now. One with a whole new set of problems and challenges. Mom grief had been replaced by Carly grief, but it eased with each passing day.
He knocked twice and opened the door.
“Everybody up and decent?” he called.
The living area was small and bright, with windows that let in the morning sun. There wasn’t a Gulf view up here, but blue sky and tips of palm trees that made the place feel like a tropical getaway—and nobody’s “old-age home.”
Jo Ellen was on the sofa with a heating pad wedged behind her lower back, reading something on her tablet. Now that looked a little old-age home-y.
“Jonah! What a nice surprise. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee? I was going to brew Maggie’s when she gets up but I can make a pot.”
His grandmother wasn’t even awake yet? That didn’t bode well.
“No, thanks, I just…” He swallowed. “Need a babysitter.”
“Of course! Bring him up. We would love nothing more.”
He eyed the electric cord to the heating pad and the pillow-covered sofa, the teacup steaming in front of her. No, Atlas couldn’t crawl yet, but the room was not remotely childproofed and unlike Meredith, neither one of them knew CPR.
“I don’t know, Jo Ellen. It looks like your back is acting up again.”
“Just a little stiff. Nothing that a sweet baby can’t cure.” She waved a hand. “Bring that boy to me. And a bottle, if he hasn’t eaten. Maybe his little rocky thing. Whatever he needs.”
Which would take another twenty minutes to haul up here.
From down the short hallway, he heard movement, and Grandma Maggie appeared in her robe, silver hair pressed flat on one side, Aunt Pittypat tucked under her arm like a furry football.
“What’s all the commotion? It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“It’s seven-fifteen, Grandma. I need help with Atlas. Everyone else is gone.” There was no bush-beating with Maggie Lawson. Direct always worked with her.
Her cornflower blue eyes sharpened with interest. “Ah, so we’re your last resort.”
And she didn’t suffer fools like Jonah, who waited until the very last minute to make childcare arrangements.
“I come because I know that nobody in this family has more experience with babies than you two.”
“Nice recovery,” Jo Ellen murmured from the sofa.
Maggie set Pittypat down—the Yorkie immediately began her morning patrol of the apartment’s perimeter—and crossed her arms. “We’ll take him. I doubt there’s anything a baby can throw at us that we haven’t faced in our lives.”
“Well, you should know he’s been fussy. I don’t know if he’s teething or if it’s the heat or if he’s just decided that sleep is for the weak, but he’s been a handful.”
“Babies are a handful,” Maggie said, with the unshakable certainty of a woman who had seen it all. “Teething can be fixed with a little whiskey on the gums. Works like a charm.”
Jonah stared at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, just a drop!” Jo Ellen chimed in. “Tessa loved it.”
“That explains a lot,” he cracked. “Could we skip the whiskey?”
“Yes, but you have to promise me to relax, Jonah,” Maggie said. “We’ve got this covered and then some.”
Jonah ran a hand through his hair, considering his paltry options. Bring Atlas to school? Skip Chef Broussard’s class? Or…
“Okay. I’ll get him and bring what he needs. There are some instructions, though. He takes at least six ounces every three hours, sometimes more if he’s hungry. Which you’ll know because he’ll—”
“Cry,” Maggie finished. “Jonah, go get him.”
“But he likes to be held upright after he eats or he’ll spit up. And if he gets really worked up, he likes white noise—”