Sycamore Avenue is heaving with morning traffic as I motor my van through the busy intersection, scanning for a parking spot.
Noah’s whines from the backseat accelerate my need for coffee. He’s about as happy to be rushing around town as I am. But the only time I could meet a new client for a quote was at 8 a.m. this morning. Not my usual working hours, but I’m not in a position to turn down potential work.
Now we’re rushing to get back for my next appointment, and this one’s too important to do without coffee.
There’s a loading zone just past Sweet & Strong, which has the best coffee in town, and I pull the van in.
After I hop out, I open the backseat to unbuckle Noah.
“No!” He swipes at me, his forehead pulled down in an angry line. “I stay here.”
“Sorry, buddy. You’ve got to come in with me.” I dodge his flailing limbs, and his whines turn to all-out cries as I pull him from the car seat.
I march with a struggling Noah to the cafe, ignoring the passing stares. I’m too used to it by now. Living in a small town as a single mom means there’s always gossip and eyes following me.
The smell of roasting beans and pastries hits me, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. Rachel sees me and gives me a nod, from one working mom to another. She knows my regular order, and she understands how quickly I need my coffee and how strong.
Noah wiggles in my arms and complains to be let down. I hold him tight, not trusting he won’t run out to the sidewalk, and I don’t have time for a toddler chase today. The little guy is getting fast.
I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand as I wait for my coffee. I was up until midnight last night revising the plans for the Huntington job, which would have been fine if Noah had slept through the night. But he got up twice, which means I need my coffee extra strong.
“And a ham croissant,” I call to Rachel, gaining a cross look from the smartly dressed woman at the front of the line.
I get it. No one likes a line-jumper, but I’m too busy thinking about what the reporter I’m meeting with might ask me and whether the Huntingtons will like the new plan. Not to mention, given Noah’s restless night and general grumpiness today, I’m worried he might be getting sick. With all that on my mind, I’m not about to care what she thinks.
Noah stretches his tubby hands toward the box of colorful toys Rachel keeps in the corner. But I don’t have time to wait for him to play.
“Not today,” I tell him firmly.
Noah goes rigid in my arms and lets out an almighty wail. Every head in the cafe turns our way.
I shrug apologetically. “Toddlers.”
I turn to Rachel as she waves the pay machine at me and swipe my card. A few moments later, she plunks the takeout cup on the counter along with a paper bag carrying the croissant. As Noah’s tantrum starts to build, I shout a thank you and head out the door, wanting to cause as little disruption as possible.
Noah is in full-blown tantrum mode now, his face red and his cries at full pitch. Poor guy is really going for it, and all I can do is wait for his emotions to subside.
As I reach my van, a familiar figure glares at me. “Can’t you control your kid?”
Rowena Evans lives a few houses down the road from me and is just as unpleasant as I remember her being when I was a kid. I never understood why Mom swore under her breath when she was around, but I sure do now.
“He’ll be fine,” I say breezily. “He’s just having a tantrum.”
She glares at me. “What he needs is discipline. Teach him to stop that racket.” Her clipped voice is raised just enough to reach people walking past on the sidewalk.
I rest my coffee cup and paper bag on the top of the van and fish my car keys out of my pocket, which is not easy while holdinga distressed toddler in one arm. Noah wiggles so much that he ends up upside down facing behind me. I keep a firm grip on him as I push past the woman to get to the back door.
“Honestly, I don’t have time for this,” I tell Rowena as I try to maneuver an upside down, backwards, crying toddler into his car seat.
She tuts at me, actually tuts, and my smile stretches to its breaking point.
Being upside down seems to have calmed Noah, because thankfully he stops crying. I kiss his tear-stained cheek as I strap him into his car seat while trying to ignore the women behind me, but she keeps hovering.
“That boy has no discipline without a father.” She pitches her voice so I hear it even as I’m bent over Noah with my head in the car.
My fingers freeze on the car seat buckle as my pulse spikes. Noah sniffs, and his eyes find mine. His tubby face, even tear-stained and red, calms me so that when I straighten up, I don’t punch Rowena Evans in the face.
“This boyis none of your business.”
