“I didn’t want to dump it onto Wendy,” he admitted.
“I get it. Very manly, trying to shoulder it all. But she might actually want to be consulted, did you think of that? If she doesn’t, hey, she’s a writer, she can be trusted to use her words.”
“Okay. I see that.” He winced. “I blew it pretty much all the way around.”
“Nope, I don’t think so. Nobody’s in the hospital. Or the slammer. Given that as a baseline, I’d say you’re doing okay so far. But hey, you’ve got potential backup besides Wendy, in Joey Hu, and you know the old saw about how it takes a village to raise a kid. Doris, too—she taught high school for years. What she doesn’t know about teens might fit into a thimble. A tiny one. This, right here, is what ‘takes a village’means.”
“But I don’t really know the guy. I feel like a whining dolt to call him cold just to lay personal problems on him, or his wife, who I saw for about ten seconds.”
“They are both used to dealing with school issues, which includes parents. And absent parents. I found out that Joey gets shifter kids sent to him a lot. I’d say, give him the lowdown. If he doesn’t want to deal, he’ll say so, but I’ll lay you a hundred to one he’s dealt with this situation before.”
“Okay, I’m convinced. I’ll do that.”
“Good. Soooo, how’s your sex life?”
“Mom!”
“Just sayin’, Wendy deserves the best. Heart of gold, that girl. It fried my eggs, watching her having to deal with that jackwagon Bill Champlain, before she finally got the courage to dump his sorry butt. Judging by the way Bill talks to, and about, women, though they had a kid together, I’ll lay you another bet, athousandto one, that he was so terrible in the sack that she up and revirginated.”
“Believe me, there are no problems in that department. None! Nada!”
“She did say that on a scale from one to ten, you were a fifty, but I just wanted to make sure the two of you were on the same page.” Godiva’s rusty chuckle crackled over the phone.
Alejo smacked his hand over his forehead, looked around to make sure no grandkids were lurking outside the truck with its windows shut tight, and let out a sigh. “I know you are looking forward to being a grandma, and you’ll be the best in the world—”
“You betcher booty I will!”
“But promise me, you will not ask about their sex lives untilat leastthey graduate from college! Better yet, after they turn thirty!”
Another chuckle. “All right, all right.”
Alejo suppressed a laugh that came out more like a groan, asked how his dad was doing—great, thankfully—and they hung up.
TWENTY
WENDY
Wendy’s feet ached after a very busy morning at Linette’s bakery. It seemed everyone in town had a craving for pastry that day. At least her clunker was running all right, once Alejo had gotten in there. Except he kept muttering about wanting to buy her a new car. But she assured him that she didn’t need a new car—she only used that one for school runs and to get to the bakery and back, five miles max. What she really thought was, he did so much already. After her two disasters with contractors, she knew what his labor was worth—and that was before they even got to materials. He was bringing in only the best. No particle board or cheap slats.
Once she got home, the first thing she saw was Alejo. He opened his arms and she walked straight into them, and there were his lips, warm and giving, and all the tiredness leached away, taken in the most deliciously demanding way. Instead of feeling that she could hardly put one aching foot in front of the other, she was ready to spring to the bedroom. And from the light in his eyes, she could see he was, too.
But they would have all night. And tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that. How happy that made her!
“How was your day?” he murmured.
“A busy one. Yours?”
“Sure you want to hear it?”
His tone was a sort of rueful humor, but she sensed a deep regret. “Please,” she said.
They went into her room and sat on the bed together as he unloaded. At the end, he said, low, “Now I’ve ruined everything. I guess I ought to buy a plane ticket, eh?”
“Not unless she wants to go,” Wendy said. “Did she say so?”
“Only that she hates me. Wouldn’t that imply her wanting to get away as fast as she can?”
“I wouldn’t take that as a definite,” she said, aware of a flutter of laughter. “When Sam was little, I heardI hate youat least three or four times a week, mostly at bath time. Though he loved splashing about at the municipal swimming pool, and the beach in summer, he saw no earthly reason why human beings should immerse themselves in bathtubs, and as for washing his hair—that was worse than the torture of a thousand knives.”
