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“Don’t be. That’s what babies do. It’s no big deal. Oh, and I’ll be sure to launder your jeans and put them back in your closet.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Feel free to keep them. They’ll likely never fit me again.”
She breaks into a smile. “That is so lovely of you!”
Before strapping my baby into her stroller, she kisses her again. Isa gurgles.
An unexpected pang of jealousy zips through me.
Am I jealous that Nurse Marley looks better in my skinny jeans than I ever did?
Or am I more jealous that my daughter seems so happy and comfortable in her arms?
TWENTY-TWO
NED
This weekend has been the weekend from hell.
Yesterday, I lost my tennis match to Gabe. He trounced me—an embarrassing 60—and I had to buy him breakfast. On the way home from the Beverly Hills Hotel, I drove over a nail and got a flat. Do you think yours truly could change a tire? Put on a spare? I couldn’t even find it in the trunk of my Porsche. So, I had to call the AAA for emergency roadside assistance and wait forty-five minutes for them to show up and fix it.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I got home two hours later, my insipid mother-in-law was there. Smoking like a chimney and drinking my premium bourbon. I told her to smoke outside, but she said she would only do that if I brought the rest of her luggage to her room. I don’t know what she brought along, but her bags weighed a ton and I pulled a muscle in my back. It was killing me all day, and when I was about to ask Nurse Marley for therapeutic advice, hoping she’d offer a massage, the baby had a crying fit. After feeding Isa, which calmed her, and putting my daughter down for the night, she went home. The deal we made allows her to leave at 7 p.m. on Saturdays so she can have the rest of the weekend off.
So last night I could hardly sleep because every time the baby cried, I had to get out of bed with my aching back to help Ava feed her. And now it’s Sunday, and I feel like crap. I’m totally wiped out and my back is still killing me despite taking a hot shower and downing Motrin. And I have to help Ava again with the baby because it’s Nurse Marley’s day off. You’d think Ava’s drunk of a mother would be good for something, but she’s not. All she does is sit on the couch with a bourbon and blast the big-screen television. One grating Evangelist show after another.
To make things worse, I have a ton of work to do before I go to my office tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long, stressful week—I’ve got a gazillion fires to put out plus a big meeting with our potential Japanese investors, who are still in town, to hopefully close the deal. I’ve got to get all my ducks in a row.
Drained and distracted, I can’t concentrate on their offer. I keep reading the first paragraph, but the words are all mumbo jumbo. All I can think about is Nurse Marley Manners. How much I would love her to massage my aching back.
Closing my weary eyes, I begin to fantasize our spectacular nanny’s fingers doing their magic when the clickety-clack of heels across the hardwood floor brings me to a screeching halt. My eyes snap open.
It’s my mother-in-law. Why didn’t I lock the door? A wry smile is splayed on her face. An unlit cigarette seesaws between her fingers. And she reeks of tobacco.
“Oh, am I interrupting something important?”
I catch my breath and clear my throat. “Just going over a contract.” I lower my eyes and pretend I’m reading it. Mostly to ignore her. I steeple my hands on my desk as if in prayer, hoping she’ll go away.
My prayers aren’t heard. She doesn’t disappear. She’s something between a leech and a cockroach.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“If you’re not too busy, I’d like to talk to you about something.”
Still avoiding her gaze, I absentmindedly flip a page. “Can it wait?”
“No. It can’t wait.” She punctuates each word. As if this imperious woman is my boss and I’m at her beck and call. I finally meet her gaze.
“Have a seat.” With a jut of my chin, I motion to the two armchairs facing my rosewood desk.
Rigid as a rod, she holds her head high. “I’d rather stand.”
“Be my guest. Make it snappy because I don’t have a lot of time. I’m expecting an important call from my investors abroad.” Sue me; I’ve lied.
“Fine.” She fires the word at me like a spitball. “I’ll get right to the point.” A brief pause, then, “I need seventy-five.”
Christ. Here we go again. I should have known she’s here for me to bail her out of her financial woes. More specifically, to take care of her latest gambling debt.
I inwardly groan. “Seventy-five hundred?”
