“Cloretta?”
“Yeah. I wonder if she’s available now?”
Gayle turned to him with a look of horror. “You aren’t considering Cloretta Waddle as a possible full-time caretaker for Meggie?”
“Why not? Bob Barrett always talked about how efficient she was. He said she was clean. Sensible. I think he even told me the woman used to be a nurse.”
“That woman used to be a Panzer tank,” Gayle practically shouted, “and just because she’s strapped an apron around her middle that doesn’t mean she can take care of my grandchild on a daily basis!”
“Shh. You’ll wake Meggie.”
“Sorry. But you listen—” Gayle hissed, grabbing Sam’s arm and hauling him around the corner into the kitchen as if he were still five years old. She flipped on every last one of the recessed lights. Sam knew his mother hated his dark, sleek kitchen. But he liked the shimmering stainless steel, the professional chef-style gas stove, the massive nickel fixtures.
Gayle whirled to face him. “Cloretta Waddle ran the Barrett household like an absolute drill sergeant. You cannot possibly be serious about bringing her into your home.”
Gayle watched as Sam rammed his fingers through his thick blond hair again. His frustration level was definitely peaking. Putting Meggie to bed could try anyone’s patience, but it was this whole situation that was killing him. In the twenty-four hours since he’d found out Andrea was ill, he’d probably repeated that gesture so often that it was a miracle he wasn’t bald.
He flipped off several of the lights, then jerked open his massive side-by-side—black, naturally—built-in refrigerator and started pulling out shaved ham, cheese, mustard. “As I recall, Bob Barrett told me that Mrs. Waddle is a licensed practical nurse who is trained to care for children.”
“Trained to care for children is one thing. Doing it kindly is quite another.”
He turned to his mother, his rugged features, highlighted by the cold light from the refrigerator, looking older than his years. “Mom, look. I can’t exactly be picky here. Meggie is upstairs right now—” he pointed at the kitchen stairs “—and just getting her tucked in wore me out. I have got to have somebody here—tomorrow. The investors are in town. Men like Mr. Yoshida do not understand the concept of a family crisis, and they do not like to be ignored.”
Gayle’s heart clutched at the worry and sadness etched in her son’s face. He had withstood so much. Lord, when will it end? “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I will keep Meggie tomorrow.”
“And what about the next day? And the next? Andrea is going to be sick for a long time and you can’t stay away from your work forever. Now, let’s think. How can we find out if this Cloretta Waddle is still around Tulsa?”
Gayle took the sandwich things from him and placed them on the center island. “We simply must find a better solution.” She tried to keep her tone from sounding overbearing, but she knew how her son tended to act in a crisis. Just like his father. Efficient to the point of ruthlessness. And sometimes that efficiency vanquished things of greater importance—like Meggie’s contentment and happiness, for example. Putting Meggie in the hands of Cloretta Waddle would be like putting a wild bunny rabbit in the hands of an ape. “Sam, that woman is not an appropriate match for a sensitive child like Meggie.”
“Then exactly what do you suggest?”
“I told you, I will keep Meggie myself.” She found a knife in a militarily neat utensil drawer.
Sam sighed. They had tried this arrangement before on one of Meggie’s summer visits. His mother had raised four rowdy sons almost single-handedly while his father had been off building his legal dynasty. Sam, being the youngest of the Solomon sons, felt the most strongly that his mother deserved some peace and quiet—or at least the luxury of pursuing her own interests for once in her life. It bugged him that he was the one who seemed to call on her for help the most often. His brothers and their wives were all too involved in their high-powered careers to help with Meggie. His mom seemed like the only one in the family who had time for Meggie and her problems. Yet, every time Gayle took over with Meggie, Sam ended fighting a roaring case of the guilts.
“Mom, are you telling me that you are going to drive across town to my house at the crack of dawn every weekday, then haul Meggie around to school and her therapy and her various activities in your minivan?”
“Absolutely.” Gayle calmly spread mustard on two slices of bread.
Sam threw up his hands, then planted them on his belt. “And then I suppose you’ll go home and somehow find the energy to pursue your photography, which, I’d like to remind you, is going rather well these days.”
“Oh, poo.” Gayle flapped her palm at him. “Let’s be honest. My photography is merely a hobby.”
“You’ve been winning awards, selling some stuff at art fairs. And what about your trip to Belize?”
“My photography is not going so well that I’d turn my helpless granddaughter over to a battle-ax like Cloretta Waddle.”
“I hardly think the woman is a battle-ax.” Sam rubbed his brow. But that was a lie. Three hundred pounds if she was an ounce, Cloretta sported kinky gray curls that looked rubberized, wore hideous flowered polyester pantsuits and size-twelve white nursing oxfords. She topped it all with a perpetual scowl. Okay. So what if Cloretta was a bit of a stereotypical battle-ax nanny? “It wouldn’t hurt Meggie to come under a firm disciplinary hand for once.”
“Oh, really? What good would that do? Discipline or not, Meggie is always going to be age three, mentally.”
“But she doesn’t have to be a bratty, unmanagable age three,” Sam argued. He had long worried about the fact that Andrea spoiled their child to pieces, but he felt powerless to change that when he only had Meggie for short visits three times a year. But now, for the foreseeable future, their little terror Meggie was going to be his sole responsibility. He didn’t exactly have a ton of options here. “I’m calling Bob Barrett.”
Gayle stopped making the sandwich and clapped her hands once. “Wait! I know who we need!” She darted in front of Sam on his way to the built-in kitchen desk. “Christy Lane! Do you have a phone book?”
“Who?” Sam followed his mother as she turned and charged to the desk. The name Christy Lane had a familiar ring.
“The Pearsons’ nanny. That child is delightful! Very creative. Does origami and stuff like that with the Pearson children. Why, she actually gives those kids piano lessons.”
“Mom, Meggie doesn’t need piano lessons and origami. She needs constant management and close supervision.”
“Meggie has the right to have fun just like any other child. And from what I hear, Christy Lane is an absolute bundle of fun. Lou said she is adorable.” Gayle was rapidly opening and closing cabinet doors above the desk.
“Lou who?” Sam said.
“Trustworthy. Kind. Talented. Lou can’t say enough good things about her. The girl is a regular Mary Poppins.”
Finding Sam’s cupboards predictably bare, Gayle started opening the desk drawers. “Where on earth do you keep the phone books in this house?”
Sam wondered how his mother knew so much about this Christy Lane woman. “If this nanny is so special, won’t the Pearsons be determined to keep her?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. The Pearsons don’t actually need a nanny. All Amy Pearson does is shop. Ah-ha!” She pulled a Tulsa telephone directory out of a drawer.
“I swear, every time I pass through Dillard’s at Utica Square, there’s good old Amy,” Gayle muttered as she flipped the pages of the phone book. “Pawing