“Nathan, want juice?” Harrison asked warily Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN EPILOGUE Copyright
“Nathan, want juice?” Harrison asked warily
“No!”
“Banana?”
“No!”
“Sesame Street?” he offered recklessly.
“No!”
“A fully funded college account?”
“No! ”
“Bad decision, kid. I’m a man of my word.”
Harrison stepped over a diaper box, detoured around his rearranged furniture and surveyed the remnants of his living room. So this was the way parents lived. If he could bring order into the chaotic lives of parents, he was a sure candidate for a Nobel prize. Possibly two. They’d make a movie of his life. They’d erect statues in his honor. Children would be named after him. Political parties would court him. There would be Harrison Rothwell action figures.
Yes, life would be sweet—once he had it organized.
Dear Reader,
I had fun remembering my two sons as babies when I wrote The Bachelor and the Babies. I have firsthand experience with most of Harrison’s adventures, from the teething to the ominous cleanup announcements over the grocery store intercoms. And they say plastic mustard containers are unbreakable—ha! But stores love me now. The boys are teenagers and they still eat every two hours!
I hope you enjoy reading about mothering—from a man’s point of view!
Best wishes,
The Bachelor and the Babies
Heather MacAllister
To Sandy Weider,
in gratitude for coming to so many autographings over the years, and for carpooling to the meetings. Now whose turn is it to drive?
CHAPTER ONE
“BUT I have to see Harrison Rothwell. Now’s a good time for me. It’ll just take a minute.”
The insistent female voice vibrating through the closed door to Harrison’s office sounded vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for him to break off his telephone call.
Renewing his concentration, he closed his eyes and swiveled his office chair so that he faced the windows overlooking the flat vista of Houston, Texas.
“Now, Harrison, if we do take your Rules of Time Management back for a fifth printing, we’d like to tell marketing that a sequel is in the works.”
“Felicia, I said all I have to say about corporate time management in that book. I already tweaked the chapter on fax machines and cellular phones and until we get widespread video phones, there’s nothing further to add.”
“Then how about something different?”
“What have you got in mind?”
His publisher drew a breath and Harrison visualized her gearing up for her sales pitch.
“Three words—domestic time management.” Felicia waited, obviously expecting a reaction.
Yes. Harrison had already toyed with the idea of expanding into the domestic market. Even now, clones of his time-management programs were cutting into his company’s seminar and training business, however, it strengthened his negotiating position if Felicia thought he was reluctant. He waited, letting the silence work for him.
“I can’t make an appointment for later. I’ll be sleeping later,” sounded clearly outside his door. “Our schedules aren’t meshing, here.”
So much for working the silence. Harrison winced and covered the telephone mouthpiece hoping that Felicia hadn’t heard.
What was that woman still doing out in his reception area? He was surprised that his assistant hadn’t been able to evict the unwanted visitor. Sharon was usually very efficient in guarding Harrison’s time from salespeople and the like. This person didn’t have an appointment, Harrison knew, because he’d allocated ten more minutes to his current phone call, fifteen minutes to return more calls, then ten minutes to review notes before the Friday staff meeting. No appointments until after lunch.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Felicia prompted.
“Domestic time management?” he repeated, trying to ignore the arguing going on outside his door.
“Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve helped corporations desperate to increase efficiency with fewer personnel. How about some help on the home front? People are horribly overscheduled. Stress is king. Everyone is doing more and enjoying it less. They need downtime, Harrison. And you’re the man to help them get it.”
“It’s a very tempting idea,” he said slowly, as if he needed more persuasion. “Let me draw up some notes and—”
He was interrupted by a. pounding on his door. “Harrison, tell your secretary to let me in!”
“Harrison? Is everything all right?” his publisher asked.
“Ah, let me get back to you, Felicia.”
Disconnecting the call, he strode toward the door and flung it open. A woman with dark curls backed against him. He inhaled an unfamiliar perfume mingled with traces of cigarette smoke before setting her on her feet.
She whirled around, her hair flying. “Hey, Harry, how’s it going?”
Harrison found himself staring into the defiant brown eyes of Carrie Brent, the nemesis of the White Oak Bayou Condominium Residents’ Board—the same board of which he was a member. “What’s this all about, Carrie?”