Also from Joselyn Vaughn
Chapter One
“Tara, I feel a bit off.”
Tara Mansfield replaced the phone in its cradle and swung her chair around. Leslie Schultz, her boss, pressed her palm against her back, forcing her growing belly to strain against her tailored maternity shirt. She had given up trying to button her suit jacket over her baby bump a month before. Leaning against the door to her office, she said, “Something at lunch didn’t agree with me.”
“You should lie down. Your next appointment isn’t for another twenty minutes.” Tara double-checked the schedule for the accounting office. At the height of tax season, it was almost unheard of to have a twenty minute break. Luckily, they’d had a cancellation this morning. Leslie could use a rest.
Leslie nodded slowly, rubbing her fingertips along the bottom of her stomach. “If I didn’t know better I’d think I was having menstrual cramps.” She winced and hunched forward, clutching the door jamb with white knuckles. Tara dashed toward her, heels sliding on the tiled floor. She grabbed Leslie’s arm and steered her toward the break room where there was a futon. Leslie’s steps wavered until she sank onto the cushion. “At least it comes and goes. Maybe I will lie down for a few minutes.”
Color slowly infused Leslie’s cheeks and Tara breathed a sigh of relief. Leslie couldn’t be going into labor yet. She had more than a month to go, not to mention the three busiest weeks of tax season. They didn’t have a contingency plan for the baby arriving this early. Leslie had to be having those fake contractions. What had Leslie’s husband, Mark, called them? Braxton-Hicks? “Rest for a bit. I’ll get you some water. It will pass.”
Tara opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. Leslie nodded and pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her jacket. “I’ll catch up on some emails while I’m resting.”
“Uh-uh. Hand it over.” Tara offered the water with one hand and held the other out for the device. “It doesn’t count as resting if your eyes are open.”
Leslie reluctantly placed the slim, black device in Tara’s outstretched palm. “You’re worse than Minnie.”
Tara grinned. “If only I were that ballsy. Now put your feet up. At this pace, the Tenaples will be here before you close your eyes.”
Tara returned to her desk and placed the phone on a stack of files, a little surprised Leslie relinquished it so easily. She must be absolutely exhausted. Tara couldn’t imagine working all these hours and being pregnant, too. The phone had been glued to Leslie’s palm since mid-January. It had her appointment schedule, email, and to-do lists. Leslie needed it to keep up with all their appointments and IRS filings for the tax season.
“Let me know as soon as they arrive,” Leslie called from the break room. “No stalling like yesterday.”
Tara had been the receptionist at Knotts Accounting since Leslie purchased the building and started her own accounting firm. Tara had started out answering the phones, but with Leslie’s encouragement, she had taken the tax preparation courses last winter so she could help with the straightforward returns. Leslie was trying to talk her into returning to college for an accounting degree, but Tara hadn’t gotten past the gathering-information-about-programs stage yet. She couldn’t imagine herself going back to school. She had never been college material, not after high school and definitely not twelve years later. The tax seminar had been a breeze, but college with its lectures, exams, and hours of studying… she’d never survive.
“Sure thing.” Tara wiggled her mouse, and the tax return she was working on materialized on her computer screen. Leslie was the last person Tara would have ever expected to be friends with. Leslie was an accountant. She was smart, professional.
No one would mistake Tara for any of those. Until she had returned to Carterville, she’d been a cheerleader for a regional arena football team. Not exactly an intellectually challenging position, but the money was good and she had the right look until they altered the design of the uniforms.
She’d fallen into this position when Leslie’s business had suddenly taken off, and it had worked out. Tara hadn’t expected to actually like doing tax returns, but she seemed to have an affinity for numbers. The details weren’t mind-numbing either. She enjoyed the procedures and order. Tara finished the 1040 and queued it to be reviewed before filing with the IRS that evening.
Tax season was the busiest time of year for accounting firms, and Tara believed Knotts Accounting was the busiest in the county. Their phones rang off the hook and they had a dozen walk-ins each day. Staying until well into the evening wasn’t unusual, and Tara doubted she’d have any free evenings between now and April fifteenth. She hoped Leslie could keep up. Every day her boss looked more sleep-deprived, but she refused to take even an afternoon or a Saturday off.
The third week of March was the calm before the final storm. The people who expected a refund had already filed. The procrastinators and the people who knew they owed money to the government didn’t make appointments until April. As it was, Tara’s calendar was almost full, and they were trying to squeeze in every customer they could between now and the deadline. Tara and Leslie were enjoying this small reprieve as much as they could.
Mark had made Leslie go home at six every night this week. He’d had to physically drag her out of the office while she shoved papers into her briefcase. Last night he’d come close to tossing the leather case back in the office and throwing her over his shoulder. He’d tried to make her take a longer lunch today, but he might as well have held the negotiation with his hammer. Despite their reprieve, this week was crazy busy; next week would be frenzied.
Tara suspected Leslie wasn’t resting as much as she should, given her May fifteenth due date, but she claimed she felt fine. Energized even. Until today, that is.
“Tara!” Leslie called from the back room. Her voice held a frantic tone Leslie never used.
Tara flipped her chair over as she dashed down the hall. Leslie braced herself on the edge of the futon. Her back ramrod straight and her face pale.
“Are you all right?”
“Could you call Mark? I’m pretty sure I just had a real contraction, and it was a doozy.” If it was possible for Leslie’s body to stiffen anymore, it did. She blew out long, slow breaths through clenched teeth. Then her body sagged. “It’s way too early for this.”
“Are you sure it’s not those fake ones?” Tara dropped on the futon beside her. She rubbed Leslie’s shoulders in a slow, circular motion.
“If that was fake, the real thing will kill me.” Leslie slumped against the back of the futon, shifting her hips to a reclining position. Leslie never slouched.
Tara hurried to her desk and grabbed the mobile handset, glad they’d upgraded the phones last fall. She pressed Mark’s preset number and waited for him to answer.
“Hi Mark. This is Tara. Leslie had a contraction.” The words tumbled out. Tara knew Mark wouldn’t care that the message wasn’t polite.
“I’m coming.” Tara thought she heard his work truck engine flare before he hung up.
She didn’t let go of the phone after hearing the dial tone. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she call the hospital? Minnie, Mark’s aunt? Leslie’s doctor? Leslie seemed awfully calm for a woman going into labor two months early, but she handled crises stoically. If Tara had been in her position, she would have been hysterical. People three blocks away would be able to time her contractions.
“Mark’s on his way. Can I get you anything?”
Leslie’s lips tightened. “If you have an epidural stashed in your desk, I’ll take it straight up. Although if I have another contraction, I’m going to ask you to knock me out with a volume of the tax code.”
Tara squeezed Leslie’s shoulder. The bell on the front door rang, and Tara scurried down the hallway, wondering how Mark was able to arrive so quickly. But it wasn’t Mark.
A lanky, sandy haired man on crutches elbowed his way through the door, alternating between pushing the glass door open a
nd inching his crutches forward. He wore a red windbreaker with Lakeshore Track Club embroidered on the chest. Clutched between his left hand and the handle of his crutch was a wad of papers. It wasn’t the worst presentation of receipts she’d seen in the last three months, but it would make the top ten.
She experienced a brief wave of déjà vu. A flash of his face laughing in the dark. Had she seen him before somewhere? His physique didn’t match any of the football players she had been in contact with. Surely the strange bend in his nose would stand out enough in her memory. It gave him a reckless air she found appealing.
“Let me help you with that.” She hurried over to the door and kicked the stopper down to hold it open while she relieved him of the fistful of paper. A quick scan of the parking lot told her Mark’s truck hadn’t arrived yet. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Your sign said walk-ins were welcome.” His voice had a pleasant timbre. Tara didn’t miss the once-over he gave her. She was used to those. It was one of the side-effects of having breast implants not written in the tri-fold brochure from the plastic surgeon: every male and one in three females will stare at your chest. At times, Tara wanted to wear a name-tag that said ‘and yes, they are fake' under her name.
“Walk-ins are always welcome. We have a small break in the rush right now, so why don’t you have a seat by my desk?” Tara released the door then made her way around her desk and righted her chair.
The man put the two crutches together and gingerly lowered himself into the seat. He kept his left leg extended, and Tara could see the outline of a brace around his knee through his warm-up pants. She dropped the pile of receipts into the middle of her desk and opened a new client file on her computer.
“Have you been here before?” When he answered in the negative, Tara said, “Okay. Then we’ll need to go through the basics first. I’ll need all your vital stats.”
“Excuse me?”
“Name, address, phone number, etc.”
“Oh, I thought you meant age, weight, heart rate, and blood pressure. Guess I’ve been to too many doctors lately. Ryan Grant.” He rattled off an address she recognized as one of the Ladies Night Out members. Had Yvonne been holding out on her? They owed her a favor after she had helped them get Leslie and Mark together. The last names matched so he must be family. Perhaps Yvonne’s son?
“Are you new in town then?” she asked as she typed the previous information into his record.
“At least until my knee heals.” He rubbed the thigh muscle on the injured leg. “Had to move back in with my mom for a while. How embarrassing is that?” He flashed a grin that made Tara’s stomach swirl.
“Not embarrassing at all.” Considering she’d done the same three years before.
The doorbell jangled and Tara looked up, hoping for Mark. Instead, the Tenaples shuffled in, the next scheduled appointment. Mrs. Tenaple clutched a manila folder. Mr. Tenaple looked like he faced a colonoscopy. Tara didn’t blame him. Their tax return was one of the most complicated in Carterville. Multiple 1099s, rental properties, and a monstrosity of a health savings account.
Leslie poked her head out of the break room. “Hello,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go into my office.” She took a step into the hallway as another contraction struck. Her knees buckled, and she slumped against the wall. Tara flew out of her chair, sending it spinning into her desk. She clutched Leslie’s arm, urging her back to the break room. “Mark will be here any second. I’ll reschedule the Tenaples.”
“You can’t. They always forget stuff. They’ll be back and forth six times between now and the fifteenth. Do the pre-interview, and get their forms and fill out what you can,” Leslie said between hitched breaths. “We get to the hospital, and I’m signing that stupid consent form for the epidural. If these are the practice ones, there’s no way I’ll survive the real thing.”
Fill out what I can? The Tenaples’ last return was an inch thick. All those deductions and 1099s. She’d barely get past their names and Social Security numbers. Tara gripped Leslie’s elbows, trying to support her as much as fight the panic lurking in her chest. She couldn’t handle the Tenaple’s tax return. Leslie couldn’t entrust that to her.
Then she looked into Leslie’s face, and felt like the biggest idiot. She was complaining about paperwork when Leslie looked ready to cut this baby out with a letter opener.
The front bell rang again. Mark, in jeans and a T-shirt with his work belt still slung around his hips, zipped around the Tenaples and flew down the hall, his work boots leaving dusty footprints on the ceramic tiles.
“I grabbed your bag from home. That’s why it took me so long. I’m on hold with the doctor. Let’s go.” He swept Leslie off her feet despite her protestations that she was the size of a small hippopotamus and could walk fine. Tara knew they were half-hearted; Leslie had struggled to make it two feet down the hallway.
The Tenaples gaped as Mark whisked Leslie around them and out the door. Tara stood behind her desk, one hand on her chair with three sets of eyes on her.
She was here alone with customers waiting. Customers who needed their taxes done. Customers who were depending on her. Her fingers dug into the mulberry upholstery. This wasn’t what they planned. She couldn’t handle this.
“Where’s she going?” Mr. Tenaple asked as Mark’s truck peeled out of the parking lot.
“Hospital,” Tara replied, hoping her terror wasn’t evident in her voice. “She’s in labor.” Even if Leslie’s doctor managed to stop her contractions, they probably wouldn’t let her return to work full-time. She couldn’t see a doctor prescribing anything but bed rest. Without it and a pair of shackles, Leslie wouldn’t stop overdoing it.
What am I going to do? She wanted to sink into the corner and throw a pity party with a whole orchestra of tiny violins. This wasn’t what they planned. No wonder Minnie had laughed at them. Babies have their own schedule.
Tara remembered the customers in front of her. She had to fake competence. A strategy, that’s what she needed. Something to get her through the next few minutes. She swallowed. Take care of these two customers, then she could reschedule the rest of the afternoon.
“Ryan, if you don’t mind, I’ll take the Tenaples’ information and papers, then come back to you.”
“Sounds fine to me. I’m in no hurry.” He settled back in the chair while Tara led the Tenaples into Leslie’s office. She pulled up their file on the computer and proceeded to verify their contact information.
She and Leslie had developed a contingency plan for when the baby was supposed to come. Her due date was May fifteenth, a full month after the tax season ended. But neither of them anticipated the baby coming almost two months early. Tara could handle most everything by herself through the summer months. For situations she couldn’t — like quarter-end or year-end, Leslie had an accountant friend who would be able to fill in on a client by client basis. But right now with the three busiest weeks of the tax season left, Tara would be in trouble if she was on her own. There were returns she didn’t have the expertise for. It would be a disaster.
Tara filled out as much of the Tenaples’ information as she could and explained the situation to them. They understood and wondered if they should take their return somewhere else so as not to burden Knotts Accounting. Tara assured them she and Leslie would be able to complete the return, although she wasn’t sure what she was basing her confidence on.
In For a Pound Page 24