"Thanks." Robin's voice had a rueful note. "I felt so stupid, falling like that."
"I'm glad you went after the ball instead of letting the children do it," Flint said. "Now hold still."
Examining her thigh with methodical thoroughness, he removed several additional prickles. This was more difficult than he had expected. He could hardly see the damn things, and he hated hurting Robin.
"I'm not sure if I've got them all," he said.
She flinched. "Maybe I should visit an urgent care center."
“Let’s not give up yet.” Flint opened the blinds wider, but even in full sunlight, he couldn't spot the tiny spikes. From childhood camping, he knew there was one almost foolproof way to get out all the thorns, and he didn't shrink from it. "Hold on. I’m going to demonstrate the low-tech Harris no-fail technique."
“Sounds complicated.”
“Not at all.” Bending close, he ran his tongue lightly up Robin's leg until he discovered the prickles. The blunt ends didn't hurt his mouth, and he was able to remove them gently with his teeth.
“I can’t believe you’re doing that.” Her voice sounded husky.
“It works, doesn’t it?”
She released a shallow breath. “In more ways than one.”
For him, too. Flint felt his body hardening from the intensely personal contact. It reminded him all too clearly of how he’d felt last night.
He moved away quickly. "Glad I could help," he said when she thanked him.
"Flint." Robin chewed on her lip. "Listen, about the kids ..."
"I think I've got a solution." He described the boarding school. "They'd be well taken care of, and once they've adjusted, I think they’ll be happy there."
He wished she wouldn't stare at him with that expression of disbelief. "What about Aaron?" she said. "Who's going to comfort him when he has nightmares?"
"They must have some kind of house mothers or something"
"And Caitlin?" Robin said. "The way she hates restrictions, she'll turn that brain of hers to beating the system. The whole trick is to make her take responsibility for her own actions. How can she do that in an institution?"
"They have a all kinds of activities and enrichment that she won’t find here." Flint clung to logic. "She'd have plenty of opportunity to do the things she likes."
"And Brick?" Robin pulled on a clean pair of slacks. She'd tossed her jeans in the trash, Flint noticed, and assumed they were full of stickers. "He has a tendency to be macho. In the wrong situation, he could turn into a bully. He needs to be handled carefully."
"The school stresses moral education." That was what the principal had said.
Robin ran a brush through her hair with short, fierce strokes. "Flint, moral guidance doesn't just mean imposing rules, it means listening to the children, helping them find their own path to becoming good citizens. They need individual attention, and a lot of love."
"I promise to give the matter more thought." He moved toward the door. "I haven't investigated the school yet, anyway."
"Listen to your heart," Robin said.
"I'd rather listen to my brain," Flint replied, and strode away with such speed that he was halfway to his car when Robin ran after him.
"Your briefcase," she said, and handed it to him. Then, to his astonishment, she planted a kiss on his cheek before darting across the street to the Andrews' house.
*
After lunch, while the children were filling in workbooks, Robin called several of the schools at which she'd applied. None of them were hiring.
She saved the experimental school, A Learning Place for Children, until last. As she tapped the number into the phone, Robin realized she had put it off because of her mixed feelings.
She ought to want the job. It would remove her from a difficult situation, and she did love teaching. But love wasn't a simple thing, not a simple thing at all.
Robin chewed on her lip, determined not to let sentiment get the better of her. Flint might be the best lover she'd ever found. He might be capable of great tenderness, as he'd shown when he'd removed the cactus spines. But he was wrong for Robin. He knew it, and she ought to accept it, too.
"Miss Lindstrom?" The principal picked up his phone, snapping her back to the present. "I haven't forgotten you. I'm sorry about the delay. Getting a school like this off the ground is tricky. We have an endowment but there've been some unexpected costs in the start-up. We have to leave the theater and art program up in the air until we're sure we can fund it."
"Of course," Robin heard herself say.
"Why don't you try us back in a week?" he said. "Naturally, if you get another job offer, I'll understand, but we were impressed with your credentials and you seem like the type of person who would fit in here. Please bear with us."
"Certainly," Robin said. "I hope it works out."
She clicked off feeling like she'd eaten jumping beans for lunch. Her stomach didn't just have butterflies, it had grasshoppers.
The buzz of the doorbell startled her. The boys abandoned their studies in the family room and pelted through the house, shouting, "Who is it? Who's there?" As Robin hurried toward the front, she heard Brick call, "It's Aunt Maureen!"
Robin stopped in the middle of the living room. "Maureen! We weren't expecting you until Friday. How was your trip?"
The tall woman drew herself up, if anything even more imposing than the first time they'd met. The Hawaiian vacation had left a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and lightened her gray hair a shade, but the easygoing island attitude obviously hadn't rubbed off.
"It was a great disappointment," Maureen announced. "The festivities were not authentic, if you ask me. Honolulu is overcrowded, the souvenirs are overpriced, and there were spiders in my hotel room. My lady friend ran off with a ukelele player, and then I hadn't even a companion to tour with."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Robin wouldn't have let a few setbacks force her to go home early from Hawaii, but she understood how they might upset Maureen.
"I'm glad to see you haven't quit in a huff." Maureen marched inside, letting the boys close the door behind her. "Where's Caitlin? Still alive, is she?"
The girl poked her nose out of the hallway. "Hi, Aunt Maureen."
“Hello yourself.” The older woman walked into the kitchen and set her purse on a chair. "What tricks have they been up to today?"
"Daddy took us to McDonald's for breakfast," Aaron volunteered.
"We got to play at the Andrews' house," said Brick.
"That isn't what I meant." There was a gleam in Maureen's eye as she turned toward Robin. "They haven't set your hair on fire? Put snakes in your bed? Cut holes in your stockings?"
Robin shook her head in amazement. "They actually did those things? No wonder the nannies left."
"We would never do that to Robin," said Caitlin. "She's our mother."
"Don't be ridiculous," Maureen said.
"She really is," Aaron told her. "Honest."
"It's a long story." Robin hadn't meant to broach the subject, but now it couldn't be avoided. "Kids, this is something grown-ups need to talk about privately."
The children grumbled, but then Maureen produced a box of oatmeal cookies from her purse and they settled down for a snack. As usual on Wednesdays, they had a Spanish class at the Boys and Girls Club, and Maureen insisted on driving the five of them in her Cadillac.
"Much safer," she observed with a nod toward the green compact. Robin knew Flint would agree.
The club occupied a bungalow a few blocks from the Beachside Pier. Once the kids were absorbed in their class, the two women headed for a beachfront restaurant.
They snared a table by the window. This part of town, a mile or so south of Gigi's shop, offered a tidier assortment of palm trees and more upscale sunbathers. Robin missed the kooky characters like Julius Caesar.
"Now what's this business about you being their mother?" Maureen asked when they had their coffee.
Robin took a deep breath and spi
lled out the story. She kept it as simple as possible, omitting any mention of her relationship with Flint.
"I wouldn't have told you this without his permission," Robin said at last. "But once Caitlin brought it up, the cat was out of the bag."
"It certainly was." Maureen sniffed at her water glass, which contained a twist of lemon. "Would you look at this? They go to all the trouble of adding lemon and then use plain tap water."
"You have a keen nose," Robin said. "I wouldn't know what kind of water it is."
"A person has to be careful." Maureen set the water aside and signaled the waitress for more coffee. "People are always willing to take advantage if you let them."
It struck Robin that in a few years Flint might become like his aunt, so mistrustful and disapproving of the world that he couldn't even enjoy a vacation. Losing his wife had given him a dark outlook on life, but what had caused Maureen to feel this way?
"Forgive me for prying," she said, "but is there some reason you're so suspicious of people?"
Maureen paused until the waitress had filled her cup and left. Then, in a low voice, she said, "I suppose I stopped trusting people the day my marriage plans broke off. My fiancé was not an honorable man."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Robin waited, hoping to learn more.
Outside the window, sailboats dotted the horizon. It was a sunny day, so crystal-clear she could see Catalina Island two dozen miles away. On the beach, toddlers chased an enormous ball, while on the pier, fishermen dangled their lines into the surf.
The cheery world of the present passed unnoticed before Maureen's eyes. Judging by her faraway expression, her mind had traveled nearly forty years into the past.
"I was twenty-eight," she told Robin. "In those days, that was old to be getting married. I wanted a career, but then I met the right man, or so I believed. He was three years older than me, an executive. We met at a party at a friend's house. He was courteous, well-mannered and handsome. I thought I'd found Prince Charming."
It was hard to picture the Maureen of forty years ago, but watching memories play across her face, Robin began to imagine the romantic young woman she must have been. "We set our wedding date," Maureen went on. "A big church affair. I had the loveliest gown you ever saw, handmade lace and a long train. People said I looked like a princess, and I certainly felt like one."
Everything had been in place, that fateful day: the organist, the bridesmaids and Maureen's father in a tuxedo, ready to escort her down the aisle.
"The groom never showed up," Maureen said. "Can you imagine? He left me at the altar. Later, it began to make sense. He'd told me he was an orphan and had grown up abroad. He didn't have any family or old friends. He must have been hiding something, but we never found out what."
"Are you sure something didn't happen to him?" Robin asked.
"If so, he could have called.” Maureen spoke tightly, as if the wound had never fully healed. "I tried to make excuses for him but the truth is, my father had had some financial setbacks. I think the man had assumed I was an heiress of sorts. Finally I accepted the truth, that he'd never truly loved me."
"That's awful." Still, Robin wished Maureen hadn't become so embittered. "No one ever heard from him again?"
"Not a soul," Maureen said. "I suppose it is something of a mystery, but I refuse to lie to myself. I made a poor choice, and I paid for it."
Robin rested her chin in her palm, staring out the window. Something in Maureen's story nagged at her. She was trying to figure out what it was when the older woman resumed speaking.
"I sold my rings," she said. "I insisted on reimbursing my parents for the cost of the wedding, even though it took years. They weren't the ones who made idiots of themselves over Freddy, and I couldn’t let them suffer for it."
Freddy, Robin thought. As in Frederick.
She knew what Gigi would make of all this. She would insist that Maureen was the ghost's long-lost lover and that the spirits had guided Robin into the nanny job to make this connection.
Well, the spirits hadn't guided her—the children had. And if there was anything Maureen didn't need, it was to have a kook like Gigi meddling in her painful memories.
Maureen picked up the tab, brushing away Robin's offer to pay. "I'm glad we had this chat. I wanted to get to know you better as soon as I saw the children this afternoon. They behave differently with you than with any of the other nannies. Even Caitlin is attached to you, and I'm glad to see it. This egg donor business, well, I don't like it, but what's done is done. I hope you and my nephew can make some sensible arrangement for the future."
"I hope so, too." Robin accompanied her out of the restaurant. Soon Flint would be home, and she hoped he'd come up with a better plan than boarding school.
*
It was almost six and Flint hadn't had time to think straight all day. He'd learned from his voice mail that Aunt Maureen had returned early. He’d also spent a few spare minutes on the boarding school’s website.
From a logical point of view, his options were clear. He could enroll the children in the school or he’d have to put them into day care and ask Maureen to help on weekends.
He couldn't keep employing Robin. The situation was impossible, his logical side insisted. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to separate the children from her. And the harder it would be to separate Flint from her, too, he admitted as he halted at a red light on the drive home.
On the website, he’d learned that the academic offerings were impressive—half a dozen foreign languages to choose from, advanced classes in math and composition, two hours of homework per night. He’d also noted reassuring phrases: "Healthy minds in healthy bodies.... Group mothers act as surrogate parents.... Children learn to function in a group...."
Unbidden, another phrase flashed into Flint's mind. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."
Flint pulled into the garage. Briefcase in hand, he entered the hallway. He heard voices, calm and upbeat, drifting from the kitchen. Parking his briefcase on the floor, he slipped into the family room where he could see what was going on through the doorway.
No one noticed him. The children, each wearing an apron, were helping Robin prepare dinner.
"Can you read the recipe, Aaron?" she was asking. "That abbreviation means teaspoons, okay? Brick, can you measure two tablespoons of margarine for the vegetables?"
"The muffins aren’t quite done," Caitlin advised. "I think I'll reset the timer for three minutes."
Flint stood in the dusk, watching his family. Each person concentrated on his own task, and each, Flint could see, was learning in the process. This was the way children were meant to absorb information, in the natural course of their lives.
Warmth glowed from Robin's face as she supervised the triplets. She seemed to thrive on keeping tabs amid the organized chaos, darting in to clean a mess before it spread and guiding Aaron as he measured spices into a dish. "Okay, time to microwave the fajitas," Robin was saying when she spotted Flint. "Oh, hi. Your father's home." Uncertainty showed in her eyes.
The children greeted their father with shouts of glee. Enthusiasm bubbled as they tumbled over each other to describe what they were cooking and baking.
An image chilled Flint's mind, of arriving home to an empty, silent house. He pictured himself sticking a frozen dinner in the oven and sitting alone at the table, reading reports while he ate. Just as he’d done growing up, while his mother worked late. He’d cried himself to sleep until he was fifteen.
Scratch boarding school. And he wasn't crazy about day-care, either.
The idea that struck him was irrational, yet had a distinct appeal. Oh, hell, Flint thought, why not give it a try?
"I've been doing some thinking," he told Robin as the children returned to their tasks.
"I'm afraid to ask," she admitted.
"We seem to be turning into a family," he said. "And if that's what we're going to do, then let's act like one. A real family."
Chapter Thir
teen
The children were in bed before Robin had a chance to speak privately with Flint. She found him in the living room, staring out the front window.
What a peaceful neighborhood, Robin thought, following his gaze. Lights gleamed through curtains down the street and from decorative lampposts set along walkways. Once, she had thought of this development as too uniform to be interesting, but now she understood that each house held its own joys and shadows.
She hated to interrupt Flint's reverie. He sat lost in thought, leaning back on the sofa. Like the rest of the family, he rarely entered this room, and she wondered why he'd done so tonight.
"I want to thank you," she said at last, perching on an armchair. "I appreciate your letting me stay."
Flint's gaze shifted in her direction. "I meant that we're going to function as a family where the children are concerned. I wasn't referring to our personal relationship."
"Of course." Robin bit back the urge to say she didn't expect to get blood from a turnip. She doubted Flint would appreciate being referred to as a vegetable.
"It's important for the children's sake to create warm memories," he went on. "You're better at that than I am. And you manage to educate them in the process."
"Two for the price of one," Robin murmured. "Very efficient."
He shot her a suspicious look but she kept her expression bland.
"On the other hand, I'm still in charge here," Flint said. "If we're to fulfill parenting roles, we have to set ground rules."
Robin had a good idea what he meant. "Keep to the schedule," she recited. "Maintain discipline at all times. Noses to the grindstone. Did I miss anything?"
Flint's mouth worked, and she realized he was stifling a chuckle. Thank goodness the man had the grace to laugh at himself. "How about a trip to Disneyland?" he said. "For their birthdays.”
“They'd love it!"
"So would I." Flint smiled wistfully. "I haven't been there in years."
"You're not going to wear a Scrooge costume and walk through the park muttering bah humbug?" Robin teased.
"It’s the wrong season." His mouth twisted wryly. "Robin, I want what's best for my children. Life is difficult, and they need to be prepared for it. But I don't want to spoil all their fun."
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