by Beverly Farr
He picked up one of the cookies and took a bite. “These are good. Thank you.”
She put the plate down on the kitchen counter and peered under the sink. “What are you doing?”
“Replacing the disposal.”
“Good for you. I've got a list of things to do myself, but I rarely get around to them. It's always more satisfying to quilt or paint than to fix the garage door.”
He swallowed. “How’s Baby Tree coming?”
“Progressing.”
He took another cookie and lifted the plate. “Do you want one?”
“No thanks. I've been eating dough all afternoon.”
What was it about women and cookie dough? Mary Ellen had liked to eat the dough, also, but the thought made him want to gag. There was raw egg in the batter, which could also be a hazard, but he wasn’t going to mention it and give Olivia something else to worry about.
Alexis came into the kitchen and Michael offered her a cookie. She peered at the plate suspiciously. “White sugar? No way. That stuff's addictive.” Belatedly, she must have realized how offensive that might sound, so she added, “Of course, you can eat whatever you want.” She turned toward him. “Since the kids are all asleep, I wondered if I could leave early to do my Christmas shopping.”
Michael had hoped that she'd run another load of laundry and disinfect the bathroom, but he wouldn't get good work from her if she was anxious to leave. “Go ahead.”.
After Alexis left, Olivia said, “That was nice of you.”
“Bah humbug.”
Olivia smiled. “Are you ready for Christmas?”
“No.”
He motioned to the sink with a pipe wrench. “We can talk, but I have to keep working. I don't know how soon someone will wake up. And the minute that happens, I'm done, whether the job is finished or not.”
“I understand. You have five miniature explorers, eager to help.”
“That's right.” He squatted down in front of the sink.
Olivia sat on one of the chairs. “Are they walking now?”
“Everyone except Linc. He doesn’t have the balance yet, so he uses the kitchen chairs. He scoots them along the tile floor, to hold himself up while he walks. He'll push a chair to the wall, then crawl off to find another one. He does this until all the chairs are huddled in a cluster against the wall.”
“He must be strong.”
“And determined. It’s driving Miss Kate crazy. She keeps bumping into the rearranged furniture.”
Olivia said, “But you’ve got more help now.”
He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t see that. “It didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“The person I hired spent all the time texting and watching videos on her phone. She kept the kids alive, but little else. She didn’t interact with them or pay attention to them.”
“That’s too bad. I guess you want someone more like a mom.”
“Not their mom.”
Olivia was silent for a few minutes. He liked the fact that she was peaceful and didn't have to fill every second with conversation. “Would you hand me that screw driver?” Olivia reached over and handed it to him. “Thanks.”
He heard one of the children stirring. “Uh oh. If I had ten more minutes, I could finish this.”
Olivia stood up. “Don't worry. I can mix up bottles and change diapers for a few minutes. Let me help.”
“Thanks. But they don’t drink bottles any more. Now it’s milk in sippy cups.”
“Gotcha.”
As he worked, he listened to the shuffle of her boots on the tile floor, the opening of the refrigerator door. She was humming. He tried to recognize the tune. Something by Tchaikovsky? Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, that's what it was. He smiled.
He paused, listening to her as she walked down the hall to the children's rooms. “Hello Grant,” she said happily. “Did you have a good nap?” He said something back to her, and she said, “Oh really? That's very interesting.”
She was good with the kids.
He lifted the new disposal so it locked into the strainer sleeve under the sink. He sighed and tightened the screwband with more force than it required. Don’t be stupid. Five toddlers were too much for anyone. The only reason he survived was because he had a job to go to. For a few hours every day, he focused on something entirely different, and when he came back home, he was rejuvenated, ready to spend time with his children. But even then, it was rough.
How many times had he lain awake in his bed at two in the morning, listening to someone cry, and praying, “Please God, make that child go back to sleep.” But somehow, even the nights when it seemed to happen every half hour, he always staggered out of bed and took care of the problem.
Because he had to. Because there was no one else.
Remember Mary Ellen.
He plugged in the disposal unit and then turned the shut off valve to let water back to the sink.
CHAPTER NINE
Olivia glanced at the clock on her computer screen. Seven-thirty already. There's one good thing about work, she thought dismally. It made her appreciate her free time. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She picked up the telephone and called Shannon. “When are you coming back?” she demanded as soon as her friend answered.
“The Baroness?” Shannon guessed.
“What else? Today I'm designing wrappers for the oatmeal soap.”
Shannon laughed. “What a thrill.”
“At least with the petroleum company I could use a few dancing oil rigs.” Olivia caught herself. There was nothing wrong with oatmeal. “I just wish I knew what the Baroness was looking for. We are playing 'read my mind,' again.” It was a common scenario in the design world. The president of Baroness Cosmetics delegated the work to her vice president Claire, who spoke to the president of her marketing firm, Robert, who then gave the assignment to a mid-level executive, Janet, who subcontracted the design work to Garret and Associates. And Olivia was supposed to come up with a design based on Janet's interpretation of Robert’s impression of Claire's understanding of what the Baroness truly wanted. Olivia sighed. “It will be better once you're back,” she said. Shannon's quirky sense of humor livened up the late night brainstorming sessions.
Shannon hesitated. “I know I originally planned to take only six weeks maternity leave, but with Dan's raise --”
“Don't tell me.”
“-- we're thinking I don't have to come back at all. By the time I pay for day care, it really isn't worth it. Besides, Caleb will only be a baby once.”
He must have stopped crying for hours every night. Olivia said, “I'm happy for you. Have you told Garret, yet?”
“Not yet, but I will before Christmas.”
“Give me warning, so I can call in sick that day.”
Shannon joked with her for a few minutes, but she had to get back to her family, and Olivia had to get back to her work.
Work. Olivia stared at the drawings she'd done for the soap wrappers. She sighed. She could come up with an attractive package, but that wasn't the problem. At forty dollars a bar, women didn't want just a pretty package. They wanted to feel like they were unwrapping the Hope diamond.
Diamonds. That was an idea. She sketched a velvet ring box. That could work. Either that or a little drawstring bag like the ones used by jewelers to contain loose gem stones. She liked the box idea better. It could be gold, with the soap -- or two soaps, if they were smaller, wrapped in crinkly pink parchment paper. Olivia smiled as she worked. At last the creative juices were flowing.
#
On Christmas Eve, Olivia dropped by again, with an armful of patchwork baby quilts, one for each of his children. Michael invited her to come inside, but she stood on the front porch. “No, I’ve got more deliveries to make.”
“More quilts?”
She nodded. “That’s what I do.”
“How many sets of quints do you know?”
“Only one. But I do know a set of twins.”
“Amateurs.”
She smiled.
He asked, “How many quilts did you make?”
She thought for a moment, counting. “Forty. Give or take a few.”
Michael folded his arms across his chest. “That’s amazing. How can you work full time and make that many?”
She shrugged. “They’re small, and they’re tied. I couldn’t make that many if they were hand quilted.”
He was still impressed. “They’re beautiful.” He rubbed his fingers over the brilliantly colored fabric. “But I don’t have a Christmas present for you.”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t expect – ”
“I know. I’ll put in the garage door opener you mentioned.”
Olivia’s eyes brightened. “Thanks. That would be great.”
“When’s good for you?”
“Not for a while. Work is super busy and taking up a lot of my weekends. So maybe at the end of January, early February?”
“Great. I’ll get back with you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She said Merry Christmas again and hurried back to her car. What a lovely, generous person. He watched her go, then hugged the quilts. Was he imagining it, or did they smell faintly like her gardenia perfume?
#
Olivia walked up to the donation drop off door at the woman’s shelter and pressed the doorbell. The administrator opened the door. “It’s the quilt lady,” she announced, and several of the workers came to help carry the bags of lap quilts in from Olivia’s car.
“Merry Christmas,” Olivia said, blowing on her hands. The air had grown colder and she’d forgotten to bring gloves.
“These are wonderful,” the woman said, pulling one of them out to admire it.
“Thank you,” Olivia said. “I had a lot of fun making them. There’s some really cute car fabric.”
“Oh this is darling,” another woman said admiring a pinwheel pattern with cat fabric.
Olivia smiled. “That’s one of my favorites, too.” Sometimes she feared that she made the quilts to receive the admiration. If she were completely noble, she’d drop them off anonymously. But it was good to feel appreciated. She hoped that wasn’t the sin of pride.
The administrator, a large woman, approached her. “Do you want to come in for a few minutes -- for coffee or hot chocolate?”
Olivia shook her head. “No, but thanks.”
“You’ve probably got a lot to do to get ready for the holiday.”
Olivia nodded, letting the woman think what she wanted. She’d already dropped off the presents for Shannon’s family and a few blankets for new babies in her congregation. Christmas Eve was going to be spent eating Mrs. Garza’s homemade tamales and watching Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life and in the morning she was going to serve breakfast at the homeless shelter. That would keep her busy and limit the amount of holiday peppermint and chocolate gorging.
“You’re like Mrs. Claus,” the woman said and reached out to give her a hug.
Olivia’s heart was full. “Merry Christmas.”
#
FEBRUARY
January passed in a blur of gray rainy days and one brief sprinkling of snow. In February, the weather was inconsistent: cold for a few days followed by a day of bright sunshine and warmer weather. On one warm Saturday, Michael took all the kids into the backyard to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. He also brought out plastic balls and cars.
Olivia leaned over the fence. “Can I play?”
“Sure.”
She came through the gate in the alley. The kids showed her their toys and talked gibberish. They all had a few recognizable words and phrases, but Amelia was the only one that Michael regularly understood.
Olivia talked with them and rolled balls on the ground for them to catch. Wash and Jeff argued over a favorite truck. “There must have been a sale,” she said.
“What?”
“Everyone’s wearing the same outfit -- sweatpants, turtleneck and hoodie.”
“It’s easier that way. More efficient.”
Olivia laughed. “That’s okay for now, but one of these days Amelia is going to complain. If she’s anything like I was, she’s going to want pink. And lots of it.”
“I know.”
For a few minutes they played happily. All of them were good walkers now, with good balance. They no longer walked like miniature Frankensteins with their arms stiff in front of themselves. Wash seemed to be the most coordinated, being able to aim when he threw a ball, but they were all advancing normally, which was a relief. It was difficult to believe that they had ever been tiny and premature.
Olivia said, “I keep hearing ‘vee ya.’ Do you know what that means?”
Michael smiled. “I think it means Olivia.”
She beamed and hugged Linc. “Oh, you sweetie.”
She looked over at Michael and saw him watching her. “I hope you realize how blessed you are.”
“Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”
“Yes.”
And he was happy, he realized. Tired, but happy. In the year since his divorce, the children had grown older, and he’d grown happier. At times, he was still angry at Mary Ellen for leaving, but he thought about her less often. Maybe in ten years he wouldn’t think about her at all.
He watched Amelia playing with the end of Olivia’s braid. He wondered how he was going to be a good father to his daughter without a mother to help. He didn’t know anything about pink or hair ribbons or dolls.
“Mary Ellen didn’t want children,” he said quietly.
Olivia looked at him, surprised. “What’s that?”
“She couldn’t get pregnant, so I bribed her with a big diamond ring to go through fertility treatments. ‘Just one,’ I said and --”
“and you were blessed with five instead,” Olivia said quickly, looking at him with a slight frown.
“Yes,” he agreed, wondering what had offended her. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned Mary Ellen, but he had been thinking that her reaction to the children had been so different from Olivia’s.
Olivia stood and whispered in his ear. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
Michael nodded, finally understanding her. She was right. He shouldn’t talk about their mother in a negative way. Not when they could hear.
He also didn’t want his children to think that they had not been wanted.
He changed the subject. “When would you like your garage door fixed?”
“My schedule is completely open. Whatever works for you.”
“Work must be better,” he said.
She hesitated, then said calmly, “Actually, work is over. I got laid off.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” she said wryly.
“What happened? I thought your firm was busy.”
“It was, until our largest client left us.” She made a face. “The only thing that ticks me off is the cowardly way I was fired. I got an email telling me not to show up the next day.”
“Maybe they were worried about someone going postal.”
“Maybe. But I wish they’d told me face to face.”
“I don’t think there is a good way to get laid off. I was let go last year -- face to face -- and it was still bad.”
“You’re probably right.”
Michael said philosophically, “Life is tough all over.”
“Amen.”
“Do you want the name of the headhunter that helped me?”
“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”
“Hopefully you’ll find another job soon.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ve got savings. The house is paid for. I can spend some time finding another job. It’s not the end of the world. If nothing else, it’s giving me the time to finish The Baby Tree.”
He was stunned by her positive attitude. Losing his job the year before had devastated him. Divorcing Mary Elle
n and having to care for the kids had exhausted him. He couldn’t concentrate on work, and eventually his employers’ patience had run out. He didn’t blame them. The experience had taught him that he could only handle two things in his life -- his kids and his work -- nothing else. “If there’s anything I can do --”
She smiled. “Fixing the garage door would be a great help.”
#
Michael brought another man with him to help put in the garage door opener. His name was Brent and apparently he was one of Michael’s co-workers. He was not as tall as Michael and stockier with curly brown hair. Olivia reached to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Are you an engineer, too?”
Brent looked down at himself. “Does it show?”
Olivia laughed. Brent had a humorous glint in his eye that was engaging. She’d been disappointed at first to realize that Michael had brought a friend. She’d thought that they would do the project together, but since she wasn’t handy with a screwdriver, it was probably more efficient this way. “I really appreciate your help,” she said as she accompanied them down her driveway. “I've lived here almost two years, and I've rarely used the garage. The door is just too heavy to be worth the effort.”
Brent said, “After you start using it, you'll notice how much longer your wax jobs last. The elements are rough on your paint, too.”
“Not to mention windshields,” she said dryly and peeped at Michael from the corner of her eye.
Michael acknowledged the hit with a half smile.
“Am I missing something?” Brent asked.
Olivia said quickly, “Doesn’t matter.”
Michael reached for the garage door handle and with one tug, pulled the door up off the ground. The door creaked and groaned. Another pull and the door was up to shoulder height and he guided it in all the way to the top of the garage. He rubbed his hands together. “Good. Let's see what you have.” He surveyed the one-piece door held up with horizontal tracks. “It seems to be in working order, although it could use some lubrication. Where is the automatic door opener?”
Olivia pointed to a cardboard box on an empty shelf.
“It's like a tomb in here,” Brent said, looking around. There was a bicycle with one wheel and a stack of flower pots against one wall.