Fools Rush In

by Gwynne Forster

  Tonya, too, had sensed something special about her. Granted, you couldn’t miss her warmth and sincerity. And she was pretty easy on the eyes. For a second, he let himself imagine what she’d look like if she pulled her hair out of that old-lady’s twist in the back of her head. He shrugged. A little too plump for his taste, but she had the height, around five-six, he guessed, to carry it. But why did he feel as if he knew her? He played with the change in his pocket and dismissed the thought. Some people had the kind of face that cropped up everywhere.

  He started to Tonya’s room to check on her and stopped. Dee Dee’s notice had been in the paper more than a month, and Justine hadn’t answered it. So she wasn’t looking for a husband. Thank God for that. Accustomed to examining both sides of an issue or a fact, he considered the possibility that Justine hadn’t answered the ad because she didn’t read Maryland papers. Well, his daughter liked her, and that settled it as far as he was concerned. If Justine Taylor possessed any unsavory traits, Mattie would detect it at once, he could count on that. But he’d gotten good vibes from Justine—honesty, warmth, femininity, and self-confidence, traits he admired in a woman. And she clearly loved children. He phoned his sister.

  “Banks speaking.”

  Duncan took a deep, impatient breath. If only he could knock some sense into his sister. “Leah, I’ve told you a few million times to stop calling yourself by our last name. It’s too masculine.”

  “And I’ve told you not to call me Leah. I can’t stand that name.”

  “Then change it, for Pete’s sake. Oughta be easy, since nobody but the family knows what it is.”

  “Duncan, did you call me to fight with me? I’m sleepy.”

  “When will you have an evening free? I want to ask some people over. Seems like I owe everybody I know an invitation to dinner.”

  “I’m always free. Promise to invite some men who still have their own hair on their head. And I’d like to see their chests before I see their bay windows.”

  Duncan was used to his sister’s cynicism, but he couldn’t resist trying to change her. “Leah, your attitude needs refining. Learn to judge a man by the content of his character—to quote a famous one—instead of his girth and how much of his scalp you can see.”

  He imagined that she tossed her head and shrugged her left shoulder. She was the only person he knew who did that. “Thanks for nothing, brother dear. Most of us women like a guy we can get our arms around, if need be. Besides, Martin Luther King was talking about kids; I had in mind cool brown brothers over the age of thirty.”

  She never failed to amuse him—the best dose of anti-tension medicine to be had anywhere. Laughter flowed out of him. “Trust you to twist it your way. How about it?”

  “Improve your list of men friends, and you can count me in. And no cigars. Why do newspaper men like those hideous things?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Everybody needs at least one virtue. Good for you”

  “All right. All right. You’ll be glad to know that I just hired a nanny for Tonya.”

  “You mean you’ve given up the idea of marrying somebody to mother her? It’s a dumb idea, anyway.”

  “No, I haven’t, Miss know-it-all, but I haven’t found anyone who suits me, and I needed somebody to look after Tonya. So I hired Justine Taylor.”

  “Well, this I’ve got to see. Is she good-looking?”

  Trust Leah to focus on a side issue. “Among other attributes. See ya.” He hung up and called Wayne Roundtree in Baltimore.

  “Say, man, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Duncan said when Wayne held the receiver a long time before speaking.

  “Nah. I had to shake a couple of pests a few minutes ago, and I fully intended to hang up the minute I recognized either one of them. That’s the life of a managing editor. What’s up?”

  Duncan trained his ear in the direction of Tonya’s room. No, she wasn’t crying, only talking. “I just hired a nanny. She won’t be on the job ’til Saturday, and I want to spend a few days at home after she starts to be sure she and Tonya get on. So I’d like to postpone work on that municipal bribery case.”

  “Okay, but I hope it doesn’t break in The Sun or The Afro-American. What does she look like?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who I mean. This nanny you hired.”

  Duncan leaned back in the big barrel chair, propped his left knee over his right one, and grinned. “Not worth a backward glance, man. And, I’m going to introduce her to Listerine mouthwash the minute she walks back into this house.”

  His ears hummed with Wayne’s roar of laughter. “No kidding. She must be a knockout. When can I come over for…well, for dinner?”

  “Come to think of it, I’m planning a dinner party soon as my sister can get over here to help me. I owe everybody I know an invitation.”

  “Count me in. I have to meet this poor unfortunate nanny you hired. Let me know when you can get on that case.”

  “Will do. In a couple of days, I’ll fax you my story on ward politics.”

  “Right on, man.”

  Duncan hung up and went into Tonya’s room to turn out the lamp beside her bed and put on her night light. It worried him that she feared the darkness so much. Maybe having Justine—someone who’d be with her all the time—would give her a greater sense of security. Justine. Why had he felt so comfortable with her? He’d swear that she had in some way been a part of his life.

  Chapter 2

  Justine took an old purse from a shelf in her closet and, for the first time in twelve months, looked at the picture taken of Tonya at birth. The little red spot at the top her right ear was now brown, but it was there, the final proof that she had found her baby. She needed to talk with someone, anybody. But who? She couldn’t expect another person not to divulge a secret as ripe for gossip and, at the same time, as potentially damaging as hers. She replaced the photo and lay down and, for the first time since Kenneth’s death, she slept through the night, and no horrible memories invaded her dreams.

  She rose early the next morning and began preparing for life as her child’s nanny. Her first act was to phone Big Al, editor of The Evening Post. “You’re on, Al,” she squeaked out, less sure of her decision than when she’d made it. “As of now, I’m Aunt Mariah. I have to get a post office box. I’m moving to Tacoma Park, Al. You’ll get it all by fax sometime tomorrow.”

  “Right. Soon as I get your P.O. address, I’ll tell the world not to be troubled any longer,” he crooned in his booming voice. “Aunt Mariah will solve all their problems. Just give ’em horse sense, babe. That’ll do it every time.”

  The next three days were the busiest that she could remember, but knowing she was putting her life in order, folding the page that had been Mrs. Kenneth Montgomery, and beginning a life with her child—however impermanent it might prove to be—energized her and buoyed her spirit.

  She got a post office box, closed the deal with the buyer of her house, and bought one of the co-op apartments that her agent reserved for her inspection. Then, she sent the fax to Al, and told her agent to find a tenant for her new apartment. That done, she invited the Salvation Army to come over to her house and take whatever it could sell, except for her blankets and Kenneth’s expensive clothing, which she planned to divide among the homeless men along “East of the River.”

  She’d been determined to do it herself, and her stomach rolled from the stench of stale wine, the rags that served as the men’s bedding, the unwashed bodies, and the refuse that some more privileged citizens had thoughtlessly strewn along the street. Their gratitude shamed her, but she persisted until she’d given out all of the blankets, gloves, sweaters, and other clothing. Still, a sense of guilt wouldn’t let her leave the men without food. She counted them, went to the nearest McDonald’s, and got eleven bags of coffee and hamburgers and gave one to each man.

  “I would ask the good Lord to bless you,” an older man said to her, “but it looks to me like he’s already done it.”r />
  “You bet,” she answered, feeling good for the first time since she’d parked her car beside the rubble-strewn vacant lot two blocks away. She waved them good-bye and headed home.

  Time crawled while her desire to see Tonya escalated. She examined the hands on her watch, thinking that it had stopped. Twice, a coffee cup slipped from her fingers and splattered the brown liquid on her legs and around where she stood. She turned off the radio, unable to tolerate music; even the soft strings of a Mozart quintet jarred her nerves.

  Saturday morning arrived and she had to face another truth. The prospect of seeing Duncan Banks again excited her, though not as much as the thought of living with her child, but she gave herself a quick lecture and put Duncan out of her mind.

  The response to her single ring of Duncan’s doorbell gave her one of the biggest shocks of her life. Canary-yellow hair—or was it a wig?—topped the tiniest woman she had seen in years. Perhaps ever. And that small face wore enough make-up to camouflage a couple dozen fashion models. If that weren’t enough, the two prominent upper front teeth that decorated the copper-colored woman’s generous mouth—now curved into a smile—sent pictures of Bugs Bunny flashing through Justine’s mind. What on earth?

  “Quit staring and come on in,” was the way in which Mattie Swindell introduced herself. Justine resisted asking why she patted her hair when the hair spray on it wouldn’t allow it to move. “I just got it done yesterday,” Mattie explained, oblivious to the fact that Justine hadn’t uttered one word. “It’ll look good like this for two or three days. Where’s your things?”

  “They’ll be here later. I’m Justine Taylor.” No wonder Duncan had said he wasn’t sure who she was.

  “I know who you are. Mr. B told me to expect you.” Justine had almost gotten her breath when heavy footsteps on the stairs sent her pulse into a tailspin. If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d fail before she started. She took a few deep breaths and looked toward the foot of the stairs. “Don’t gasp, girl,” she told herself, when her gaze took in his open-neck yellow T-shirt, white canvas Dockers, and toeless sandals. He stopped within two feet of her, his sleepy, reddish-brown eyes the focal points of the most breathtaking smile she’d ever seen.

  “Welcome. What did you do to yourself? I’ve been expecting that nice prim lady who came here the other night.” The fingers of his left hand toyed with the back of his neck. Then he shrugged his right shoulder. It was a series of gestures she’d seen him display several times when he’d interviewed her. A dimple transformed his right cheek, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d melted right there.

  “I don’t mind the change, but I hope Tonya recognizes you. She’s asleep, and she should be after waking me up at five o’clock this morning.”

  She didn’t tell him he’d done a number on her, switching from gentleman reporter to an advertisement for carnal joy. “My work clothes,” she said of her blue slacks and mauve-pink silk jersey shirt. “Unless you want me to wear uniforms.” She let her grimace give him her view on that matter.

  “Whatta you want with a uniform?” Mattie interjected. “I shore don’t intend to put on one.”

  Once more, his gaze seemed to bore into her. “Uniform? Not for me, but do whatever makes you comfortable. We’re all equals here. I see you’ve met Mattie,” he said, changing the subject, and she could have sworn she saw a meddlesome twinkle in his eyes. “Just take good care of my child. That’s all I want.” He winked at her, and the drum started its roll in her chest.

  As if he wasn’t aware of his effect on women. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was susceptible to his taunting virility. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll wear jeans; they’re more comfortable.”

  His raised eyebrow suggested that he didn’t believe her, and he was right. She’d never pulled a pair of jeans over her ample hips, because she prided herself on having sense and taste, and she hated walking behind overly-endowed female bottoms that threatened to work their way out of stretch jeans. She’d just been testing the water. She’d wear cotton pants.

  Hoping to distract him from any evidence she’d given of her background, she added, “I’m very casual.”

  His tongue poked the right side of his jaw. “If you say so.” He turned to the other woman. “I’ve got to run down to the Library of Congress, but I should be back shortly after twelve, Mattie. A sandwich will do.” He started for the door, checked himself, and walked back to Justine. “Seems I’m short on manners this morning. Mattie will get you settled. See ya.”

  Justine was thinking that she had to watch herself with Duncan Banks when she realized that Mattie was speaking to her. “When he says sandwich, I cook him a hot meal. What do you want for lunch?”

  “A sandwich and a glass of milk or—”

  “I ain’t got no two percent milk in the house, and I don’t expect you need whole milk. First thing you got to do is get down to a size ten. You must wear a sixteen. My sister is a nursemaid for this rich woman in the Watergate Apartments who wears a ten. I swear a size two. One of us has to make use of those designer clothes she throws away. Can you take tea?”

  A full-throated therapeutic laugh flowed out of Justine, and she hugged the little woman as best she could, considering the differences in their size and height. “Mattie, I think I’m going to love you. I’d better tell you, though, that I do wear a fourteen…well, sometimes, and not after holidays. I get plenty of appreciative looks at my size sixteen, and I’m satisfied. How long have you worked here?”

  “Me? I’ve worked for Mr. B on and off for the last six or seven years. Why you ask?”

  “Just curious. You like him?”

  “He’s a real sweetheart…’til you mess up, that is. And then he’s got a real long memory. I mean long, honey.”

  Unaccountably, shivers raced down her back, and her fingers gripped the back of the chair near where she stood.

  Mattie went on in a sing-song voice. “One thing you better be sure about and that is not to utter one word of what goes on in this house. That’s his law. He’s had me understand that a hundred times. He values his privacy and, being a reporter and writing things about people, he has to keep hisself to hisself.”

  “He needn’t worry. I know how to be discreet.” When Mattie stared up at her with both eyebrows raised, Justine amended her remark. “I know how to bridle my tongue.”

  “Discreet, huh? Well, hush my mouth.”

  Anxious to see Tonya, but afraid to reveal her longing to Mattie, Justine guarded her voice and spoke in casual tones. “You think Tonya is still asleep? She’s awfully quiet.”

  “If she ain’t, she oughta be. Mr. B said she singing loud as you please five o’clock this morning and didn’t stop ’til he gave her her breakfast. But soon as she got her oatmeal down, she started noddin’. Gimme your bag. Did Mr. B tell you your room is facing his? Soon as we get rid of your stuff, I’ll show you around. This is one big house.”

  Just what she needed. She wouldn’t be able to stick her head out of her room without taking the rollers out of her hair and getting fully dressed. Well, she’d asked for it. How was she to have known that Duncan Banks could spin the head of the most devoutly virginal woman? Best thing she could do would be not to care what he thought of the way she looked. She’d seen her own quarters and Tonya’s room, but Mattie didn’t open Duncan’s door. Instead, she ushered her into the office that adjoined his bedroom. Soft beige tones and Royal Bokhara carpets in his office, in the hallway, and on the curved stairs. Mattie didn’t pause at Tonya’s room, and no sound came from it, so she didn’t have an excuse to go in and fill her arms with her baby.

  An arresting peaceful decor was all she could think of as they began Mattie’s tour of the first floor. “Mr. B loves to sit in this big lounge chair with his hands behind his head and think. I declare that man can do more thinking than anybody I ever saw.”

  Mattie wasn’t a slouch at thinking, Justine mused, taking in the tall cactus plants on eit
her side of a huge picture window that were among the few things of nonutilitarian value in the living room. Everywhere, masculine taste. What was it about James Denmark’s “Honky Tonk” that made Duncan Banks want it on his living room wall? She studied the painting of the itinerant guitar player, but got no clues. But it didn’t tax her mind to understand his attraction to Ulysses Marshall’s “Between Mother and Daughter.” She turned quickly away; the painter had given them identical faces.

  “These here pieces only been here ’bout a month. He took his time getting things for this living room,” Mattie said, gesturing toward the comfortable beige leather sofas and chairs that rested on a cheerful Tabriz Persian carpet woven in beige, brown, and burnt orange colors. She noticed that the dining room was a place for eating, not for show. A walnut table, eight matching chairs, and a sideboard sat on a Royal Bokhara carpet. No curtains graced the windows.

  “I’ll see the kitchen when I get my sandwich,” Justine told Mattie. One thing she had to ask, though, because she hadn’t seen any evidence of a woman’s touch was, “How long has Mr. Banks lived here?”

  Mattie’s method of clearing her throat was unique. And loud. “Well, ’bout four months, I’d say. Why?” And she let it be known that her yellow hair topped a fast mind. “’Cause everything’s new? Mr. B’s been a bachelor since Tonya was four months old, and he been living here since Tonya was four months old. Anything else, ask Mr. B. We’d better go downstairs. That’s where Mr. B spends most of his time, ’cept when he’s in his office or off someplace.”