Chapter Three
I’m not going to buy my kids
an encyclopedia. Let them
walk to school like I did.
— Yogi Berra
In the end, they took Aunt Mary’s Mercedes, as Jack’s sports car was only a two-door, and if he’d hit his head one more time trying to get the baby seat strapped in, M and M was going to learn words no child ought to know.
“Nice car,” Jack said as they rolled down Main Street, Jack at the wheel, heading for MacArthur Road, the main artery of the township, and the road leading straight into Allentown. “The interior decorating business must be a good one. Which reminds me—how much are you costing me, Ms. McBride?”
“Not nearly enough,” Keely said, squeezing the white plastic garbage bag that sat on her lap, the bag holding her ruined jacket. She shifted on the seat, looked back at M and M. “Well, would you look at that—she’s asleep.” She turned around once more, feeling, if not competent, then at least lucky. “She really is a cute baby.”
“Aren’t all babies cute?” Jack asked, peeking into the rearview mirror.
“I guess so, to their parents,” Keely said consideringly. “But my friend Sheila? Her kid looked like Woody Allen when he was born, I swear he did, although he’s gotten past that phase, thank God. Sheila lives in Wisconsin, and sent me a video of little Justin right after he was born. Pitiful. Just pitiful. But M and M is cute as a button. That wispy blond hair—it curled when it was wet, did you know that? I’m betting she’ll have gorgeous ringlets soon and then hate her curls later, the way I hate mine. And those huge blue eyes, and those black lashes? You’re going to have to beat the boys away with a stick when she grows up.”
“I’m not going to be anywhere around when M and M grows up,” Jack reminded her, easing into the passing lane as they drove toward Allentown..
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. She’s not your kid. I keep forgetting that. Must be the blond hair you’ve both got.”
“You’ve got blond hair, Ms. McBride,” Jack pointed out “And I’m telling you, M and M is my cousin’s kid. She—oh, hell, who’d believe me? Let’s just say Cecily is out of town for a while, and I’m taking care of the kid. Correction: You’re taking care of the kid.”
Keely was silent for a few moments, then finally nodded. “Okay, and I’m sorry for teasing you. I know she’s not yours. I found the letter from your cousin when I was cleaning up the kitchen. Shouldn’t you be reporting her to the police? I mean, it sounds to me like she’s abandoning M and M, not just dropping her off for a couple of days, unless Katmandu is in Pennsylvania, and we both know it’s not. And who’s Joey? The father?”
“Joey is Cecily’s brother,” Jack said.
Keely noticed a tightening of the muscles around Jack’s mouth. “Not your favorite person, right? Oh—turn right up ahead, on Tilghman. The shop is between Twenty-first and Twenty-second, on the left. There’s parking behind the shop. You really should get over to the right now, and not wait until the last minute.”
Jack stepped on the gas, passing a line of four cars, then quickly cut into the right lane in order to make the turn.
“Well, that was fun,” Keely said, opening her eyes once more. “I guess I should have kept my mouth shut. But at least now I know that if I want you to do something, all I have to do is not tell you to do it.”
He shot her a grin that put very sexy slashes in his cheeks. “At last, a woman who understands me, because I definitely do like women who keep their mouths shut.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet, and their brains on hold,” Keely muttered. “I thought I recognized the type. So, are you going to tell me about this Joey person, or am I supposed to wait until you volunteer information? Just so I know the ground rules, okay?”
The interior of the car was frigid for the next three blocks, and not because of the air-conditioning. Finally Jack said, “Joey is Cecily’s brother, just like I told you. Joey and Cecily are from Bayonne—that’s in New Jersey.”
“I know where Bayonne is,” Keely interrupted. “I just didn’t know anyone really lived there. Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to stop the flow. Go on.”
Jack sighed, eased the car to a stop at a red light at Nineteenth Street. “Joey thinks he should belong to the mob.”
“The mob?” Keely’s jaw dropped. “You mean the Mob? And Cecily wanted to leave M and M with him?”
“Relax, Ms. McBride. Joey doesn’t belong to the mob. He’s seen all the Godfather films, but that’s about as far as it goes. I don’t like him because he’s an idiot, not because I’m afraid he’s going to put an icepick in my throat.”
“Oh,” Keely said, relaxing slightly as they turned left, then right, into the alley behind her aunt’s shop, which was located in a converted brick house. “Well, that’s okay then. I’m glad Cecily left M and M with you.” She opened the car door, then looked back at the baby. “Still asleep. Why don’t you wait here? I won’t be long. I just have to change clothes and get the keys to the van.”
“And pack a suitcase,” Jack added, effectively halting Keely as she was about to gently close the door, so as not to wake M and M.
“Say what?” she asked, sticking her head back inside the car. “What do you mean, pack a suitcase?”
“And if you have a sleeping bag, you might want to bring that, too, at least until you buy me some more beds. Or did you think I was going to be alone in the house with the kid while you worked nine to five?”
“I... I...” Keely looked into the backseat, at the sleeping baby, then at Jack. “I...”
“Right. My sentiments exactly, Ms. McBride. Now get it in gear, okay? Who knows how long she’ll sleep?”
“I hate you,” Keely said, finding her voice at last, fortunately not until she was climbing the stairs to the living quarters she shared with her aunt. “Hate, hate, hate you, Jack Trehan,” she repeated as she quickly changed into a denim skirt and white summer sweater, then dove into her closet, emerged with a large suitcase, threw it on the bed, unzipped it.
“Hate, loathe, and detest you, Jack Trehan,” she continued as she opened drawers, flung clothing in the general direction of the suitcase, then loaded toiletries into another zippered bag, topped off deodorant and toothpaste with a hair dryer and her small bag of makeup.
“The things you won’t do for money,” Keely growled at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. “Shame on you.”
Throwing the toiletries into the suitcase, she zipped it closed, grabbed her quilt and pillow from the bed, and headed for the stairs once more, the quilt dragging on the floor. She stopped only when she saw the message light blinking on her aunt’s answering machine.
There could be messages downstairs, on the answering machine in the shop, but Keely knew she didn’t have time to check. Aunt Mary had completed most of her projects before the wedding, so there wasn’t all that much unfinished business for Keely to handle—which had been another reason she’d been doing back flips ever since she got the call from Sadie Trehan. If there were messages downstairs, they could wait. But she would take the time—and let Jack Trehan just twiddle his thumbs a while longer—while she checked to see if Aunt Mary had called.
Dropping the quilt and pillow, Keely pressed the message button, already smiling as she anticipated hearing her Aunt Mary’s voice. She’d been phoning almost daily to report on the glories of Greece and holy wedlock.
“Hi, Keely, sorry to have missed you. Listen, I know it’s been a long time, darling, but I—”
Keely smacked at the STOP button, frantic to block out Gregory Fontaine’s voice. What did he want? Not that she cared. She most certainly didn’t care. She bit her lip, drummed her fingers against her cheek as she entertained scenarios. He wanted her back. He loved her. He couldn’t live without her. He still couldn’t locate the nifty measuring tape she copped as her “severance pay” and wondered if she knew where it was.
“Oh, hell,” she said, hitting the PLAY button once more. “Might as well get it
over with.”
“—thought you ought to hear this from me. I’ve just rented your space. You know I’d considered enlarging the business, and you have to admit that you really lucked out, picking up the place on Sixty-seventh at that price. And I know Leibowitz said he’d hold it for you another six months, but that was only if you kept paying the rent, which you haven’t—you’re a full three weeks late with the rent for June, Keely. So... well, so I took over the lease. Fontaine’s is now on both the East and West sides of Manhattan... and you’re welcome back. Anytime. You could run the branch for me, right out of your old shop—well, my new shop. I mean that, Keely. We can work things out, I know it. Look, gotta go. Shavonna wants to show me her new design for a project we’re doing out on the Island. So take care, be good, and don’t hate me, Keely. I do love you, pumpkin, but business is business, right?”
Keely stood glaring at the answering machine as the END OF MESSAGES electronic voice was engaged. She fought the urge to rip the machine from the table, fling it against the wall. “You miserable... three weeks? Gregory Fontaine, you are one rotten sonofabitch! Three lousy weeks!”
“Got a problem... pumpkin?”
Keely whirled around quickly, her feet tangling in the discarded quilt so that she went down, rather hard, landing on her hands and knees. “You!” she accused, looking up at Jack Trehan. “What are... how dare... where’s M and M?”
“Sound asleep in the backseat. Don’t worry, I locked the car but left the engine running, to keep the air conditioner on.”
“Oh... okay,” Keely said, getting to her feet. “I suppose that’s—wait a minute. You locked the car? Where are the keys?”
“Oh, please. Do you really think I’d—”
“Show... me... the... keys.”
Jack slipped a hand into his slacks pocket. Slipped his other hand into his other pocket. Frowned. Looked sheepish. “Um...” He lifted his empty hands out of his pockets, waved them at her. “This is your fault, you know. If you’d moved your butt a little instead of listening to your messages and doing God only knows what else, then I wouldn’t have had to—”
“You jackass!” Keely nearly tripped over the quilt again as she lunged for her aunt’s desk, pulled open the center drawer. There were the keys to the van. There was the second set of keys to the Mercedes. She pulled them both out and headed for the stairs. “Grab that stuff, genius, and follow me.”
How could his cousin have trusted him with her baby? You couldn’t trust this guy with a stuffed teddy bear, yet alone a small, helpless infant. Not that she was much better, granted, but then, it didn’t take much to be better than Jack Trehan.
She barreled down the stairs, Jack hard on her heels. “I was kidding, damn it,” he called after her. “Look, look—here are the keys. I wouldn’t lock the keys in the car. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Keely stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glared up at him. “Never ask the obvious,” she gritted out, then banged out of the house, leaving Jack to manage his own way through the door with her suitcase and bedding.
She ran over to the car and peeked inside the rear window, to see M and M still fast asleep, although her mouth was doing some puckering motions around the pink pacifier still stuck between her lips. “She’s all right,” Keely said, all but collapsing against the side of the car in relief as Jack joined her, pushing the button on the key ring that opened the trunk.
“Of course she’s all right,” he said, shaking his head. “What did you think she was going to do? Get out, go waltzing down to the corner pub for a brew?”
Keely didn’t bother answering, but just shot a cold, hard stare at this... this man, and headed for the van. She hated men. She definitely hated men. Gregory Fontaine, Jack Trehan, all men. And she had every right! They were pond scum, every last one of them.
“Follow me, okay?” she told him. “We’ll go back down Tilghman to Eighth, hang a left, hang a right at Washington, and then a left at Seventh, which puts us back onto MacArthur Road, heading for the store I have in mind. You got that?”
“Ms. McBride, I grew up here,” Jack told her, opening the door to the Mercedes. “I know Seventh is one way at Tilghman so that we have to cut down Eighth and over to Washington, where it’s not one way. I know Seventh turns into MacArthur Road once it hits Whitehall. I even know how to get to the malls. And if you’d stop treating me as if I were brain dead, I’ll highly appreciate it.”
“If you stopped acting as if you were brain dead, I’d appreciate it,” she told him, breaking a nail as she yanked open the door to the van. “Damn it! Now look what you made me do!”
“I did that? From over here? Has anyone ever told you, Ms. McBride, that you may not be a well woman?”
“I already knew that. I’ve got to be crazy,” she shouted back at him. “I’m working for you, remember?” And then, suddenly realizing that his response, his most logical response, would be “Yeah, but not for long!” she quickly got into the van and backed out into the alley, on her way to making her first considerable inroads on Jack Trehan’s bank account—and beginning the replenishing of her own.