Stacking the Deck (A Betting on Romance Novel Book 2) (11 page)

At least she hadn’t mentioned that he’d died or anything the half dozen times they’d spoken since Friday despite Liz’s pointed inquiries about her father’s health. Liz assumed if he
had
actually expired on the operating table, her mom would have thought to tell her. On the plus side, she was fully up-to-speed on the happy news about Mrs. Wells’ cat being back from the vet and no longer suffering from diarrhea.

“He’s resting,” she finally said, assuming that were true.

Valerie opened her mouth to speak when a strange noise interrupted from inside the house.

Liz’s heart lurched in her chest.  “Oh, no. She’s awake! You’ll have to excuse me—”

She shut the door again and rushed back to the kitchen just in time to see baby Clara’s face scrunch up and emit another long, plaintive wail. “Oh, honey! It’s okay! It’s okay. Auntie Liz is here. Hold on.” Liz swore under her breath, then pleaded forgiveness for corrupting the tender ears of a minor as she fumbled with what seemed an inordinately complex buckle system. My God, astronauts were probably buckled less securely.

Clara thrashed her little baby fists in Liz’s face, her outrage clearly evident. Finally, the latch freed itself. Liz pulled the buckle and straps over her niece’s reddened cheeks, lay a burpie cloth on her shoulder as she’d watched her sister do, then picked up the wailing infant.

She attempted a nonchalant, confident posture as she tucked her niece down into the crook of her arm. Babies cried, right? It was no big deal. She’d get rid of Valerie and see to her niece like the competent Auntie she was.

Clara continued to scream and began to thrash her head as Liz tried to give her her binkie while opening the front door again. “I’m sorry. I’m babysitting, as you can see, and I need to calm her down. I think she’s teething. Perhaps there’s a better time for you to—”

“Oh, for crying out loud. She’s not teething! She’s shaking her fist, not chewing on it. You’re just holding her wrong.” Before Liz knew what was happening, Valerie had swung open the screen door, plopped her purse on the floor and plucked Clara from her arms.

“You have to hold her upright so she can see what’s going on. Babies this age hate to stare at the ceiling. It’s boring.” Valerie sat Clara on her hip and bounced lightly, oblivious to the smears of baby tears and saliva that Clara deposited on her blouse.

Liz watched, the binkie sticky in her palm, as Clara quieted in Valerie’s arms then marveled traitorously over Valerie’s shiny fingernails and thick turquoise pendant necklace. The baby hiccupped loudly, one tiny, angry tear glistening on her cheek, and gripped Valerie’s index finger like it was the lone port in a storm.

“There, there now. You’re all right,” Valerie crooned. “Just settle down. We’ll work this out.”

Liz’s forehead felt clammy. “How—?”

“I had five younger siblings. I was babysitting kids her age when I was nine.”

“That’s so young!”

“You do what you have to do. So, this is it, huh?” Valerie began walking around the living room, Clara shockingly content, as Liz trailed behind. “I like the crown molding. That’s a nice detail. Is it throughout the house?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The crown molding? Oh, never mind. I’ll see for myself.” Valerie pushed open the door to the dining room. “
Hmm
. A little cut off from the living room, but this wall could always be opened up. Nice view of the side yard. I assume the kitchen’s through here?”

“Yes, but... I’m sorry. Why are you here?”

“I’m your parent’s listing agent. Nobody told you I was doing the walk-through today?”

Liz swallowed the lump in her throat. Valerie was her parents’ listing agent? Could it get any worse? “No. No, they didn’t.”

Valerie turned away, but not before Liz caught her rolling her eyes. Great. A real estate agent with attitude.

“What can you tell me about the well and septic?” Valerie asked as she pushed through the door to the kitchen.

“You might want to—”

“Holy shit!—pardon my French—what happened in here?”

“A little grease fire. It’s not a problem. I was painting the ceiling anyway.”

Valerie looked around disdainfully. “And the cabinets, too, I hope.”

Liz nodded. She was
now
.

Valerie continued to wander around, opening doors, peering out windows, asking questions and generally making Liz uncomfortable. Baby Clara cooed in Valerie’s arms, happily swinging the forbidden pendant as they marched toward the second floor.

Liz followed behind. “Do you want me to take her now?” she asked, feeling acutely unnecessary. Valerie stopped on the upper stair landing to look at her. “So you can take notes or something?” Liz added.

Valerie turned away. “I think I can do my job,” she said.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Liz muttered under her breath.

“Well.” Twenty minutes later, they stood outside the front door, Clara face-planted against Valerie’s generous cleavage and snoring contentedly. The traitor. “Once you get the new patio in and finish the painting, let me know and I’ll come take pictures for the listing.” Valerie arched an eyebrow at the gnome peering up at them from the edge of the stoop and heaved a resigned sigh.

“Look. I know your parents have made an effort to clear the house of personal photos and knick-knacks and things like that, but I’ll be honest with you. In today’s market, unless a home dazzles, well, your folks won’t get out of it what I know they’re hoping to.”

Liz was a little taken aback. Straight, honest, helpful talk from Valerie Stinson? The apocalypse must be near.

After decades working a factory job, though, Liz knew the house was all the nest-egg her dad had.  If Valerie had any advice, Liz needed to swallow her pride and listen. “Is there anything I can do?”

“For starters, you can get rid of that.” Valerie pointed toward a black, fat-bottomed silhouette of kissing children Dad had perched at the edge of the yard.

Liz sighed. “For once, we agree on something.”

Valerie almost cracked a smile. Almost. “Just see if you can freshen the place up a little. Think light and airy.” She handed Clara back to Liz. “You were always smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“T
HEY WANT ME to drug him,” Trish declared miserably later that afternoon. Clara was making happy nursing noises under Trish’s shirt, the twins were running around the yard trying to tag each other and Ben, the nephew under discussion, was poking a stick repeatedly at the trunk of the lone apple tree.

Liz wordlessly handed Trish a cup of coffee. She wasn’t sure whether coffee was okay for a nursing mother, but Trish seemed to need
something
.

They stared out the slider as Ben’s stick broke. He kicked the tree instead.

“I’m sure that’s not what they said,” Liz placated.

“You weren’t there.” Trish took a long gulp of coffee and set the mug on the counter. “They said he’s got attention deficit, hyperactivity, doesn’t read social cues, is impulsive, disorganized, shows poor judgment, suffers from anxiety and that, considering everything, I would be ‘well advised’ to consider medication.” Trish pulled Clara out from under her shirt and flumped her over her shoulder. “Isn’t he just being a boy? Seriously, look at him! Don’t all boys do stupid, loud, impulsive stuff?”

Liz watched as her nephew body-slammed his younger brother, did a backwards somersault and then raced away. “Maybe it might help him moderate himself,” she offered.

“He’s not always like this. Being in school all day makes him antsy.”

“Has your pediatrician ever talked to you about Ben’s, er, impulsivity?”

“Sure, but I never seem to have the time to follow up on it.” She sighed. “Or maybe I’m afraid of what they might say when they start looking more closely. He’s a good kid, smart even, but his grades…” her voice trailed off and her eyes filled.

Liz patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s not the end of the world. I saw lots of kids like Ben when I was in college. Can it hurt to go to a specialist to find out what you’re dealing with? Who knows if the school is right? He might have some underlying learning or memory issues that make everything else worse, and if you can just address those…”

Trish swiped at her eyes. “How do you know all this?”

“I worked as a peer tutor in college. They put us all through a training program on how to help students with various learning styles and disabilities. You may not believe this, but I helped a kid with ADHD, short-term memory and long-term recall issues go from an F to a B+ in Accounting.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. I’ll look up some info for you. Trust me. Ben’s not hopeless.”

Ben slammed into the other side of the slider from them and laughed, a giant, goofy smile lighting his facing at having startled them. “Mom! I’m hungry! Can we stop for chicken nuggets on the way home? Please? Please?”

Trish nodded and Ben whooped delightedly before charging off again. “But what if they do what to medicate him? What if it changes his personality? I don’t want him to be a zombie.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

C
ARTER THREW THE discarded beer can he’d collected by the road and tossed it into the bed of his truck with a few others. If there was one thing he hated it was trash on the roadside. It didn’t look much better in his pickup, but he figured it was one step closer to being recycled.

“Whoa! No unauthorized cargo!” Carter caught the boy by the shoulders a moment before the kid hurled himself head-first into the back of his pickup. The boy laughed up at him, breathing heavily and looking over his shoulder.

“Thanks! My brother is after me. I didn’t see your truck.”

“Didn’t see it? You might need to get your eyes checked then, buddy.”

But instead of laughing, the boy’s smile disappeared. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said.

Carter picked up a paver from a stack near the tailgate. “I was kidding.” But the boy looked like a puppy that’d been kicked. He turned to leave, his slim shoulders sagging under his Star Wars T-shirt. Carter tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Ben.”

Carter extended a hand. “Carter McIntyre. Owner of the truck you almost creamed.” The boy shook hands awkwardly. “Sorry. I guess I’m not as funny as I like to think. No hard feelings?”

Ben shrugged, his gaze glancing off Carter’s. “Guess not.”

“Great. Say, I’m mocking up a couple edging patterns. Would you mind helping me carry these out back?”

“Sure.” Carter handed the boy a couple pavers. “I can take more,” said Ben. “I’m stronger than I look. I take karate.”

“Impressive. I can see your muscles.
I
can move two tons of stone in a single day.”

“Wow!”

“I know. We landscapers are amazing that way. Here, I think you can take one more, I’ll take a couple, then we’ll see what the lady of the house has to say.”

“The lady of the house?” Ben asked as they rounded the corner to the backyard. Carter pointed through the glass slider. “That’s not a lady. That’s my mother!”

“I heard that.” Liz’s sister, Trish, stepped onto the back deck and cupped a hand to her mouth. “Peter! Jess! Front and center! Five minute warning!” A baby snored over her shoulder as she turned back to Ben. “Just for your information, mothers can be ladies, too. It’s not mutually-exclusive.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but grinned under his mom’s teasing. “Where do you want these?” he asked Carter.

“Just set them on the edge of the deck. I’ll get the rest in a minute.”

“I can do it!” Ben said, dropping his load of pavers and charging away again.

Carter watched the boy round the corner of the house. “Sorry. If you have to leave—”

Trish waved a hand. “Let him go. He’s had a hard day. It’ll do him good to keep busy while I corral the twins.”

Ben roared around the corner of the house again and dropped his pavers on the others. A corner chipped off one and sailed through the air.

“Ben!” Trish gasped. “Be careful!”

“I’m so sorry!” Ben stared at the chipped corner, and then at Carter, his eyes welling up as if shocked by his own powers of destruction.

Carter knew all too well how that felt.

Impulsively, Carter grabbed another paver and dropped it on the pile. A corner chipped off a second paver. “Look,” he said. “No big deal. Happens all the time.” He picked up the damaged paver and flipped it over in his palm, held it out. “Luckily, they have two sides.”

When he saw the still-useable face, Ben grinned gratefully and looked at his mom as if to say, “See?” before running off again.

“Thanks,” she said. “He doesn’t mean to be careless. He just has a lot of energy, you know?”

Carter nodded as he watched Ben disappear from view. “Yeah, I know.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
____________________

“I
’VE GOT IT,
P
OP.” Carter snaked in front of his uncle and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow before the older man could try to lift it. He cocked his head toward the house. “I think I smelled Grams cooking up a batch of those pocket pastry thingies for her friends. Better get ‘em while they’re hot.”