she knew. Had known all along. Remember?
“And just to set your mind at ease,” she said, “I learned a long time ago it’s easier to grow orchids in the Antarctic than to convert a die-hard bachelor into husband material. And lost causes ain’t my thang. Because, someday? You better believe I want ‘all that messy emotional stuff.’ And the strings. Oh, God, I want strings so bad I can taste them. But only from somebody who wants them as badly as I do. So you can quit with the don’t-get-any-ideas signals, okay? Message received, C.J. Loud and clear.”
His eyes bore into hers for a long moment, then he said, “So we’ll go shopping after we get off work tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” she said, then left the kitchen, Steve trotting after her, hopping up onto her bed as though he owned it. She and the cat faced off for several seconds, she daring him to stay, he daring her to make him get down. Finally she crawled into bed, yanking up the cover. “Mess with my birds and you’re toast.”
The cat gave a strained little eerk in reponse, then settled in by her thighs, absolutely radiating smugness.
No wonder C.J. hadn’t taken the thing to the pound.
Sunlight slapped Dana awake the next morning, along with the alarm clock’s blat … blat … blat. Like a sheep with a hangover. Groaning, she opened one eye to discover that she’d apparently hit the snooze button.
Three times.
Covers, and a very pissed cat, went flying as she catapulted from the bed and hurtled toward Ethan’s room, not even bothering with her robe since C.J. had said he’d be gone by eight, and—sad to say—eight had long since passed.
“Hey, sugar,” she sang, sailing through the door, “you ready to get up …?”
No baby.
She scurried across the room to check the crib more closely, because that’s what you do when you’re not firing on all jets yet and the baby entrusted to your care isn’t where you last left him, only to spin around and make tracks toward the kitchen, hoping against hope C.J. had lied about leaving at eight and/or that wherever he was, Ethan was with him.
But no. Oh, she found Ethan, who greeted her from his high-chair with a joyful “Ba!” But instead of a tall, good-looking man in his prime, there, beside the baby, stood (at least, Dana thought she was standing, she wasn’t quite sure) a short, squat, black-haired woman whose prime, Dana was guessing, had predated color television. But before she could get the words, “And you are?” out of her mouth, the phone rang. Whoever-she-was picked it up, said, “Sì, Mr. C.J., she is right here,” and held it out to Dana with what could only be called a beatific, if curious, smile.
“Hey,” C.J. said, “did I happen to mention Guadalupe?”
Dana’s gaze slid over to the smiling woman. “I take it that’s who answered the phone?”
“That would be her. She comes in to clean for me twice a week. It completely slipped my mind that today was her day. I briefly explained things to her when she came in this morning. I would have awakened you before I left, but Steve looked like he’d remove a limb if I tried.”
With a flickering smile at Guadalupe, whose steady stream of Spanish Ethan was apparently eating up as enthusiastically as his rice cereal, Dana carted the portable phone out of earshot. “Never mind that I nearly had a heart attack when I went to get Ethan out of his crib and he wasn’t there,” she whispered into the phone. “A little warning might’ve been nice. And how the heck does one briefly explain the sudden appearance of a baby and a strange woman in your house?” She put up a hand, even though he couldn’t see her. “Unfamiliar, I mean.”
After a barely perceptible pause, she heard, “You have no idea how tempting it is to say, no, you were right the first time.”
“And where I come from, bantering before coffee is a hanging offense.”
A soft laugh preceded, “In any case, I simply told her the truth, that Ethan’s my son and you’re his cousin, that neither of us knew of his existence two weeks ago, and that we’re trying to figure out the best way to handle a very complicated situation. She seemed to take it in stride. But then, taking things in stride is what Guadalupe does. You’ll see.” He paused, as though catching his breath. “I really do apologize for the brain cramp. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, now. Five minutes ago was something else again. Look, thanks for calling, but I’m running seriously late—”
“Right, me, too, I’ve got an appointment in ten. See you tonight, then.”
And he was gone. Dana told herself the sense of watching an un-subtitled foreign movie was due to the combination of severe caffeine deprivation and leftover heart arrhythmia from the earlier shock.
She returned to the kitchen, where Guadalupe was busy wiping down a squealing Ethan, who wasn’t taking kindly to having his attempts at pulverizing a blob of cereal on his high chair tray thwarted whenever Guadalupe grabbed his little hand to clean it. The older woman flicked a brief, but chillingly astute, glance in Dana’s direction.
“So,” she said. “Mr. C.J. says you are not the mother?”
Dana shook her head. “No. His mother’s my cousin.”
“She as pretty as you?”
Warmth flooded Dana’s face at the out-of-left-field compliment. She sidled over to the coffemaker and poured herself a huge cup. “Trish is … very different from me,” she said, dumping in three packets of artificial sweetener, some half-and-half. “Lighter hair. Tallish. Skinny.”
One eyebrow lifted, Guadalupe went for the other little hand. “So how well do you and Mr. C.J. know each other?”
“Not very, really. Oh, let me take the baby, I need to get him dressed to go to my mother’s.”
“I can get him dressed, just leave out what you would like him to wear. And while you shower, I fix breakfast, no? I bring eggs, chorizo, the green chile for Mr. C.J.,” she said when Dana opened her mouth. “There is plenty extra for you. Is muy bueno, you will like. So, go,” she said, shooing.
Fifteen minutes later, Dana returned, face done, hair up, body clothed in a silky loose top and a drapey, ankle-length skirt in jewel tones that coordinated with the plastic fruit gracing her high-heeled, Lucite mules. The baby was dressed and in his car seat, ready to go; from the tempered glass breakfast table, a plate of steaming, fragrant eggs and sausage beckoned. Her brain said, “Stick with the coffee,” but her stomach said, “Who are you kidding?”
After depositing her purse on the island, she clicked across the stone floor, sat at the table. Lifted fork to mouth. Groaned in ecstasy.
“Is good, no?” Guadalupe said, smiling, from the sink.
“Delicious. Thank you.”
“De nada. You cook?”
“I love to cook. But I’ve never gotten the hang of Mexican.”
“I teach you, if you like. I teach all my daughters, now my grandchildren. Twenty-seven,” she said with a grin, and Dana nearly choked on her eggs.
“Goodness. Y’all must have some Thanksgivings.”
The old woman threw back her head and laughed, her bosoms shaking. “Sì, last year we had three turkeys and two hams, and enough enchiladas to feed half of Albuquerque. Done?” she asked, when Dana stood, whisking away her empty plate before she had a chance to carry it to the sink.
“Well, this little guy and I better hit the road,” she said, moving toward the seat, which Guadalupe had set by the patio door in a patch of filtered sunshine. But the old woman touched her arm.
“I know I am a stranger to you, but I have worked for Mr. C.J. for many years, I am good with children, you could leave el poco