Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 2

  “Yes,” they both said in unison.

  “You wanted to marry him,” Portia added.

  “It’s because of him.” I grabbed the twins’ hands. “All right, let’s go get some ice cream!”

  But it was Blaise’s turn to press my vulnerable spots. “Is this because he made you a cuckoo?”

  I looked down at him. “A cuckoo? What’s that mean?”

  “With horns,” Portia added. “Daddy said he made you a cuckoo.” She started giggling.

  I frowned as we came to the intersection, trying to translate the conversation. Then it hit me like a fist to the gut. “You mean a cuckold. Uncle James made me a cuckold.”

  Blaise nodded. “Yes. Daddy told us that.”

  “Did he, now? I’ll have to ask him about that.”

  So Win was teaching his children about cuckolds—that myth that a man would grow horns if his wife was unfaithful—and I was the example. My blood pressure rose a few notches, but I held my chin high as we approached the creamery. Ice cream before dinner was no longer a bribe. It was an act of rebellion against my thoughtless ass of a brother-in-law. “You know, cuckold is a term that only applies to men. Technically Uncle James made me a cuckquean.” Technically, your dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  But I could see I’d lost the twins’ attention again, and it was just as well.

  When we entered the creamery, a little silver bell chimed above the glass door. There was a line, so we waited our turn. Just as we came up to the freezer display, Portia grabbed at my sleeve and hissed, “I have to go the bathroom.”

  I glanced at the line of people behind us. “Now? Can you wait until after we have our ice cream?”

  She shook her head and grabbed herself. “No. It’s an emergency.”

  I sighed and reached for their hands. “All right. Come on, both of you.”

  “I’m not going in the girls’ room,” Blaise said as we walked to the back of the ice cream parlor. “I’m not a girl!”

  Oh for the love of it.

  There were two restrooms, one for each gender, each with one toilet. I ushered Portia into the girls’ room. “Go ahead, we’ll wait.”

  “No, I need help with my buttons,” she said, and gestured to her jeans.

  “But I have—” I stopped and placed my hands over my face. After drawing a few calming breaths, I said, “Blaise, honey? Can you wait right here while I help your sister in the bathroom?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t run off, okay? We’ll be right out.”

  We were in there for three minutes, tops. I lifted Portia up to wash her hands in the sink and grabbed her a paper towel, and then I opened the door to look for Blaise.

  He was gone.

  “Hey, Blaise?” I walked back into the ice cream parlor and looked around. The place was busy, but I didn’t see him anywhere. “Blaise?”

  No answer. Behind me, Portia called, “Blaise?” She waited for a beat before shaking her head and giving a little shrug. “Looks like he’s lost forever.”

  Panic rose in my chest. How could I be so irresponsible? I immediately feared the worst. He was gone. Abducted. Someone took him and walked right out, and everyone assumed that Blaise was his or her son. Had Faye and Win instructed their children not to go anywhere with strangers? It would be just my luck if they eschewed that discussion in favor of constant supervision.

  “Blaise?” I raised my voice to implore, “Has anyone seen a little boy?”

  Of course there were several little boys in the ice cream parlor, so when I saw the blank stares, I tried again. “He was wearing a red shirt and gray pants.” More blank stares. “It was a waffle-knit long-sleeve henley in apple red, and corduroy slacks in misty gray. Four pockets, slim fit,” I added, feeling confident that the citizens of Westborough would respond well to catalog descriptions. I was right.

  “I think he went out the back,” a young woman said, and gestured to the back door. “Out there.”

  “Thank you!” I grabbed Portia’s hand. “Come on.”

  I took off in a hurry, trying to calculate how fast his little legs could carry him in miles per hour. If he left by himself, he couldn’t be more than a block or two away. Portia whined behind me, dragging her feet, but I kept moving. All I could think was that if Blaise got hurt on our little outing, Faye would kill me. More important, I’d never be able to forgive myself.

  We stepped into the late-afternoon sunlight and into a small alleyway. We were facing the dirty backs of a line of stores and restaurants. Every now and then there was a little green fence that blocked a trash can or Dumpster from view. I glanced to my right and left. Which way would he go? Portia tugged my hand. “Not now, honey. I have to find your brother.”

  “He’s over there,” she said, and pointed to the right.

  Sure enough, there he was, across the alley and a few doors down. He was sitting on gray-painted cement stairs. My heart arrested. There was a man next to him, and—oh God. He was offering Blaise a cigarette. “Blaise! Stop! Put that down right now, mister!”

  I dropped Portia’s hand and took off in a full sprint. Smoking! At five years old! Faye would never speak to me again. “Stop it right now! Don’t you move!”

  Blaise froze in place, the cigarette in his hand. “Smoking kills people. Do you want to die, young man?” I tugged the cigarette out from between his fingers. That’s when I realized it was the stem of a lollipop. I was a complete ass.

  The man on the step chuckled. “Hey, buddy. You told me you were legal.”

  I didn’t appreciate it. I looked up at him and prepared to give him a piece of my mind, but when I saw him it promptly went blank. Goodness, was he handsome. He had intense green eyes and a chiseled jaw. Full lips that were smirking at me. He was wearing a white T-shirt and black slacks, and his body was nicely defined. He didn’t look like he lived at the gym, just strong. Strong enough to handle the lecture I was about to lob at him.

  I took a breath. “You can’t do that, you know. Give candy to children. What if he had an allergy? Or diabetes?”

  He cocked his head at her, amusement playing on his lips. He couldn’t help but admire her passion and her strong maternal instincts. And of course she had a certain look about her as she gazed at her young charges. An elegant profile, soft brown hair, and hazel eyes that reminded him of the lush fields of Ireland in spring. But he denied the attraction. He couldn’t dare hope. A woman like that, single? No. She would have a line of suitors a mile long. What man wouldn’t clamor to get next to her? What he wouldn’t do—

  He nodded at Blaise. “Are you his mom?”

  My shoulders sagged. “No. I’m his aunt.”

  Flustered didn’t begin to cover what I was feeling as he directed those eyes toward me. Wilted. Jumbled. Clumbergooped. Yes, I was clumbergooped. There I was in a back alley, talking to the hottest guy I’d ever seen, and he thought I was a mom, which I’m pretty sure meant that my jeans rode too high. If he’d mistaken me for the nanny, well then. Whole other story.

  “I told him he couldn’t eat the lollipop until he had your permission,” he explained.

  “Hm.” I turned away and leaned in toward my nephew. “Blaise. I didn’t know where you were. I was so scared.”

  He looked down at the ground. “Sorry.”

  Beside me, Portia said, “Hey, I want a lollipop, too!”

  “I thought you wanted ice cream?” I said.

  The hot guy chuckled again. “I’m guessing they don’t have diabetes.” He reached into his pocket and pulled another lollipop out. “Can I give her one?”

  I glanced at Portia’s wide eyes. “I suppose so. Do you carry lollipops around with you all the time or something?” To lure children into your windowless van?

  He handed the candy to Portia, who was waiting with open hands. “Nah, I found some inside. One of
the waitresses had some from a party.”

  “Can I eat mine?” Blaise asked.

  “Yes, honey. Go ahead.” I squinted at the building behind him. It was a restaurant called Bar Harbor, but I’d never been. “You work here?”

  “A friend runs the restaurant. I help him out when he’s short-staffed. I used to bartend during college.”

  “Oh. That’s nice of you.”

  “He pays.” Hot Guy smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Listen. I saw a kid wandering around by himself. I thought if I sat with him, he’d be safe if someone came looking. I didn’t mean to scare you or do anything wrong. I couldn’t find anything other than a lollipop. We don’t keep modeling clay behind the bar.” He grinned. “Maybe we should.”

  When he put it that way, it was sort of thoughtful. I reconsidered my self-righteous anger. “Sorry. I’m babysitting them, so when he wandered off . . .” I set my hands on my purse. “Can I pay you for the lollipops?”

  His eyebrows rose. “No, I wouldn’t think of it.” He stood.

  “Well, thanks.”

  Portia tore off the clear cellophane wrapping and held up her candy. “Ooh, it’s a snake!”

  “A snake lollipop?” I smiled. “Isn’t that funny. Let me see.”

  I leaned forward to get a peek. It was blue, and sure enough, it did resemble a snake. Then the details came into focus and my blood pooled at my feet. Holy crap. Hot Guy had given my niece a candy phallus. I grabbed for it. “Portia! Give that to me!”

  “No!” She was too quick. She actually jumped off the stairs to avoid my reach. “No, it’s mine!”

  “Dammit!” I reached up and tugged at my hair. Then I spun toward Hot Guy, my hands wide. “What the— Why would you— What is wrong with you?”

  He frowned at me like I was being totally unreasonable. “I thought you said it was fine.”

  “I didn’t realize you were giving her . . . that.”

  “It’s the same as the one I gave her brother. What’s wrong with it?” He pulled another lollipop from his pocket and took a good look. I saw the realization settle on his features. “Oh, now I see. Jeez.” He winced. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, that’s not going to play in court,” I snapped. Clearly I’d started channeling my inner trial lawyer. Thanks, Dad!

  His green eyes narrowed. “Court? What are you talking about?”

  I turned in horror to watch the twins standing beside each other, merrily enjoying their candy. Portia waved hers around. “Look! I bit off its head!”

  “Oh my God. My sister is going to kill me.” I set my hands over my face. “Kids, eat those quickly! Hurry up!”

  “They don’t even know what it is. It’s hardly anatomically correct.”

  He said it so easily, standing there with his hands in his pockets and leaning against the railing like he was posing for a cologne advertisement. I glared at him until he returned my gaze and said, “What?”

  “Are you some kind of pervert?”

  His eyes didn’t waver. “Is that a real question?”

  I looked away. Damn him and his sexy green eyes. I took Portia’s and Blaise’s hands. “Come on, let’s go home. It’s almost dinnertime. Eat your lollipops. Bite them as hard as you can.”

  Both kids started chomping away at the evidence. I glanced over my shoulder. He was still leaning against the railing, looking like something I’d rip out of a magazine and tape to my bedroom wall. I mean, when I was much younger.

  “Hey! I didn’t even catch your name!” he called. “I’m Eric.”

  He apparently didn’t realize we were fighting. “Matilda,” I said, and hurried the twins along.

  “See you around, Matilda!”

  Portia pulled the lollipop out of her mouth long enough to say, “That’s not your name. Why did you lie—”

  “Shush. Let’s get you both home.” I tried to sound chipper and pulled together. Failed. “Your mom is making a roast tonight. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

  They sucked on their candy and didn’t answer, and I realized that all I needed to do to manage them from then on was carry some lollipops around in my purse. Live and learn.

  CHAPTER 2

  I WAS DREADING the convocation. I’d been vague about my recent wedding combustion on social media, so lots of my colleagues were going to want to know why I was still Ms. Osbourne and not Mrs. Abbington.

  I had trouble falling asleep.

  Then I couldn’t eat breakfast.

  Then my hair dryer caught on fire.

  “Dammit!”

  I unplugged the smoking appliance and threw it into the bathroom sink. A small flame burst and then expired. It took me a minute to absorb the event. My hair was soaked, and my hair dryer had passed on. On the first day back to work. I noticed some bite marks on the cord.

  “Odin!” I marched into the living room and brandished the hair dryer at him. “No chew! No! You’ve just earned yourself obedience school, mister.” He cocked his head at me and thumped his tail, never fazed by my scolding.

  This was no good. I pulled my uncooperative hair into a ponytail and hoped no one would notice, but it was not a good start to the year. I was single and recovering from a busted engagement that had left my lady parts comatose, but I didn’t want to look like I’d given up on life. I wanted to look amazing and confident, so people wouldn’t feel strange around me. I didn’t want to be the tragic figure everyone would be afraid to talk to.

  As I sat in traffic, I practiced my speech. James? Oh, you mean my fiancé. Yeah, we went our separate ways. We wanted different things from life, and he lives in the Boston area and I’m in Connecticut, and we’re both so career-focused right now that it didn’t make sense. I held my explanations at the ready as I walked across the cement sidewalk that led to the squat, brick building that was Noah Webster Elementary School, girding my loins, so to speak. When I entered the auditorium where the convocation was scheduled, however, I quickly learned that no one gave a damn about me and my wedding.

  “Did you hear?” Mindy Ling gasped. “Marlene Kitrich is gone.”

  Mindy has long black hair that she curls into ringlets. Some of the strands are dark purple, but you can only see it in the sunlight. Mindy is eternally stylish. She is my closest colleague and one of my best friends. She already knew all about the James Incident, thus making her one of the few people I wasn’t trying to avoid.

  “She’s gone? What, like she quit?” I asked.

  Mindy gave me a slightly conspiratorial tilt of the head. “No one’s saying, but word on the street is she had a nervous breakdown. No surprise there. The woman always had her pantaloons in a twist about something.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Mmm. You look incredible, by the way. Your skin is glowing.”

  She was a good friend and a decent liar. I patted the little bob of a ponytail on the back of my head. “My hair dryer broke. You look great for real, though. So nice and tan.”

  “Just got back from the Cape. Oh, and I manifested a free coffee this morning.” Mindy lifted her cup. “Life is good.”

  Sometime last spring, Mindy had become interested in the law of attraction and the power of positive thinking. She was manifesting the life of her dreams and trying to get me to do the same. “I went to Dahlia’s, and they screwed up the order ahead of mine. He wanted an iced latte, and they gave him hot. So Rosie was like, ‘Hey, do you want a free coffee? Because otherwise we’re going to throw it out.’ ” She shook her head. “I’m telling you, this stuff works. You ask for something, and the universe answers.”

  “Free coffee, huh?”

  “You can manifest anything. Anything you want, Lettie. The job of your dreams, a new house—”

  “A new principal,” I muttered as I saw Dr. Gretchen Hauschild cross the auditorium stage to a lectern.

  “I’m working on that.” Mindy si
ghed.

  Noah Webster Elementary School is not located in Westborough, but in the neighboring town of River Junction. Here the children are cute, the parents like to hover, and the principals were Viking warriors in a past life. Dr. Gretchen Hauschild is built like a utility shed, with broad shoulders and sturdy blocks of legs. She favors brown tweed suits and footwear that reminds me of the Pilgrims: sensible, dark leather shoes with low heels and large buckles. She wears her reddish hair in a severe bun, and it took Mindy and me about five seconds to start calling her Brunhilda. I’m pretty sure her bras are metal. We almost called her Miss Trunchbull, after the character from Roald Dahl’s Matilda, but then Mindy pointed out that Justin Meyers reads that text with his third graders and he’s a weasel. If he ever overheard us, he’d tattle.

  Noah Webster has always been a good school, but it was lagging behind other schools in the district in terms of test-score performance. So Brunhilda was sent here by the district to clean house and repair our fractured reputation. The first thing she did was enact a dress code for faculty that prohibits open-toe shoes and sleeveless blouses.

  For the record, I blame Sue Perry, Brunhilda’s administrative assistant, for the no-armpit rule. Everyone knows she doesn’t believe in grooming. It looks like she’s carrying gerbils under there.

  I hung the dress-code rules in my closet so that I can refer to them each morning. Pants are to be comfortably loose, bra straps are to be hidden, and there are to be absolutely no leggings unless paired with a tunic top that hits midthigh. “Do you catch my drift, ladies? Camel toe is verboten.” She announced the dress code at a faculty meeting over doughnut holes and apple juice. I could only assume the same applied to men, and that moose knuckles would not be tolerated, either.

  Brunhilda had been principal of Noah Webster Elementary for a year, passing through the halls like a sizable barge, leaving the rest of us in her wake. I’ve never seen her eat, fueling my suspicion that she derives her energy from the tears of teachers. Marlene Kitrich had worked steadfastly by her side, so Mindy and I called her the Familiar. That is, before poor Marlene had her breakdown or whatever.