Makin' Whoopee (14 page)
Authors: Billie Green
"Are you going to stop for dinner?" she asked, smiling.
He opened his eyes and jerked his head around toward her. "Is it that late?"
"It's that late," she said, walking in. She picked up his hand and began to pull him from the chair. "Even a genius's brain has to be fed occasionally. Whatever problem you're wrestling with can wait."
"Aye, aye, captain," he said cockily, and followed her into the dining room. He whistled when he saw the elegant table. "Very nice. You . . . uh, you didn't cook the dinner all by yourself, did you?"
"You can keep that tone out of your voice, Charlie Sanderson," she said in warning. "Just sit down and eat."
As they ate, Sara watched him closely. A vague feeling was nagging at her. On the surface everything seemed normal enough. He teased her and made her laugh just as he always did. He brought up interesting things that had happened to him during the day, things he wanted to share with her. But something felt wrong.
Biting her lip, she stared at the frozen dessert Irma had prepared. The situation was getting more involved than she was prepared for. This nervous feeling was only supposed to come in the middle of the night.
Suddenly she felt something hit her on the top of her head. Startled, she looked up. "What in hell was that?"
"What was what?" he asked guilelessly.
She glanced down at the floor and frowned. "It's a dinner roll." Slowly she raised her eyes to his. "Charlie, I know this may seem like a stupid question, but did you just hit me with a dinner roll?"
"It was probably a poltergeist," he said, glancing around the room nervously. "I've always thought there was something strange about this house."
"The only thing strange about this house is that you live in it," she muttered. "Why did you throw a dinner roll at me, Charlie? Was it just a whim or is it part of a dark plan to drive me crazy?"
He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. "I was lonely. You weren't paying attention to me."
"How can you make it sound so reasonable?" she asked, staring at him in fascination. "A man wearing a moldy leather cap throws a dinner roll at me and it sounds reasonable. Couldn't you have just said, 'Hey, you?' "
He gave her a pitying look. "No imagination. No imagination at all."
Sara was still laughing as she cleared the table an hour later. If she lived to be three hundred, she would never be able to anticipate him. It was like exploring a new world every day.
But two hours later she was no longer laughing. Charlie was still in his office. When she considered their dinner together, she began to frown. The light-hearted banter was definitely Charlie-esque, but she was certain something was bothering him.
After dinner he had kissed her cheek, patted her bottom, and gone back to his office, saying only that he had a few things to work on. She had wanted to ask what was keeping him so busy, but in some indefinable way she felt excluded. Suddenly, for the first time in ages, Sara was lonely.
She tried to read, but gazed at the clock and his office door instead of the magazine. At nine-thirty, when she could stand it no longer, she again went to his office.
Charlie glanced up as she walked into the room.
"You just can't stay away from me, can you?" he said, a smug look on his face.
"Watch it," she said. "If your head gets any bigger, your shoulders won't support it. What are you doing in here? I'm the one who works late, remember?"
He indicated a large pile of envelopes. "I'm stuffing mailers." He pressed his hand to his forehead in a dramatic gesture. "It's my destiny. I was born to stuff mailers, and stuff them I must."
Chuckling, she walked behind him and leaned over his shoulder. "Besides your destiny, what's keeping you so absorbed in here?"
"What else?" he said, grinning. "I'm working oh our careers as entrepreneurs. There are several estate sales going on this weekend. It might be worth our time to go and check out furniture for the lodge. Oh—and I've gotten a couple of bids on the landscaping." He handed her two files. "But whomever we choose will have to wait until next summer to start. I'd like to have everything else ready by then."
She glanced quickly through the papers. "It doesn't look like they're offering anything substantially different for the money."
"No," he agreed. "What it comes down to is quality. Downes has been around a long time; he's got a proven track record. Beaumont hasn't been around so long, but she's done some great stuff. She designed the grounds for that new clinic."
"A woman?" She looked again at the papers. "I'll try not to be chauvinistic as I study these."
He chuckled. "I'm leaning in her direction too. At the back of each file you'll find a list of past work."
She settled down in one of the two chairs facing his desk and began going carefully through the files. Each one contained drawings and plans of what the lodge would look like when the landscaping was finished, and she became totally absorbed in the possibilities.
She couldn't tell how much time had passed when she suddenly shivered and looked up at Charlie. "It's getting cold in here. The weatherman said it was supposed to be mild for the rest of the week. I think 111 send him my heating bill."
She had turned her attention back to the files when she heard something, a small sound, toward the back of the house. Cocking her head, she frowned slightly.
"What is it?" Charlie asked, staring at her.
She shook her head. "I don't know. I thought I heard something outside—" She paused. "There. There it is again. Did you hear it?"
He nodded. "It sounds like Mrs. Evans's cat has escaped again. I don't know why she always comes here. It's over a mile away, and there isn't a tomcat around."
"I think Irma feeds her," Sara said, smiling. "She would never admit it. She wants us to think she kicks helpless animals."
When they heard the sound again, Sara laid the files on his desk. "I can't work when I know a cat is freezing on my doorstep," she said, standing. "I think I'll let her in, then take her home when we finish here."
She walked out of the room and down the hall to the back door. Pulling It open, she caught her breath. "No wonder it's getting colder," she said to herself. "It's snowing. Wow, it's really coming down." She turned and called, "Come and see, Charlie. It's gorgeous." She took a step out the door. "I love—"
She broke off abruptly, barely aware that Charlie had joined her and was speaking. "You love what?"
"Charlie," she said, her voice strained and cracked, "it's not a cat. It's—it's a baby."
"That's a baby all right." Charlie's voice came from directly behind Sara. "Why are you keeping a baby out on the back porch?"
Leaning against the doorframe, she stared down at the blanket-wrapped bundle, not blinking even when a gust of wind blew snow in through the door. "Sweet heaven, Charlie," she whispered. "It's really a baby."
He pushed her aside and scooped the baby up. "It's going to be a Popsicle if we don't get it in by the fire." He walked back into the house, saying over his shoulder, "Come on, Sara Love, snap out of it."
"A baby," she said again, her expression blank as she closed the door. "Who would leave a baby on the doorstep . . . and why my doorstep?"
Dazed, she watched Charlie stride down the hall toward the living room; then, pulling herself together, hurried to catch up with him. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Charlie, what are you going to do?"
He didn't even glance back at her. In the living room he sat on the rug and carefully laid the baby down in front of the fire Mr. Hubbert had built earlier. First he waved his hand between the baby and the fire in some weird rite; then he unwrapped the blanket.
"Charlie, answer me. What are you doing?" she asked in exasperation.
"I'm simply checking," he said, running his hands over the small, pink human. When the baby made gurgling noises, he laughed out loud.
She stooped down beside him. "Checking what, for heaven's sake? It's a baby. I could have told you that without unwrapping the blanket."
"I was checking to make sure this spot wasn't too warm for her," he said patiently. "Then I was checking to see if she's all right. She's been through a lot, after all. Her face is cold, but the rest seems to be warm enough." He chucked the baby under the chin with one finger. "I don't think you came to any harm, did you, darling?"
"She? How do you know—"
She broke off when he glanced at her. "Something was missing when I checked her out," he said. "She's a girl, all right. A gorgeous, healthy little girl."
"I should have known," she muttered. "She's grinning at you with the same idiotic expression that all females get when they look at you."
He chuckled. "This time there's a difference. Not all females who grin at me are in her damp condition. She needs changing."
"Changing?"
"Diapers, Sara Love, diapers." He bundled the baby back in the blanket and stood up with it. "I don't suppose you have any spare diapers."
"Of course," she snapped as she ran a shaky hand through her hair. "I keep them in my hope chest, right next to the lace doilies. Why on earth would I have diapers?"
He pushed the baby into her arms. "Then I guess well have to improvise. Aren't we lucky that's my specialty?"
"No, Charlie," she said urgently, automatically reaching to give the baby back to him. But he was already walking out the door. "Charlie," she said, her voice panicky, "I don't know anything about babies. Take it back."
"It's not an it; it's a her." His voice drifted back to her from the hallway. "Relax, Sara. You're making a big deal out of nothing. Babies are natural. Don't mess the whole thing up with nerves."
"Babies may be natural everywhere else, but not in this house," she called out belligerently. "Come back here, dammit. We've got to call the police so they can come and get it out of here."
"Not until she's dry."
Sara stood perfectly still for a moment, then glanced furtively at the thing in her arms.
A baby,
she thought in desperation.
Good Lord, it was so little, so vulnerable. She shouldn't even be holding it. What if she dropped it? What if it started choking?
Her arms were rigid around the baby as she held :t awkwardly against her. She was afraid to move, afraid to think.
Why couldn't Charlie have left it on the floor?
Sara dropped her gaze again to the baby. Its tiny face suddenly puckered up, turning bright red as the baby let out an angry yell.
"No," Sara whispered, the word almost a moan. "No . . . don't do that. Charlie! You come back here right now!"
"You two sure are noisy," he said, shaking his head as he walked back into the living room. He was carrying several linen tea towels and what looked remarkably like a box of baking soda.
As soon as he had laid the paraphernalia on the floor beside the fire, Sara shoved the baby at him. He took the infant, chucking it under the chin in a way that made Sara want to strangle him. From a safe distance she watched as he unpinned the baby's diaper. He talked softly to the child as he worked, making what sounded to Sara like idiotic noises.
"Why are you using baking soda?" she said. Her voice was stiff. "I have bath powder in the bathroom."
"Bath powder is perfumed," he explained. "It might irritate her cute little butt."
Sara bit her lip. Why did he have to be so damned confident about everything? It made her feel inadequate. "How do you know so much about babies?" she asked grumpily. "You act as though you've raised a dozen or so."
"There, now, we're all warm and dry," he said, pulling the blanket back around the baby. At last he glanced up at Sara to answer her question. "I have friends with children, and I'm observant. Besides, I like the little critters. I may have a dozen of my own someday."
One with each of his women
, Sara thought, undisturbed for once by her own bitchiness. Turning away, she walked to the telephone. "I'm not waiting any longer," she said firmly. "The police need to come and get it."
"Her."
Sara's lips tightened as she heard the laughter in his voice. "Her, it, what does it matter? Just as long as she leaves."
Picking up the phone, she checked the emergency numbers, then began to punch in the one for the police station. Suddenly she stopped and listened. Her features froze as she heard nothing but silence on the line.
"Damn, damn, damn," she said tightly. "It's dead. Why did I have to move out in the middle of nowhere? Every time there's a little storm, the telephone goes—" She paused when the lights went out. "And the electricity. That's great. That's just great."
The only light in the room came from the fireplace. It cast a flickering illumination on the floor and furniture nearest it, making long, dancing shadows, but left the rest of the room in darkness. Sara gripped the table, glancing around the room for Charlie. Then she heard his voice.
"I'm afraid it's more than a little storm." This time there was not a trace of amusement in his voice as it drifted across the room to her. "Look."
Swinging around, she groped her way through the darkness toward the sound of his voice. When she reached him, he was standing at a window holding the baby in one arm. She stopped beside him and gazed out at the blinding whiteness. For the first time she heard the howling wind.
