The Baby Truce (8 page)

Patty, who'd just taken a cake out of the convection oven, stopped, holding the pan in two gloved hands.

“Reggie…” he said.

She jammed her hands onto her hips. “Go back to your station and do your job.”

“Damn it, Reg. I'm only trying to help.”

“You're trying to take over.”

“Bullshit. You're upset because I rented a house. If I were anyone else, you'd be listening right now.”

Reggie snatched up the spoon and shook it at him,
spraying tiny red splatters onto his coat. “Get away from my chili.”

Tom turned and stalked back to his station, giving Patty and her cake a wide berth, then started chopping with a vengeance. Reggie found that she was shaking. Nerves? Adrenaline? Hormones?

All three, probably. She took two silicone pot holders and pushed the giant kettle to the back of the stove to cool, burning a finger in the process. She barely noticed.

With a clatter she got another stock pot off the rack and started heating oil, went to the walk-in for more hamburger. Yes, this was going to cost her, but she was not serving patched-up chili. Not even chili patched by a master chef.

Tom continued to work as Reggie remade the chili, his anger more than evident in the staccato movements of his knife, his body. Not his usual impatient steaming over the inefficiency of those around him, but rather a cold, quiet anger. He kept his eyes down as he moved quickly, meticulously, finishing everything on his prep list. When he was done, he cleaned his station, took off his coat. Without asking if there was anything else Reggie needed, he gave his counter one final wipe, then headed through the kitchen to the back door, which silently closed behind him.

Patty didn't say a word after he left, didn't announce what she was going to do next. Instead, she disappeared into the pastry room to start a batch of frosting, closing the door behind her. Eden looked up from the cooler she
was packing. “He's right. If he'd been anyone else, you would have let him help.”

Reggie turned on that one. “I don't think so. I had time to make a new batch and I think that's better than patching.”

“Except that you didn't even give him a chance to show you what he could do.” She paused, then said, “I have a feeling that Tom wouldn't have offered if he couldn't have done it right.”

Reggie didn't answer. She retreated to the office with the real excuse of returning a client's call. Except the line was busy, so she set the phone down just as Eden came into the small room and shut the door behind her. “Look, Reg. I know why Tom is here—the theory at least—but remember how we talked about the possibility of an uncomfortable work environment?”

“Yes.” Reggie started shuffling through invoices on her desk.

“We've hit that stage.”

Her fingers didn't still. “I apologize for that. It won't happen again. I was just upset about ruining the chili, and I let my emotions get the best of me. Believe it or not, I have a few hormone issues right now.”

“It's more than hormones, Reg. You're so tense I'm surprised you haven't shattered. Either you two work it out really, really quickly or one of you has got to leave the kitchen. I vote for Tom.”

Reggie stopped going through the invoices and leaned on the desk, staring at her blank computer screen. If Tom left, then they'd be right where they'd
started, with nothing worked out. If he wasn't already gone. She had no idea if he was coming back.

Except that he'd rented a house.

A light knock on the door made them turn in unison.

“Excuse me,” Patty said. “But I think the chili is burning. I turned it off, but you might want to take a look.”

Eden was looking, all right—at Reggie, who pressed a palm against her forehead. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I'll get it back together.”

“You need to work something out with Tom.” Eden sighed deeply. “I'll help in any way I can.”

“No. This is all my doing. I'll handle it.”

She just had no idea how.

T
OM WAS STILL STEAMING WHEN HE
checked out of the hotel and drove across town to sign the rental agreement, but he probably would have made it out of the office without being rude if the damned agent hadn't kept blocking his way and chirping about Reno being the perfect buyer's market.

On the third block, he crumpled the signed agreement in his hand and said, “Look, lady, if you don't get out of my way, I'm going to walk overtop of you.”

Her mouth dropped open and she took a quick side step. Tom smiled and said pleasantly, “Thank you.” He had a feeling that he'd lived up to her image of him.

Glad he could make her day.

Also glad that Reggie wasn't there.

Keys in his pocket, he drove to his new, very empty abode and wondered what the hell he'd just done.

On the way to the real estate office he'd convinced himself that he and Reggie simply couldn't work together under the circumstances and it was stupid to try. Then he'd debated alternatives. There were none. Even if he wasn't trying to redeem himself in this ridiculous way, he needed to hammer out a kid agreement with Reggie, and they hadn't even touched on that.

Both of them seemed to be waiting for some magic
moment when it felt comfortable talking about it. That moment wasn't coming. Not in the environment the two of them had created.

So what now?

He'd take a look at his house, figure out what he needed to spend a night there, and think about it later. And if he didn't come up with an answer, then he'd go back to the kitchen tomorrow and he and Reggie could have another fight over matters that had nothing to do with the real issue.

He'd barely pulled his key out of the door and pushed it open when a small dog appeared out of nowhere and shot into the house.

“Wait a minute!”

He followed the dog into the kitchen, where it turned a couple of excited circles in front of the refrigerator.

Tom stared at the mutt. It was golden-brown and about the size of a New York City rat, but with longish hair and ears that stood straight up. It did another circle and then sat, staring back at him. With bright button eyes. Great. Less than a day as a house dweller and he'd picked up a stray.

He went to the back door and opened it. “Come on,” he said. “Out.” The dog didn't budge.

Tom scooped the dog up and deposited it on the front step. “Go. Home.” The dog blinked its bright eyes and Tom closed the door. He was halfway across the kitchen, on his way to inspect his pantry, when it started scratching at the door. With a vengeance.

Wonderful.

Tom tried to shoo it away twice, but after half an
hour of industrious scratching at the door and yipping, he gave up. He opened the door, picked up the little animal, who snuggled against him, and started down the driveway. It had to belong to someone. Maybe if he walked around with her, he could find someone who knew where she belonged.

He heard voices as he approached the end of the fence that separated his place from the one next door, and made a beeline to it.

Two older men, one tall, one short, but both with steel-colored hair and nearly identical features, were standing on either side of a barrel cooker. “It was your turn to clean it out,” the taller man said, as the other one shook his head adamantly.

“Hi,” Tom said, lifting the little dog into view above the fence. “I just rented this place and was wondering if you know who owns this dog?”

“Yeah,” the taller guy said. “The people who had the place before you.”

What?
“They left it?” Tom asked, making no attempt to squelch his sense of outrage.

“I think it's a her,” the shorter man offered helpfully.

“Well, what should I do with
her?
”

Tall man shrugged. “Either keep her or call animal control.”

“You guys wouldn't want to…?” Tom lifted the dog hopefully. He didn't know much about animal shelters, but he was pretty sure they had to put unclaimed animals to sleep. He might not want a dog, but he didn't want to be responsible for murdering one, either.

The taller man shook his head. “My brother would
take her, but I have allergies. Cats are bad. Dogs are worse. If you don't want to keep her, you really should call the Humane Society. Otherwise she might get hit by a car.”

Tom looked past the men at the very large shop building next to their house. It seemed to him that the dog could easily live there…perhaps something he could suggest in the future if the dog kept hanging around. “Thanks, guys.”

“I'm Frank,” the taller guy said. “This is my brother Bernie.”

“I'm Tom,” he stated.
Who doesn't want to get involved with his neighbors.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Tom.”

“Thanks. See you around.”

He walked back across the yard and into the house through the back door, still carrying the dog. Once inside, he set her on the floor, where she plopped her butt down and stared up at him, her tail slowly brushing the floor behind in a gentle swishing motion.

Where had the little beast been when he and the real estate agent had toured the place? On the run from the dog catcher?

The tail continued to swish back and forth as she watched him. Then she cocked her head. Crap.

He was in no position to keep a dog.

He reached for his phone, then dropped it again, feeling the weight as it hit the bottom of his pocket. He could call animal control at any time. Maybe someone at Tremont knew of someone who wanted a dog.

It wouldn't hurt to have her spend the night.

Unless…

“You don't pee on the floor, do you?”

Swish. Swish.

Tom exhaled. “I don't have any dog food.”

But someone had to have been feeding her, because she wasn't skinny. Maybe the short brother next door? He'd looked shifty when the tall one said they couldn't have a dog.

Tom walked back into the empty bedroom where he'd be sleeping on the floor tonight, and opened his suitcase. Without any clothes hangers, he was pretty much at a standstill. He had a few important purchases to make if he didn't want to sleep on bare carpet. With a rat dog.

 

T
OM'S PHONE RANG WHILE HE WAS
in Walmart shopping for all the stuff the hotel had provided and he'd taken for granted. Plus dog food—just enough for a couple days, while he decided what to do with the little beast.

Reggie's number.

He answered with a curt, “I'll call you back when I get out of this store.” If she was going to fire him or reprimand him for insolence, it wasn't going to be while he was buying toilet paper. He had standards.

A sudden thought struck him before he ended the call. “Unless it's an emergency.”

“No emergency,” Reggie said.

“Right.” As if she'd contact him in an emergency. She wouldn't even let him help her with a food crisis. “I'll call back in about ten minutes.”

Tom loaded bag after bag into the car's trunk. Linens
for the bed he didn't own, a couple towels, soap, waste cans, dish rack, paper products, a floor lamp, since his bedroom lacked an overhead light. Every aisle he went down revealed something he needed. Finally, he stopped, because of space issues. And he still hadn't gotten any cooking stuff. He'd go to a restaurant supply store for that.

When he did leave this town, he was going to have a great donation for some charity thrift store, but he didn't regret getting out of the hotel and into a house for a while.

He loaded the last bag and wheeled the cart to the overfilled cart corral. It was a warm evening, so he leaned back against the side of his rented Honda Civic instead of getting inside as he punched redial and Reggie's phone rang.

“Are you calling to fire me?” he asked when she answered.

“It's rather hard to fire someone you aren't paying,” Reggie replied.

“True,” he said in a low voice, “but you could lock me out of your kitchen.”

“Can I meet you somewhere?”

“Now?” He looked at his watch.

“Yes.”

“Neutral ground?”

“How about your place?” she asked.

“Curious?” he suggested sarcastically.

“I want to speak in private.” She didn't have to tell him that if they met at her place, she wouldn't have the
option of leaving. Instead she'd have to kick him out. “And I'm slightly curious.”

“Fine. It's at 5567 Maylark Street. Do you know the area?”

“I have GPS.”

 

R
EGGIE PULLED INTO
T
OM'S
driveway shortly after he finished unloading the last of his purchases. He went to meet her as she stepped out of a small, low-to-the-ground Neon, her heels making the job more difficult than it had to be.

“Nice neighborhood,” she said after shutting the car door.
Small talk. All right.
Tom was willing to engage in some small talk until she got to the point. He led the way to the front door.

“Why a house, Tom? Why not an apartment?”

“I didn't want to be recognized.”

“Cut your hair.” Reggie moistened her lips, telling him that she was nervous.

He reached up to touch his shortish ponytail. He'd grown it by accident during a time when he was too busy to get to the barber, and found that pulling his hair back was actually comfortable while he was working and sweating in the kitchen. And then it had become a kind of trademark. The hair. The five o'clock shadow that had eventually become his Vandyke beard.

Was he ready to cut it? It was so handy.

“Let me show you the place,” he said. The tour took almost thirty seconds as he gestured and said, “One bedroom, one bath, one office, one living room and—”
he led the way into the last room, where there was a frantic scratching at the back door “—one kitchen.”

Tom opened the door and the dog shot out.

“What is
that?
” Startled, Reggie looked from the dog to Tom.

“Rat dog. Came with the house.”

“And you're keeping it?”

“As opposed to turning her over to the pound to get—” He made a slicing motion across his throat.

“I see.” But from the way she was staring at him, Tom didn't think she did.

“I'm going to find it a home.” He went to the counter, leaving Reggie staring at the dog with a dubious expression.

“You wanted to talk,” he said as he took a can of dog food out of the bag, only then realizing that he'd forgotten to buy a can opener. The dog danced in circles and Tom had a feeling if he didn't get this can open, there'd be hell to pay. Why hadn't he bought the pop-tops?

“Having you in the kitchen isn't working.”

He'd expected her to say something along those lines, but his stomach still tightened in response. He really didn't want her to fire him, or dismiss him or whatever one did to volunteer staff, but he looked up at her from where he was rummaging through his shopping bags. “Maybe because you're more intent on punishing me than taking full advantage of me?”

“I'm not punishing you.”

“Yes. You are.” He came out with a new screwdriver and tore it out of the packaging, dropping the garbage
into one of his two new waste cans without bothering to open the box of garbage bags.

Reggie watched him with a slight frown. “I'm not letting you steamroll over me. There's a difference between that and punishing you.”

“When…” Tom asked in a reasonable tone, as he set the can squarely on the counter, took aim and stabbed the screwdriver into the top, making Reggie wince “…have I ever managed to steamroll over you? I'm not saying I didn't try, but when did I succeed?” He wrestled the screwdriver out and stabbed again.

“When you left.”

“That wasn't steamrolling. That was making a pretty damned hard choice that I had to make because someone backed me into a corner.”

“You pretended you wanted to start the catering business with me.”

“Unless something else came along more suited to my abilities.”

“You didn't say that part.”

Tom aimed and stabbed again. “I did, but you weren't hearing me.”

Reggie pushed a hand into the front of her hair, pressed on her forehead. “Regardless of what happened then, it's different now, Tom. Before it was just me. I could afford to make mistakes. Now we have a kid to think about.”

“Do you think I'm going to be a bad father?” Another stab. Then another. He was doing a pretty good job of circumnavigating the can with holes.

“I think you'll put your career ahead of the kid.”

“For real? Or is that a handy excuse? Because you slip it in every chance you get.”

“I'm judging by your track record.”

He pushed the screwdriver into one of the holes and started prying upward. “So Uncle Justin should be his only father figure?” Tom could see from her expression that had been exactly what she'd hoped. “Do you want to work this out with lawyers?”

The can lid bent up and, with a satisfied exhalation, he used the screwdriver to dish food into a cheap bowl he'd bought in the cereal aisle. The dog turned a quick circle then dove into the food as soon as the bowl was on the floor.

“I'd hoped to avoid that,” Reggie said. He cocked an eyebrow. “All right, I planned on having a signed custody agreement after the baby is born, but I hoped we could work it out ahead of time. Amicably.”

“With you having the lion's share of the custody? If not all of it?” He shook his head. “Talk about steamrolling, Reggie. I'd say you're guilty, too.”

He put the screwdriver on the counter, then closed the distance between them and settled his hands on her slender shoulders. Her muscles instantly tensed.

“How do you feel about me, Reggie?” he asked softly. “Other than angry?”

“Angry.” She stepped back and he dropped his hands. “We'll work out the baby truce, but it won't be in the kitchen. Not the way things now stand.”