cookies smell weird.”
As in eau de burned. Della Barlow had taken one look at the snack Sam had packed for the kids yesterday and baked them three dozen chocolate chip pity cookies. Thank God, because Sam couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag. He wasn’t much good at housework or doing ponytails or answering tough questions from a still-grieving three-and eight-year-old. What he was good at was corporate real estate. Or at least he had been, until the agency he worked for went belly-up. All the profits on million-dollar deals he’d brought into the agency had been frittered away by the owner, leaving the coffers dry when it came to making the payments on their own building. Sam had walked into work last Monday and found a for-sale sign on the door, and the locks changed, most likely by the bank. All his pending deals went up in smoke as panicked clients ran off to other agents, and the commission check Sam had been counting on to pay the bills had bounced higher than a new tennis ball.
It was partly his own fault. All the signs of a business in trouble had been there, but he’d been too distracted, trying to run a household and keep the kids fed and clothed and going to bed on time, to pay attention. He’d done the one thing he couldn’t afford to do—turned his focus away from his job—and it had nearly cost him everything.
He had an interview with the agency’s biggest competitor later this morning. The problem? He had yet to find regular child care. One would think it wouldn’t be hard, but the three nannies he had met so far had been like the Three Stooges: incompetent, irresponsible and insane. He’d hired Charity Jacobs a couple weeks ago. She was okay, but not exactly Nanny of the Year, nor was she interested in taking on the job full-time. She kept saying something about needing to see her boyfriend. Half the time, Charity looked terrified to be left alone with the kids. But so far she’d kept them fed and clean, and that was more than the others had done.
On top of that, there was Libby and the constant worry about her falling behind. Third grade was a pivotal year for math skills, her teacher had said, with the kind of impending doom in her voice that suggested Libby would end up a panhandler if she didn’t grasp the basics this year. She needed a tutor and Sam needed a miracle.
Thank God Della had called yesterday and promised the perfect candidate in Colton’s little sister.
Sam liked Colton. Liked all the Barlows, in fact. He’d met Colton, half brother to Mac, Luke and Jack, at a town picnic a couple months ago. There’d been a rousing and surprisingly competitive game of cornhole, which Colton was close to winning until Sam made his final shot. The two men had laughed, then shared a couple beers and found a common ground in fishing, something Colton had done a lot of recently with his future father-in-law and his fiancée. Sam and he had hung out a few times since, now that Colton had moved to Stone Gap on a permanent basis.
Libby hopped down off the chair and started twirling. Her skirt swung out around her in a rising bell. “I want ballet lessons. Can I have ballet lessons?”
Ballet lessons. Another thing he’d have to schedule and run to. Libby made a constant argument in favor of the lessons by wearing an old, tattered ballerina dress, a Halloween costume from years ago, pretty much every day. He’d wanted Libby to wear jeans and a T-shirt to school today. Libby had thrown a fit, pitching herself onto the floor and sobbing, saying that Mommy had bought her the ballerina dress and she really wanted to wear it—
And Sam caved. He’d also caved on letting the kids watch cartoons while they ate, though Bugs Bunny and friends hadn’t exactly inspired anyone to take a single bite yet.
He glanced at the still untouched waffle on Libby’s plate. “Libby, you need to eat your breakfast so we can get to school and I can get Henry over to the community center.” He had just enough time to give the tutor a quick interview, drop the kids at school by nine and get to his interview at nine fifteen.
Libby let out a sigh that sounded way too grown-up. “We don’t have school today.”
“Of course you have school today. It’s Tuesday.”
Libby shook her head. “Miss McCarthy said we didn’t. There’s some big meeting for the teachers or something.”
Sam crossed to the fridge, moving menus and notes and drawings around until he finally found the school calendar, tacked in place by a thick magnet. He ran his finger down to today’s date—
No School. In-Service Teacher Day.
He started to curse, then stopped himself. Now what was he supposed to do? He pulled out his phone and texted Charity. No school today. Need you ASAP.
“And Uncle Ty said the community center is closed today. ’Cuz he had to fix the bathroom or something.”
“There’s no storytime today?” What else could go wrong this morning?
Libby shrugged. “Can I go play?”
“Eat your breakfast first.” While I come up with a miracle. He had forty-five minutes until his interview. Forty-five minutes to get Charity over here and interview this new girl for the tutor job.
Libby shook her head. “I don’t like those waffles. I like the ones...”
Her voice trailed off, but Sam could fill in the blank himself. She liked the ones her mommy had made, before Mommy had been killed by a drunk driver. The year and a half since then had passed in a blur, with Sam juggling a job and the kids and babysitters and his grief. He’d thought he was doing a good job, until he lost first Mrs. Rey, the best nanny in the world, who had moved to Florida to be with her grandkids, then a few weeks later, his job. He’d tried to step in and do it all, but he wasn’t much good at being two parents in one. Time, he told himself, time fixed everything.
Except when he was running late. “Libby, you need to eat because I need to—”
She stopped spinning and crossed her arms over her chest. “No.”
Lately, Libby had mastered defiance. She wasn’t outright disobedient, just enough to add another stress to Sam’s day.
From his booster seat at the other end of the kitchen table, Henry let out a shriek of support. Sam turned to his son. “Hey, buddy, want to eat breakfast?”
Henry shook his head.
“Do you want something else? Just say it, buddy, and I’ll get you whatever you want.”
Henry stared at his father for one long moment. Sam waited, his heart in his throat. Maybe this time...
Instead, Henry picked up his waffle and flung it on the floor. Before Sam could react, the golden retriever dashed in and stole a bonus meal.
That made Libby laugh, while she tossed her waffle at the dog, too. “Get it, Bandit. Get it!”
“Libby—”
But she was already gone, tearing off to the living room to snatch up the TV remote and raise the volume to deafening levels. Henry saw his own opportunity for escape, and clambered down from the chair and over to the giant box of Legos that Sam had forgotten to put up on the top shelf. Before Sam could say “don’t touch that,” Henry had knocked it onto the floor, releasing a cavalcade of miniature bricks.
And then the doorbell rang.
The dog started barking. Libby started peppering her father with questions about who was there, was it Miss Della, was it the mailman, was it Barney the dinosaur.
