her head up to peer at the ceiling.
Plunk.
This drop didn’t hit the floor. It hit Molly’s large stomach. She stared at the spot on her sweater.
The ceiling was leaking. Leaking.
She jumped up awkwardly, scrambled into her office and turned over her wastebasket. Crumpled sticky notes and receipts skittered across the floor as she carried the bucket to the hallway, positioning it under the leak, which had quickened into a more regular plunk-plunk-plunk.
A freaking ceiling leak. This was going to cost—well, she couldn’t even guess. All she knew was, roof leaks were not cheap. She was really going to call that inspector she’d used and give him a piece of her mind.
She glanced down again at the wet spot on her shirt, and rubbed it with her hand. Her eyes welled up again.
No. This was going to be under control. She could do this. She was going to be an excellent mother. She was going to be as good at it as she was at everything else. And she was not going to let it rain on her little baby’s head.
She would do whatever it took to keep her future, and the future of her child, secure. And dry.
She snatched the phone off the floor where she’d left it, and hit redial. When Adam answered, she said, “Here’s the thing. If you think you’re going to be entitled to any special, ah, privileges of marriage, you will be mistaken.”
A beat. “Too bad,” he said. “I was kind of looking forward to complaining about my mother-in-law.”
“That’s not the privilege I’m referring to and you damn well know it.”
“Didn’t this conversation end already with you saying no?”
“I take it back.”
“Pardon?”
Molly took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and told her best friend, “It’s a deal. For one year, you’ve got yourself a wife.”
Chapter Three
Most Saturday mornings, Adam woke up with ideas in his head about how he was going to spend a fun weekend. Basketball with the guys, a romp in the park with Elmer, trying out a new restaurant, taking in an action flick, watching a ball game on TV with a large sausage pizza. Some weekends, he could cram all those things in, if he wanted to. Or he could spend two days sitting in an armchair reading books about topics he’d discovered he found interesting so that by Monday morning, he was a pseudo-expert.
This was definitely the first Saturday morning when he awoke, blinked at the sunlight streaming in on either side of the window shade, and thought, I need to pack a suitcase so I can go get married.
He squinted at the glowing red numbers on his clock. After ten already. Well, he’d been up kind of late. He’d figured he should remain near the phone in case Molly called him back and changed her mind again.
She hadn’t. And he’d stayed on his sofa through two and a half lame infomercials just to be sure.
He rolled out of bed and onto his knees on the floor. He stretched his hands over his head and let out a loud groan, then reached under his bed and slid out his suitcase. He blew a dust bunny off the top of it and Elmer, who’d been quietly sitting in the corner, chased it back under the bed.
Adam heaved the bag onto the still-warm sheets and opened it. He really didn’t know how much to pack. A little piece of him was feeling as if this were a dream. It was a pretty big suitcase, though. He decided to pack it until it was full.
He emptied two large dresser drawers next to the bag, then picked a pair of jeans out of the pile and slid them on his body, leaving the top button open. Then he began to fold without giving much thought to each garment. His brain was filled with Molly, and what she was thinking this morning, but in all the time he’d known that woman, he could never guess what she was thinking.
He wondered if husbands were supposed to know what their wives were thinking. Probably not, but their guesses were likely to be at least in the ballpark.
Right now, he felt like the starting pitcher in a game he wasn’t even originally supposed to play.
He rolled up several T-shirts and tossed them in the bag, picking up his pace, trying to keep his mind busy so it wouldn’t amuse itself with any more bad baseball analogies.
Should he pack towels? Molly would have lots of towels, but could he presume he’d be using them? Would marriage entitle him to towel usage? What about sheets?
Where was he going to sleep, anyway? And why didn’t he think about all this before he proposed?
“This is too much,” Adam muttered in Elmer’s direction. Elmer responded by pricking up his ears, then bounding out of the room.
Adam was shaking out his brown corduroy pants and hoping for a supernatural sign that he was doing the right thing when he heard his name ring out.
“Adam! Where are you?”
For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of thinking that the divine was summoning him for a heart-to-heart. But unless the divine was taking the form of his mother’s voice, that wasn’t to be.
“Uncle Adam!” The voices of Trevor and Billy, his nephews, echoed through the small apartment, followed by his sister’s bellowing. “Where the heck are you? Still sleeping?”
Last night’s monumental events had completely erased his memory of his family’s scheduled visit this morning. He couldn’t let them see he was packing. He wasn’t in the mood for questions right now, and he couldn’t logically sort things out for them before he sorted them out for himself.
He rushed out of his bedroom and slammed the door hard behind him, colliding head-on with Janine.
“Watch it, buddy,” his sister said. “You forgot we were coming, didn’t you?”
“Heck, no. You wound me.”
“Then you were so excited to see us, you forgot to put on a shirt?”
“That’s right.”
She hugged him and patted his bare shoulders. “Nice to see you.”
“You, too.” His sister’s brown hair was smushed into a girly ponytail thing, which looked cute but was not the kind of thing she would have done with her hair before having kids. He remembered her hours with the hair dryer and curling iron, leaving Adam to hop up and down outside the bathroom, waiting. His sister was still pretty, but in a softer, less deliberate way.
Trevor and Billy flew into Adam, their collisions purposeful. “Oof.”
“Uncle Adam,” Trevor said with all the urgency of an eight-year-old. “I got a goal in soccer. It went right over the goalie’s head.”
Not to be outdone, ten-year-old Billy cut in. “I got first seat trumpet in band this year. I beat all the sixth-graders. I can’t wait for school to start.”
“That’s a new one,” Janine
