took after her. Score!
She’d been the gangly girl who wrecked the curve.
Though she was older, for most of her life Monica felt like her sister’s negative image. The one who got all the miscellaneous traits. Like her parents couldn’t get everything right the first time. She had their dad’s boring brown hair and lean build. Mel claimed to envy her sister’s fast metabolism, but Monica would have happily swapped a few hundred calories a day for a little more, uh...endowment. The only feature she shared with her sister were the blue eyes they’d inherited from their mother. Well, the blue eyes and the residual effects of their parents’ miserable marriage.
Emma called her name and Monica veered away from those disturbing memories. She’d collected dozens of self-help books over the years. Enough to start a library. But she’d have to think about her many manifestations later. Today was about Emma. She waved as her niece showed off her swinging skills. And Melody wouldn’t screw her baby up the way their parents had messed with them.
Smiling, she watched as her niece proceeded to school a kid nearly twice her size on proper slide protocol when he tried to shove ahead in line. At nearly six, Emma was all arms and legs, like her Aunt Monnie. Mel claimed her daughter inherited Monica’s bossy streak as well, but Monica didn’t see herself or her niece as bossy. They were both naturally orderly people. And perhaps they were a little assertive about maintaining order, but self-control was no sin.
“If Barbara Walters ever asked me what tree I’d be, I’d pick that one,” one of the ladies parked at the picnic table said, heaving a gusty sigh.
The sentiment was greeted by a round of appreciative groans and one reverent “Amen.”
Monica chuckled at the mild blasphemy. She couldn’t blame the woman. If they were talking about the guy she’d been checking out earlier, the view was worth possible damnation. Lifting her phone, she pretended to text as she zeroed in on the big oak tree on the far side of the playground once more.
This time, her dishy daddy wasn’t alone. Two other men had joined him. The tall, angular man had burnished copper hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and impatient red-haired twins pulling at each of his arms. The third was more serious looking. He was shorter than the other two, but was manhandling a double stroller with impressive skill. A kicking toddler and a boy, who clearly thought he was too old to be pushed around, jabbered at him, eager to be turned loose.
“Lord, I love the Saturdaddies,” the woman closest to Monica said, propping her chin on her hand.
“Saturdaddies?” Monica asked, unable to stop herself.
The cluster of yummy mummies tore their attention from the trio under the tree to give her the collective once-over. The one who was nursing an infant under an enormous giraffe-patterned tent made no attempt to be subtle as she checked Monica’s bare left hand. Turning to one of the others, she gave a grudging huff. “No ring.”
Another shrugged and sighed. “Someone might as well get a little play out of them.”
The nursing mother tilted her head to look Monica in the eye. “Saturdaddies are men who only have time to bring their kids to the park on Saturdays. Usually divorced or never-marrieds.”
“The married ones never come to the park,” another grumbled. “Too tired after working so hard all week long.”
The sarcasm in the woman’s tone was tough to miss. The top notes of bitterness rang through Melody’s request for Monica to take Emma for a few hours. Normally, she wasn’t really the babysitting kind of aunt, but Mel’s husband was heading out of town for a conference, and her sister swore the only thing keeping her from divorcing her steady, reliable dentist husband was the possibility of hot monkey sex. And for hot monkey sex to be a possibility, she needed someone to remove the inquisitive six-year-old from the premises.
With the words hot, monkey, and sex flashing through her brain, she turned to the trio under the tree. “None of them are married?”
“Widowed, divorced, never legal,” another mother reported, nodding to each man in turn as she rummaged for a juice box for her whining son.
Monica wanted to ask how she knew this and which was which, but Emma came tearing across the grass as fast as her spindly legs could carry her shouting, “Monnie! Monnie!”
Acting purely on instinct, Monica shoved the phone into her pocket and dropped to one knee to catch the tiny human missile. Damp seeped through the knee of her designer jeans. The Marc Jacobs tote she’d repacked with the supplies Mel provided slid off her shoulder and hit the ground. She didn’t care. There was no way in hell she would trudge around town carrying a Dora the Explorer backpack. No way. No how.
Brushing thoughts of fashion sacrifices aside, she peered down into Emma’s pointy little face. No tears. She couldn’t feel any broken bones. No sign of blood. Only a shallow furrow of worry bisecting the girl’s wispy brows gave any indication something might be wrong.
“What? What happened?”
“I found her at the bottom of the slide.” Emma took a step and held up a grubby princess doll as if presenting Exhibit A to a jury. “Someone losed her.”
Monica didn’t bother suppressing her grimace as she eyed the doll’s grimy face and dirty dress. “Lost her,” she corrected gently.
“We gotta give her back. That’s what you do when you find somebody else’s stuff,” Emma said, all wide-eyed sincerity.
Swallowing an unexpected lump of pride, Monica nodded and took her niece’s free hand as she rose. “You’re right. We’ll ask around and see if we can find her mommy.”
Emma blinked. “Mommy? Her mommy is Queen Cassandra. I didn’t see a Queen Cassandra doll.”
“Queen Cassandra?”
“Princess Clarissa’s mommy.” The little girl nodded, obviously happy to share her knowledge with an ignorant grownup, but her frown returned. “But she’s not here. She lives in the Crystal Palace.”
“Well, maybe we can find whoever brought Princess Clarissa here,” Monica amended. She straightened and looked over at the women crowded around the tables. “Did anyone lose a, uh, Princess Clarissa?”
There was a flurry of activity as they rifled through bags. “No, I’ve got Eden’s.”
“Maribeth’s is here.”
“We didn’t bring Laurel’s because I told her I wouldn’t buy another one if she lost one more.”
The nursing mother looked up from her one-handed search, her mouth set in a grim line. “Sophie’s isn’t here.” She craned her neck to get a good look at the play structure. “Great. She’s camped out in the tube again. God, I hate that thing.”
Monica looked over her shoulder and spotted a dark-haired girl sitting cross-legged in the giant plastic tunnel while other kids crawled around and over her to get to the other side.
“I’ll go aks her,” Emma volunteered.
Monica didn’t have the heart to correct Emma’s pronunciation. Her niece was practically vibrating at the thought of having a mission to accomplish, and Monica knew exactly how she felt. Giving her niece’s hand a squeeze, she smiled
