Blueprints: A Novel (21 page)

When the cat wandered off, Tad chased him. That was good for five minutes. Ten passed on the front porch with crackers and cheese, another five scrambling over the low arms of a copper beech in the backyard, and through it all, Jamie listened for Caroline’s truck. Finally, she texted,
I’m at your place with Tad. Master was a hit. Where are you?

Office,
Caroline wrote back.
Theo is trying to decide who’ll cover for Roy.

It involved more than covering, Jamie realized with a stab of grief. Roy’s death left a huge hole in the company. Brad wasn’t a marketer. No one in the family was, which meant they would have to hire from the outside. Theo wouldn’t be happy about that.

Not quite sure what Caroline’s role with Theo was, she typed,
I need to see you. Want Tad to see you. He’s my son now.

The statement was blunt, provocative enough to warrant an instant reply. When none came, she felt starkly alone. Feeling suddenly unwelcome in Caroline’s house, she bundled Tad back into the car. She was nearing the center of town when her phone finally vibrated. When she stopped at a light, she read,
I need to see you, too.

*   *   *

Tucking hope into a snug corner of her mind, she headed for the playground to kill a few more minutes before having to think about another meal. This being a weekday, it was quieter than last time, with no big families and fewer cars parked by the gate. Two moms and what looked to be a nanny sat together watching little girls dressed in bright shorts, shirts, and bows. Well beyond them, off in a corner of the grassy playing field, was the dad she had seen last time. At least, she assumed he was the boy’s dad. He wore the same sunglasses and similar nylon T-shirt and long shorts, but no hat today, and his hair and the child’s were identically dark, straight, and neatly cut.

When Tad headed for them, Jamie followed. She stopped behind him at a baseline etched in the grass and watched the game on the diamond unfold. Standing at the ready ten feet or so from home plate, the dad rolled in a soccer-sized rubber ball. The boy’s first kick grazed its top, sending it feebly to the side. Loping forward, the dad retrieved it, loped backward—a pretty cool move, Jamie thought—and rolled it in again. This time, the boy’s kick was solid.

“Way to
go,
Buddy,” the dad called and, shagging the ball, narrated, “He’s rounding first.” The dad trotted toward second base, made an exaggerated attempt to tag the child, and missed. “Bad move,
pitcher,
” he sang, “and the runner is heading for third…”

The boy wore a wide grin and, between mischievous glances at his dad, was running for all he was worth. Laughing, Jamie bent over Tad. “Are you watching, monkey?” she asked and drew him back a step.

The child barreled past, heading for home as his father made a show of trying to chase him down and coming up short.
“Score!”
the man shouted, arms raised. “That’s six for the Bud-man, two for Dad.” Snatching the boy up, he held him high and shouted,
“The winner!”
He slid him back to the ground and turned to Jamie and Tad. “He’s getting too good for me.” Tossing the ball behind him for his son to chase, he ambled over. He was loose-limbed and tall, well over six feet.

“How old is he?” Jamie asked as they stood side by side watching the boy.

“Three and change.”

“I was guessing four. That tells you how bad I am at all this.”

“Not bad,” he said. “Just new.”

So he did know who she was. She felt she should know him, too. There was a vague familiarity to him. “Thanks for helping me out last Saturday. With the moms.”

“No sweat. They can be overbearing. I hide in a book whenever I can.”

Tad had inched over the baseline and stopped. The other child was sitting on the ball, watching him approach.

Jamie leaned in from behind. “You can play, sweetie. Go on.” She raised questioning brows to the dad, who nodded.

“Roll him the ball, Buddy,” he called. The boy stood and gave it a try, but the infield grass quickly slowed it.

“Is Buddy his real name?”

“Nah. It’s Baker, but no one calls him that.”

“Is his mom around?”

“Nope.” One word. No discussion.

The ball lay idle halfway between the boys. They continued to stare at each other.

“Show him how,” the dad called to Buddy, who didn’t budge.

“Tad’s two,” Jamie offered lest the dad think him older and wonder at his failure to engage. He was tall for his age. Roy had loved telling people that. “Twenty-eight months, actually.”

“Does he understand what’s happened?”

His parents’ sudden death. “No. We’re both in denial. I’m still pretending to be the aunt who’s babysitting.”

“That’s as good a bridge as any to a brave new world.”

She had to smile. The man did get it. “I’m Jamie, by the way.”

“Charlie,” he said and trotted out. “Okay, guys. We need an ice-breaker here.” Squatting between the two, he pointed. “Buddy, Tad. Tad, Buddy.”

The boys remained silent and staring.

“Super,” said the dad—Charlie—as he snagged the ball with one large hand. He looked from face to face. “We’re playing tag. You ever played, Tad? No? That’s okay, there’s always a first time.” He rose, then folded at the waist, knees bent, elbows on his thighs, shifting slightly from hip to hip, the quarterback huddling with his squad. Jamie assumed he was explaining the rules, though his voice was too low for her to hear until he said, “Ready, set,
run
!”

She was thinking that Tad couldn’t possibly know what to do—when he started running after Buddy. With Charlie chasing first one, then the other, there were high-pitched shrieks, lots of legs wheeling and bodies tumbling, and, bless him, though Charlie reached out numerous times with the ball in that one large hand, he just couldn’t manage to tag one of the boys.

Finally, with loud panting sounds, he pulled up. “Time out. You guys are too good.” Dropping the ball, he trotted over to stand beside Jamie again. Not in the least winded, he put his hands on his hips.

“You’re good with kids,” she said.

He shrugged and cupped his mouth. “Circle the bases, Buddy.”

Jogging in an exaggerated way, Buddy headed for first, rounded it, made for second. Tad followed more slowly.

“Do you come here often?” Jamie asked.

“Couple of times a week. We have a yard, but this one’s better for hell hour.”

“Hell hour?”

“Five to six.”

How could she not have guessed? She had resorted to Elmo videos the last day or two, although the playground was infinitely better. “Do you live here in town?”

Charlie nodded. “In my folks’ house. I got it when they retired. They divide their time between Florida and Vermont.”

Longtime Willistonians, then? She might have asked the name—might have recognized it—might have even gone to the same school as Charlie at some point—if she hadn’t been so needy for other info. “Are you a full-time dad?”

He snickered. “It sure as hell feels that way, but no, I have an outside job. Buddy’s in daycare till four.”

“Where?”

“First Unity.” The church. “There are some other good ones, too.” He watched the boys. Buddy had rounded third, lengthening the distance between him and Tad, but Tad didn’t stop. “I’m sure you got a rundown from friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” she stated. “Give me the rundown.”

When he turned to face her, dark lenses didn’t hide his skepticism. “How can a MacAfee not have friends?”

“I’ve always been too busy. What are my daycare options?”

Flipping his glasses to the top of his head, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “After First Unity, there’s one at the Community Center. There’s a pre-K at Underwood”—one of the elementary schools in town—“but he’d be too young for that.” He saw her staring and replaced his glasses.

Too late.
Jamie knew who he was now. Added to height and physical dexterity, those blue eyes gave him away. “Chip?” she asked in puzzled surprise.

“Charlie.”

“Chip Kobik.”

“Charlie,” he corrected again. “Chip is long gone.”

She might have asked more if, just then, the ball hadn’t hit him square in the back.

“Whoaaaa,” he drawled in a higher voice as he turned and, with slow challenge, said, “What. Was.
That.
”

His son apparently knew teasing when he heard it because, with a high giggle, he turned and raced off with his father in pursuit. The ball forgotten, they played tag using hands. The big guy quickly tagged his son, caught him up by the waist, and jogged over to deposit him beside Tad. When he said,
“Go,”
Buddy took off again. This time, Charlie scooped Tad up and raced off with him pinned to his hip.

Frightened, Jamie put a hand to her mouth—and not because Chip Kobik was holding her child. Tad didn’t know the game. He didn’t know the
man.
And he was only
two
.

When Charlie turned, though, the child’s face was filled with delight, and once Tad tagged Buddy, he squirmed to be put down. Both boys stood close in the huddle, with Charlie bent over between them. He was shifting his weight from hip to hip again—a cool move that was no mystery now. Chip Kobik, physically coordinated to the nth degree, had dropped out of college to play professional hockey. He had been incredibly talented.

Jamie didn’t know what he said, but when he was done, he turned both boys in the direction of second base and sent them off.

Her throat tightened, eyes filled. Tad was joining right in, seeming older than twenty-eight months at that moment and content in a way he hadn’t been since his parents died. His happiness was infectious. She basked in it, even for a short time.

Charlie returned to her side. He watched the boys go all the way to the outfield with Buddy leading, Taddy lagging but not stopping. “The point of this is to wear them out. Buddy’ll be asleep by seven thirty.” He shot her a look. “You okay?”

She was actually feeling emotional, but the practical distracted her. “Is seven thirty his bedtime?”

“Mostly, but I don’t like to be rigid.”

“He must be in a big-boy bed.”

Acknowledgment came as a grunt. “Double-edged sword there.”

“How?”

“His face in mine at six in the morning.”

“How long? I mean, when did you switch him from a crib?”

“When he was two and a half.”

“Is that the usual age?”

He stretched his neck, one side to the other. “Depends on when the child is ready.” He cupped his mouth and yelled to the boys, who stood with their backs to the chain-link fence at the very end of the field, “Come on back!”

“How do I know if Tad’s ready?” Jamie asked.

He cut her a half-smile. “Are you?”

“I have no idea, but I have to decide ASAP. The Pack ‘n Play isn’t big enough. Either I bring his crib over from the house, or I buy a bed.”

“Buy a bed.”

“With all the other changes in his life right now?”

“What’s one more.” No question. Because it made total sense. Like keeping Tad at her place to allow the past to fade and the future begin.

“What about potty training?”

“Use M&M’s. Bribery works wonders.”

“Should I be training him now?”

“Is he compulsively neat?”

“Omigod, no.” She pictured her condo. “He could care less.”

“Then wait a little. Buddy was slow. It’s harder for boys anyway—y’know, two things to learn to do.”

Jamie might have been embarrassed discussing male body function with Chip Kobic, except that she found herself breathing, truly breathing,
deeply
breathing for the first time in forever. She had gotten more solid information in the last fifteen minutes than in all of the last five days. Amazed, she looked up at him. “Who’da thought Checker Chip would have answers like this?”

“Who’da thought Just-So-Jamie would deign to ask?” he shot back.

Well, she deserved that. Chip Kobik had been two years ahead of her in school. They had never been friends, had never spoken to each other, but nicknames transcended social circles when it came to standouts. En route to the pros, Chip had played hockey on local and state squads and was widely considered an ace at checking, hence Checker Chip. King of the jock crowd, he had an ego to match. Jamie had no ego, at least not at school. Nor, actually, did she have a crowd. Just-So-Jamie, fastidious to a T, had been too focused on tennis to care.

Seeming to regret the sharpness, he said more gently, “It’s Charlie. And I have a list of babysitters at home. What’s your e-mail address?” Taking a phone from his pocket, he keyed it in. “They probably aren’t a permanent solution, but they’ll help for now.”

“I’ll take any help I can get.” She was without pride. “I am up the proverbial creek without a you know what.”

“Speaking of which,” he called over his shoulder as he guided his son toward the gate, “there’s Toddler Swim at the town pool Tuesdays and Thursdays. He’d probably like that. And story hour at the library. The days vary, but there are always other kids. It’s good for socializing.”

*   *   *

Checker Chip a parenting resource? Who
knew.
Jamie was amused enough, curious enough,
needy
enough for a frivolous break to explore the surprise. After putting cheese tortellini on for dinner, she settled Tad in the crook of her left elbow with her iPad streaming a Handy Manny video, opened her laptop on her right, and Googled Charlie Kobik.

He taught PE at Emory Elementary.

Not what she would have expected, though seeing him on the playground with the boys, it made sense. Still, it was a turnaround from the wild behavior reported in earlier articles. He had gone to Harvard to play hockey, then dropped out and signed with the Montreal Canadiens, the Buffalo Sabres, and the Pittsburgh Penguins in quick succession until his three-year contract expired and the NHL summarily let him go. After an undocumented period spent, she assumed, getting his act together, he had enrolled at UMass, earned a degree in education, and been appointed to the Williston School Department. Summers, he ran a hockey camp at an indoor ice rink. According to the
Williston News,
it was hugely successful.