Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (12 page)

Sam studies the photo in his hand, then my face. “Your father left?”

“He died shortly before Priscilla and I were born.” I bow my head, remembering the story Mama told. “He was on his way home from work when a drunk driver took a curb too fast and smashed head on into his car. My father was dead before the ambulance arrived.”

His face grays. “I’m sorry, Patty. That’s rough.”

“The other driver had great insurance and the company offered a generous settlement. They didn’t want the case going to trial. Obviously their client was at fault and Mama was pregnant with twins. The jurors’ sympathy would have been with her. The attorney Mama hired advised her to take the offer but she couldn’t make up her mind. All the stress and grief put her into premature labor. Priscilla and I were born five weeks early.”

I stare at the carpet beneath my feet. I haven’t thought about the past in so long, it’s like picking at a wound that’s barely scabbed over. If I keep picking, it will start to bleed.

“Priscilla barely weighed two pounds when she was born. She spent weeks in the hospital. Even after she came home, she was very frail and required lots of care. Mama needed money but she couldn’t work, not with Priscilla sick. She accepted the settlement offer. She bought the house and we’ve lived there all our lives.

“About five years ago, Mama got sick. Breast cancer. Priscilla nursed her through it and for awhile it looked like she might make it. Then, two years ago, the cancer returned. Mama was determined to hang on. She’d beaten cancer once before and she said she could do it again. She didn’t let go until the very end. Then one morning I guess she figured it was just too much and she simply gave up. She was only fifty-four. Much too young to die.”

I feel the tears start to pop behind my eyes. Why did I start talking about Mama? I haven’t let myself go down that road in a long time and the last thing I want is to break down in front of Sam. The last thing I need is him thinking I’m pathetic, whining about the house, about my mother, about the sorry state of affairs in the world of Patty…

Sam doesn’t say a word, only shoves a box of Kleenex in my direction.

I swipe my eyes. “Sorry for the melodrama.”

“Losing a parent isn’t easy. My mom died when I was in high school.” His quiet voice mingles with the dusty sunbeams dancing across the carpet. “It sounds like you and Priscilla did everything you could. I’m sorry you had it so rough.”

I stare at the paperwork spread across his desk and try not to think about Priscilla’s anguish, my own heartache. “We took out the home equity loan when Mama was sick. It helped with the outstanding medical bills and then her funeral expenses. It was a lot of money, but we needed it.”

No regrets. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. But it’s time to face reality. Mama’s purchase of the shabby Victorian served to recoup some of the leftover dreams from the make-believe world of long ago. But Mama’s game of
let’s pretend we live there
was her dream… not mine. We buried Mama two years ago. Now it’s time to buy her dream.

“That’s all there is to tell you.” I sit up straighter in my chair. “Except I know that things have got to change. We can’t go on like this. I want to sell but Priscilla won’t budge.” I think of my sister, how her face draws tight just like Mama’s. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“That’s why I’m here to help you.”

Our eyes meet and I stare at him a long moment. Inside me, a sweet flash of lightness takes hold, a powerful feeling I haven’t experienced in a very long time.

Maybe I’m not as alone as I think.

Sam clears his throat and nods at the paperwork in front of him. “Let’s get back to the house. You mentioned the furnace.” His pen scratches furiously on the legal pad. “How about the roof? What kind of shape is it in?”

“We replaced it last summer with money from the home equity loan. But that’s the only thing we’ve fixed. Most of the windows need to be replaced and the ceiling in the kitchen is starting to sag…” I think for a minute. What else needs repair? Everything. One look and Sam would understand.

“You should come over and see for yourself,” I suddenly blurt out. “I’ll give you a guided tour. We’ll even throw in dinner. It’s only fair, seeing how I left you in the lurch the other night.”

His eyes narrow and I kick myself for extending the invitation. Given my track record, he probably assumes I’ll bail on him again.

“Never mind. Dinner probably isn’t such a great idea. I’m sure you don’t have the time.”

“Whoa, not so fast. Do you hear me turning down the invitation?”

“No,” I admit.

“Are you that bad of a cook?”

“Actually, I am.” A tiny smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. With Priscilla around, there’s no need for me to cook. “So you’ll come?”

“Give me the grand tour and I’ll stay for dinner,” he promises.

“What works best for you?”

“Guess it doesn’t matter. Things would be different if you asked during tax season. Come January first, it gets crazy around here. We operate in crisis mode through April fifteenth.”

“What happens then?”

“Come five o’clock, we pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, toast our clients and the IRS.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “Then we shut down the office for a two-week vacation.”

The idea of Sam and his employees noisily celebrating suddenly makes me want to giggle. From what I saw on my quick stroll through his office, none of his staff look like party animals.

Then again, who am I to talk? My idea of a good time involves a bag of coconut macaroons, a cozy chair, and a brand new book.

“October, November, December…” He counts off the months on his fingertips. “Three months left until I start working fourteen-hour days.”

“I doubt my checkbook or the furnace can wait that long.”

“How about tomorrow night? I’m free.”

I hesitate. Tomorrow is Tuesday and our fifth-grade field trip is scheduled for early afternoon. But Nick is in charge, which means I won’t have to worry. I can still do the field trip plus give Sam a tour of the house. Priscilla will be thrilled at the thought of having company. And once she finds out I invited him for dinner, she’ll end up fussing in the kitchen all day. No doubt we’ll feast on something tasty and delicious.

But if Priscilla goes all out, Sam might get the idea that I encouraged her. He’ll get the wrong idea about us.

And there is no us.

Suddenly my mind is made up. Not one word to Priscilla. When Sam shows up, he’ll simply be an unexpected guest. I’ll give him a tour of the house and he’ll stay for dinner. And talk about perfect timing. Tomorrow is Tuesday, and that means tuna. No way I’ll be accused of making romantic overtures… not with tuna casserole involved.

Suddenly for the first time in weeks, I’m looking forward to the prospect of Tuesday. First, Nick’s field trip, then Sam over for dinner. One more person at the table means one more mouth to feed. And less of that nasty tuna on my own plate.

I can’t believe how much lighter I feel as he walks me to the door. My feet feel like skipping over the carpet. Once Sam sees the house, he’ll understand what I mean. I’ll finally have an ally and hopefully he’ll be able to help me convince Priscilla to sell. Inviting Sam to dinner was a stroke of genius. And depending on how things go—and how much he eats— maybe we should consider giving him a standing invitation for every Tuesday night.

At least until tax season starts.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I’m sorry about eating in the kitchen, Sam. And I’m mortified about the tuna casserole. If I’d known you were coming, I would have made something special.” Priscilla throws Sam a sweet smile and flashes me an evil eye. “Patty should have given me a heads-up.”

“No problem. I’m more a kitchen-table kind of guy anyway.” He grins at Priscilla, who’s hovering at his elbow with the casserole dish. “And the tuna is great. My compliments to the cook.”

I lounge in my wobbly chair, nurse my iced tea, and rub my sore feet. No worries on the Sam-and-Priscilla front. They’re getting along great. All part of my plan. Priscilla will eventually forget about Dr. Brown. She and Sam are made for each other. And he even likes tuna! Who needs more proof than that? Priscilla hasn’t taken her eyes off him since he showed up and they haven’t stopped chatting. Good thing, too. After today’s field trip, I doubt I’m capable of carrying anything—including a simple dinner conversation.

Tramping around a nature co-op reserve with forty-five fifth graders isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but Nick managed to carry off his first field trip with great success. He deserved every bit of credit from his kids and the chaperones. I didn’t do much.

Except remember the snacks.

I spied the large open cardboard box packed high with juice boxes and cereal snack bars when I locked up my classroom. Why was it still sitting on the floor outside Nick’s door? It should have been loaded on the bus. I give the box a worried glance. Did Nick forget the snacks?

I try the door of his classroom, find it unlocked, peek inside the empty room. Where’s Nick? I head for the exit doors and see an empty playground. A large yellow school bus loaded with students and chaperones waits at the curb. Noisy chanting blends with the rumble and vibration of the engines as eager fifth graders stomp their feet and cheer to take off. A shrill piercing whistle catches my attention.

“Come on, Patty, you’re late!” Nick, clipboard and whistle in hand, steps down from the bus and waves me out of the building. “What’s the holdup? We’re waiting for you.”

“Give me one minute,” I yell and head back toward his classroom. We’ll be facing an angry mob of ten-year-olds in an hour or so if someone doesn’t take charge. I squat down and wrap my arms around the hefty box, but it’s too heavy to lift. Outside a horn blares and I give the box a furious stare. Not only did Nick forget the box, he overloaded it, too.

I tug and kick it down the corridor, mentally kicking myself as well. Why should I be the one stuck doing this? Nick and I talked about the snacks during our meeting. Wasn’t he listening? Anyone smart enough to earn a teaching certificate should know enough to make sure the all-important treats are on board before a field trip begins.

Then again, Nick is a brand new teacher. He can’t be expected to remember everything. That’s my department. Being in charge of food will always be my department.

One look at me in my tight jeans and everyone will know that.

With a hefty boost of one hip, I shove open the outer door and drag the box across the playground toward the bus.

“Guess I forgot.” Nick grasps an end as I near the curb and together we haul the box onto the bus. “I owe you one, Patty.”

I bite my tongue as I plop down in the empty seat across from the driver. Nick should know better than to call me by my first name in front of the kids. But my resolve starts to soften as I watch him maneuver the box into a tight space behind the driver’s seat. Who am I to criticize? I’m not perfect and neither is Nick.

Well, he’s almost perfect. And he’s obviously trying.

“Thanks again.” He sinks down on the bench next to me as the bus lurches away from the curb. “I can’t believe I forgot.” He grabs my hand and gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “What would I do without you?”

I quickly pull my hand away. He’s got to be crazy, holding my hand in front of everyone. What if someone notices? The bus bounces along uneven streets and every jolt throws us closer together. Thank God the highway department hasn’t found the money to fix this section of road. Nick’s arm grazes mine as the bus sways again and I shiver, delicious little goose bumps popping up. We take a tight corner and his blue-jean-covered thigh presses hard against my own. The bus lurches again and his body molds into mine.

Nick balances himself with one arm and pulls away slightly. “Sorry.”

“No problem.”
More potholes, please!

I struggle for balance, keeping one hand on the rocking seat instead of making a grab for Nick. His aftershave (or is it cologne?) smells heavenly. We could be headed down the highway toward our own private Garden of Eden… except for all these kids. An afternoon traipsing through fields, woods, meadows, and creeks to study a thriving eco-system with a group of rowdy fifth graders isn’t exactly my idea of paradise.

I hang back, watching Nick take charge as the bus unloads. His coaching experience serves him well and the field trip proves a great success. Mr. Lamont has everything under control. Until snack time.

“Okay, fifth graders, line up. Get ’em while they last.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lamont.” Eager hands grab drink boxes and snack bars as fast as Nick can pass them out.

“Cool! Chocolate chip oatmeal, my favorite.”

“Are you crazy? She can’t eat that!” I snatch the sugary juice and bar from Nick just before he hands them to Andrea.

An irritated look shoots across his face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Not one damn thing,” I mutter under my breath, trying to keep my cool as I filch through supplies for the bottled water, box of raisins, and baggie of baby carrot sticks I had tucked away earlier just for her.

Andrea rolls her eyes as I hand them over. “Thanks, Miss P.”

I hold my tongue till she’s out of earshot, then whirl to face Nick. “Andrea is diabetic, remember? She can’t have that stuff. You should have been more careful.”

His face hardens. “It was no big deal. She wanted it, and I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants. You’re the teacher. You’re in charge. God, Nick, what were you thinking?” My heartbeat races as I imagine Andrea suffering an insulin reaction in the middle of nowhere. “We would have had to call 911.”

“But—”

“Just forget it.” I turn my back on him, shivering as I watch Andrea nibbling her carrot sticks near the edge of Lauren’s crowd. She’s fine. Crisis averted. I scan the field of milling students. No one out of line, just kids munching their snacks, having fun, trading insults. Even Billy the Kid Connolly is behaving.

“Look, I’m sorry I blew up.” Nick’s voice drifts over my shoulder. “You saved my ass again. I owe you, Patty.”