Yours, Mine & Ours (2 page)

An interesting man, she thought. The whole household looked slightly on the rascally side. The cat had more scars than a derelict. The dog had that hound smell, and its ears trailed the ground. All four of them could have used a bath and some clean clothes and a hairbrush.

But he could have yelled—the way most men did in a crisis. Or lost patience. Or made a point of finding blame, making it someone's fault—undoubtedly hers.

Instead, he'd just kind of charged in and started solving problems.

Maybe he wouldn't be such a terrible neighbor.

“Mom!” Molly tugged at her hand. “I don't want to see that boy again as long as I live! I hate him! And I'm thirsty! And I want to watch TV!”

Amanda almost laughed. For a few seconds there, she'd been worried about a personal connection to her neighbor. But her real life erased that worry lickety-split.

Right now she had all the chaos she could possibly handle—and then some.

“I
don't get it, Dad. Why she hit me. And did you see? I didn't hit her back.”

“Yup, I saw, Teddy. You did the right thing. It's never okay for a boy to hit a girl. Or for someone to hit someone smaller than they are.”

“But I wanted to. I wanted to
really, really
bad.”

“Of course you did. She wasn't behaving well. But you just can't hurt another person. If you feel mad, you have to let it out other ways…like running as fast as you can for a while. Or punching a pillow. Or getting your mind off it by doing something else, something you like, like a puzzle or your trucks or something like that.”

When Teddy stepped from the bathtub onto the
white-and-black-checked tile, Mike was waiting with a man-size black bath towel. Teddy might be squeaky-clean, but the bathroom now had more water than a lake. His son thought he was
way
big enough to take a bath alone. Maybe he was. But Mike wasn't sure the house could survive the aftermath. Even with him right there, everything in sight and vicinity tended to get soaked.

He covered Teddy's head, heard him giggle, swooped the damp package in his arms and carted him down the hall into the only room in the house that was decorated—seriously decorated.

The bed was shaped like a car. The wallpaper was a mass of trucks and cars and tractors. Mike had laid down thick, soft brown carpet, both to suck up extraneous noise and because four-year-olds—at least, his four-year-old—tended to accumulate bruises and bumps, so the carpet needed serious cushioning. No curtains. “We men,” as Teddy put it, “don't need girl stuff like that.”

Half the room was toys. Because Teddy's favorites tended to be moving vehicles, Mike had set him up with a “garage” for the diggers and tractors and haulers, and a couple of bins for the fifty million cars that reproduced every night. Mike had told him flat out that he didn't care—at all—about being tidy. But the cars had to be put away before bed, because Teddy could be hurt if he got up in the night to pee and stumbled over them.

Teddy considered that rule to be reasonable, which was a relief. When Teddy didn't like a rule, he could spend four hours asking “But,
why?
” questions to exhaust his father.

“I didn't say good night to the worms, Dad,” Teddy suddenly worried.

“I'll say good night for you.” Off went the towel. On went the football pj's.

“Why didn't she like me?”

“Who?” Silly question, Mike thought. It had to be the girl next door, from his son's mournful tone. “Maybe she did. Sometimes girls do strange things when they like a boy.”

“I offered to show her my worms.”

“That was very kind.”

“We're going to dig in the backyard tomorrow, right, Dad? Make a big hole?”

“That's going to take some time to set up, sport. We'll be headed to the hardware store for supplies first. And Grandma and Grandpa want you to come over. But believe me, you and I are going to get into all the dirt and water and messes you could possibly want.”

“I can't wait.”

“We'll have fun,” Mike promised him, and started the ritual tucking-in process.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“I bin thinking about why Mom doesn't want me
anymore. Maybe it's like that girl. Even when you're nice, some girls just don't like boys.”

“Anyone who didn't like you would have to be really, really lame. And your mom loves you.” Mike bent down, bussed his son's forehead. They weren't calling it a good-night kiss anymore. They were calling it a Night Connect.

“You're going to leave the bathroom light on?”

“Hey, it stays on 24/7. You know that.”

Mike finally switched off the bedroom light and aimed for the living room. Teddy had barely said a word until he was three. Ever since then, he made up for it by talking every waking moment. Mike vaguely remembered working fourteen-hour days, poring over law books and briefs, skipping meals and sleep, never too tired to party.

To caretake a four-year-old all day—now
that
was tiring.

He grabbed a longneck from the fridge, the news paper from the counter, sank into the easy chair by the window and propped up a foot.

He'd made the place as easy to care for as he could. Nothing in the living area but the big stone fireplace, a couch, a chair, the big TV. The open kitchen area had an eating nook, where you could see the TV whether you were eating or cooking. Mike had dibs on the west corner for his desk and computer and work setup. Teddy had dibs on the north corner, where
he stashed his downstairs toys. Four-year-olds, Mike discovered, never seemed to have enough toys.

The silence now was more valued than gold. He didn't even get the paper opened before Slugger and Cat climbed up—Cat by his neck, Slugger taking up all available space on his lap. They promptly went into snooze mode.

The last of daylight blurred into sunset, and then true darkness came on. He never turned on a light. A full moon was just rising. He leaned his head back, taking a lazy moon bath in the open window. He scratched under Cat's chin, hearing him purr like thunder, and used the other hand to rub Slugger's belly, who loved that attention to the point of bliss.

He was just plain enjoying the simple evening, until his gaze accidentally glanced next door. Abruptly he stopped relaxing, stopped moving, stopped breathing.

Next door…in a second-story window…there appeared to be a navel. A naked navel.

Separating from the dog and cat, Mike climbed to his feet to take a clearer gander from the front picture window. Yup. There was a definitely a bare body in the window. Of course, he couldn't see the whole body—just the wedge between rib cage and midhip. Still, he could clearly see in the indentation of waist. The swell of curves over the hip. The belly button. An innie belly button.

Navels had never been his particular fantasy. He'd
always tended to be a leg man. And a breast man. And a fanny man. Hell, he'd always been a sex-crazed adolescent who'd turned into a wildly enthusiastic lover as an adult—until he'd recently given up sex, of course. But this was the first time he could recall ever noticing or being attracted to a belly button before.

What on earth was she doing?

Ah. Painting. He figured it out when she bent down—apparently from a ladder, because he could see her hand now holding a dripping brush. She pressed her belly against the window for support again, as she hand-painted the edge around the ceiling. Not that he could see the ceiling. But the dance back-and-forth motion of her arm pretty much told the story.

He told himself, okay, he'd figured it out, time to get away from the window. She might catch him being a navel voyeur. Worse yet, the longer he stared, the more he started worrying that maybe he really was a navel voyeur. Or that he could turn into one.

He was about to turn away except that he suddenly saw a blur of movement. Even with windows open in both places, he heard only a vague sound coming from the second story in her place, but something had obviously happened. She suddenly disappeared from the window. So did the ladder.

He didn't
know
she fell.

But there was suddenly no sign of life or movement
up there. And a fall from a ladder could be darned serious.

He couldn't leave his son, of course. He never left his son alone. Teddy had occasional nightmares, besides. Still…how long could a quick check take?

He didn't even bother with shoes, just sprinted out the front door, already calling himself every flavor of dumb. She undoubtedly locked the house, so he wouldn't be able to get in…but it was open, he discovered when he turned the knob on her front porch. Where was her head? A woman and little girl alone in the house after dark, and she hadn't locked the door?

He considered knocking, but was afraid he'd rouse the prissy white dog into a fit of barking that would waken her daughter. He just called quietly, “Hey…it's me from next door. Mike. I was in my living room, thought I saw you fall from upstairs. I'm not trying to be nosy. I'll go right back home. I just wanted to make sure—”

Abruptly he quit with the bumbling greeting. Even from her living-room foyer, he heard a groan coming from the second story.

He vaulted upstairs, had no problem identifying which room she was in, because night-lights reflected in the bathroom and kid's room. It was the room with the ceiling light shining in the hallway where the redhead had to be.

He pelted in, took in the mess at a glance—the
wobbly ladder on its side. The newspapers spread over the painting area, with the usual gambit of brushes and rollers and blue tape and supplies. It wasn't hard to tell what color she was painting the room, because there was now baby-blue all over her, the floor, the walls and everything else.

He didn't give a damn about the spilled paint. She was lying in the middle of it. He knelt down, fast, and saw with relief that her eyes were open—even if they did look dazed.

“Don't move,” he said.

“Are you kidding? I couldn't move if I tried.”

“At least you're talking. And I don't see any blood.” He just saw a whole lot of baby blue. In her hair. On her chin. On her halter top. On her tummy. On her shorts. On the floor, too, but the gleam of baby blue on the floor wasn't interesting. “Where does it hurt the worst?”

“How am I going to get this out of my hair?”

“How about if we worry if you need an ambulance before we let vanity into the picture?”

“It's not vanity that's killing me. It's pride. I
just
bought that stupid ladder!”

He'd already noticed the pip-squeak–quality ladder. “You bought a girl ladder. Instead of a sturdy, practical one.”

“I couldn't carry the sturdy ones! They were too heavy! Besides, it wasn't the ladder that caused the
fall. At least, not exactly. My mom called. If you knew my parents, you'd understand why I fell.”

It was pretty obvious that the fall had unleashed her ditsy side, because she started babbling nonstop. While she ranted on, he looked her over more seriously. Obviously her head and spine would be the most serious worries, after a crash like that, but she could also have broken or sprained something. He started by examining her feet—which were bare except for the neon-painted toenails.

“My parents are wonderful. Both of them. It's just that they raised me to be spoiled. To believe that I deserved everything, from Prince Charming to a perfect life. You have no idea how useless I am.”

“Uh-huh.” The calves were perfect. No fat. Just those perfect curves, leading to delectably soft thighs.

“My mom—her name is Gretchen—she wanted to hire painters for me. And a decorator for the house. And to pay for a summer program for precocious four-year-olds.”

He figured, since she was conscious if not exactly lucid, that he'd better keep his hands off her belly and breasts. Technically he supposed he should check things like ribs and all. But since he was already mightily turned on—against his will—he knew perfectly well that the wrong kind of touching was on his mind. He'd lost all interest in checking for injuries.

Still, he tried to get his attention back on track. Her
neck was fair game. Shoulders. Hands. Wrists. And she'd stopped talking—for the few seconds it took to carefully and touch and probe those areas—he followed through with a question. “So what did you tell your mother when she wanted to do all those things for you?”

“I told her—
and
my dad—that Molly and I moved closer specifically so they had a chance to be more active grandparents. I know they wanted more time with Molly. And I wanted that, too, for it to be easier for them to be a regular part of her life. But I also told them I didn't want anything else.”

“And this was a problem somehow?”

“Hey.” Apparently she forgot the conversational track. Her fingers suddenly banded his wrist, and her gaze met his, clear as daylight. “Quit right there. No touching below the neck. For Pete's sake, we haven't even been introduced.”

“I'm Mike Conroy.”

“I'm Amanda Scott.” There was humor in her eyes now. He
had
introduced himself quickly. “I can get up. I'm pretty sure.”

“Let's do it slowly.”

“You know, I would
really
like to stop meeting like this. We could try it all over again. You know. Behave like real neighbors. Knock on the door. Show up with cookies or a beer or a bottle of wine. Say hi, welcome to the neighborhood. I mean, we could try meeting without a disaster. Oh, no, no, Darling!”

Startled, Mike couldn't fathom where the endearment came from—but then he realized the half-breed white dog had shown up, clearly realizing something was wrong with her mistress. She was aiming straight for the puddle of paint on the floor.

“Got it,” Mike said, and lurched for the dog. The poodle or poodle mix—whatever the devil she was—didn't object to being hauled up in the air. She seemed to expect being carried. He suspected going home would entail Slugger giving him hell—and howls—if he showed up smelling like girl-poodle, but there was no help for it.

“Could you put her in Molly's room, and then just close the door without latching it? She loves sleeping with Molly.”

“Got it. Only, you don't try standing up until I get back.”

A night-light was the only illumination in the girl's room, but Mike could readily make out that it was a girl's version of what he'd done for Teddy. Amanda, though, had gone even more overboard. Shelves were jammed with stuffed animals. A bitsy dressing table had a matching bitsy chair. The kid was swallowed somewhere in a canopy bed, and it was hard to find a path to walk between the flounces and little chairs and dolls.
Lots
of dolls. Dolls in cradles, dolls in various states of undress, dolls on shelves, dolls on the floor, dolls without heads.