It didn’t take long for the kids to get to me. It’s not that they were bad or anything, it’s just that they’ve got so much energy. Being the fun-loving, extremely nice person that I am, I tolerated it long enough to be on the brink of sainthood, but with Charli’s kids even Mother Teresa’s Canonization would be in jeopardy. Since it was only ten I knew something had to give, and fast.
I corralled Kevin and Adam as they scooted past me, brandishing wooden spoons at each other. I don’t know why Charli bans plastic swords and guns; her boys still manage to play endless games of cops and robbers.
“Hey, guys,” I said, “let’s go outside.”
Kevin, the oldest, who is the spitting image of his dad, and is already a total babe-magnet, smiled up at me. “I wanna go for a walk,” he said.
A walk. I rolled it over in my mind, scanning for the pitfalls. It had definite possibilities. We’d be outside, no weapons - imaginary or real - were involved, and the kids would be getting exercise instead of parked in front of the tube, one of Charli’s pet causes. Sounded like a winner to me. After that, I’d feed them lunch, put Jaelyn down for her nap, and let the boys play outside.
Heck, this baby-sitting stuff was getting easier all the time. I entertained a brief fantasy of starting up a child-care center and raking in buckets of money. Then Adam took away Jaelyn’s stuffed rat, she screamed in that especially irritating way only a tiny girl can manage, and I snapped out of it.
“Okay,” I said, steering them toward the door. “Let’s take a walk.” But not before I said a couple of industrial strength prayers for good measure.
It was a beautiful late June day, one of those low-humidity, pleasant-temperature wonders that make people forget what summer in the south is really like. The ‘Oaks’ was alive with the sounds of kids playing, minor carpentry, and lawn mowing.
The neighborhood swimming pool was packed. We loitered outside the fence and watched enviously as teenager after teenager tried to out-do each other off the high dive. I almost wished that I had the guts to take the kids inside for a quick dip, but Charli didn’t quite trust me to watch them closely enough, and I can’t say that I blamed her. After a few more minutes of pool envy, we moved along, spending about forty minutes wandering up and down the cul-de-sacs, collecting rocks, feathers, and, in Jaelyn’s case, cigarette butts.
As we rounded the corner, headed back to Charli’s house and the backyard swing set, I saw what was making the incredibly annoying noise we’d heard for the last minute: a tow-truck hauling my beloved Mustang down the road, the front end dipping so low that the license plate scraped the ground, sending sparks flying everywhere.
I screamed and dashed off in hot pursuit, the three kids trotting along behind me as fast as their little legs could go. It was no use. The tow-truck made a left and my car disappeared from view.
I bent over and hung my head between my knees gasping for air, thinking that I really needed to get myself in shape, and trying to remember what color the tow-truck had been so I could track down my car. When I finally sucked in enough air so I could speak, I screamed and, maybe, I might even have cussed a little. Then I remembered the kids. Bad language is not only a big no-no in the family babysitting list of rules and regulations, but it also goes against Mom’s standards of proper behavior for a well brought up southern woman. The kidlets were sitting on the curb, staring wide-eyed at me.
“Are you all right, Aunt Marty?” Kevin asked.
“No, honey,” I shrieked. I stopped myself and attempted to gain a little control so I wasn’t breaking the city law against excessive noise pollution. No use in getting myself arrested or in scaring the poor kids to death. “No, I’m not all right. Someone took my car. Why would they do that? Why?”
Kevin’s skinny shoulders bobbled up and down. “Maybe they’re going to give you a new one.”
I plopped down on the curb next to him and patted him on top of the head. His snow-white hair was cut so short it felt like velvet. “I sort of don’t think so, but it’s a good thought.”
“GET OUT OF MY YARD!” The man barked it so loud that I nearly wet my pants. Jaelyn screamed and clung to me, a look of sheer terror on her sweet little face. Adam and Kevin jumped up and darted into the street. I panicked, thinking they were going to get hit by a car, and chased after them. Thank God nothing was coming. The four of us turned and gaped at the man who raged at us.
He was like a rabid bulldog circling in for the attack. His face was screwed up into a fierce, terrifyingly evil expression. A vein in his temple throbbed, standing out in stark contrast to the smooth baldness of his head. It was Frank Billingham, Charli’s next-door neighbor, the mulch-line drawer, and the current president of ONAG.
I felt like popping him one. “What the heck do you think you’re doing, scaring these poor children like that? Are you nuts? All we were doing was sitting on the curb.”
Frank was so enraged that he almost glowed. I pulled the kids to me and tried to shield them with my body. Jaelyn trembled with fear and the boys cowered tightly against me. About that time, a black BMW glided around the corner and into the driveway of the house we were in front of.
“I don’t care what you were doing,” Frank screeched, “you have no right to be on my property. You were defacing it and decreasing its value.”
My jaw almost hit the ground. He was obviously deranged. “Mr. Billingham, with all due respect, sir, I don’t see how our sitting on the curb for five minutes is going to affect your property value.”
He lunged toward us, his eyes wild and his fists clenched into tight balls. “It will, believe me, it will. You have to be vigilant. If you give an inch, people’ll take a mile and before you know it, my whole yard will be destroyed. And the neighborhood will be covered with eyesores and blights. Like that monstrosity of a car I had towed away.”
I should have known. Frank has always had a vendetta against vintage automobiles. He was the one who stirred up that big pickup truck controversy, mainly because John and Charli own an old truck that appears to have seen better days. Even though John keeps it in the garage most of the time, it drives Frank nuts. Just the other week he’d been on Charli’s case, telling her that the truck was an eyesore and that it devalued his property.
"My car is not a monstrosity!” I said, backing the children up a few steps. “It's a classic. Well, it will be a classic as soon as I get enough money to have it repainted. But that’s beside the point, Frank! You had no right to have it towed. There’s no law saying I can’t park on these streets. They’re public property.”
“Wrong! You’re dead wrong about that, Missy. It’s against the neighborhood charter. I’ve told your sister that time and time again. This is a private neighborhood with private streets, and that thing you call a car is not allowed. Not allowed!”
He lunged again, this time coming even closer to us, causing my heart to pound like a timpani. I ran through my options, searching for an escape plan. He had maybe three inches and fifty pounds on me, but I was at least thirty years younger. Of course, he wasn’t trying to protect three small children, either.
“Okay,” I said, continuing to scuttle the little guys backwards until we were on the opposite curb. “You win. I’m sorry we touched your property. I’ll be more careful in the future. I’ll make sure I park my car in Charli’s driveway, not on the street. Will that satisfy you?”
I don’t think Frank heard me. Either that, or he didn’t like my attempt at detente. He shook his fist at me and called me a few choice names. I bit my tongue so hard that it almost bled, but no way was I going to get into a down and dirty verbal brawl with him, especially in front of the kids. Mom and Charli would have killed me.
The driver of the black BMW climbed out of his car and hustled toward us. I glanced over at him, then did a double take. He was the best looking man I’d seen in at least a year.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked.
“You just mind your own business, Zagle,” Frank said. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you.”
“Frank, I don’t know what’s going on here,” the man said, his voice calm and reassuring, “but it looks to me like the children are frightened. If there’s a problem between you and Ms. Sheffield, perhaps you should deal with it when the little ones aren’t around.”
Frank spouted off another round of obscenity-laced trash talk. The BMW man, who was at least six-two, two hundred pounds of what appeared to be excellent muscle tone, put his hand on Frank’s shoulder and told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. “Frank, if you don’t stop using that kind of language right now, I’ll call the police.”
The bluster drained right out of Frank Billingham. He shook his fist in my direction once more and, without another word, stormed into his house, slamming the front door so hard that it sounded like a cannonball hit it. I sized up the man who’d stopped, admiring those muscles, which were quite apparent underneath the black golf shirt and khaki slacks, and wondering who he was and how the heck he knew my name.
“Thank you,” I said to the stranger. “I really appreciate your help. I think Frank has gone completely bonkers. He had my car towed away for no good reason and then practically attacked us for sitting on the curb in front of his house.”
The man flashed me a dazzling glimpse of his pearly whites. Combined with the prematurely salt and pepper hair, the big brown eyes, and the tantalizing whiff of his cologne, I would almost describe what I felt as ‘love at first sight’. Well, at any rate, lust.
“That’s really unfortunate. I’m sorry that the children had to witness such abusive behavior. About your car? I take it you had it parked next to the curb?”
I waggled my head around like one of those dogs you see in the back window of some cars. “In front of Charli’s. He said it was a violation of the neighborhood charter.”
The man swiped his hands through his hair, leaving a little cowlick on the right side, just above his ear. It made him look even cuter. It was all I could do to keep from throwing myself at him. (Did I mention that I hadn’t even been on a date since the previous summer?)
“Frank’s pretty strident in his viewpoint. As I’ve quickly found out.” He pointed to the house whose yard we were standing in front of, a ranch style that mirror-imaged my sister’s house. “I just moved here about a month ago and I’ve had three run-ins with Frank already. By the way, I’m Kyle Zagle.”
He held out his right hand and we shook. His hand was very soft and strong. And warm in that sexy sort of way. “I’m Marty Sheffield. My sister, Charli Carsky, lives across the street from you.” I gestured toward Charli’s place.
“I know. I’ve heard lots about you.” God, he was good looking. He still had hold of my hand and shock waves were flowing through me. “As soon as your sister found out that I wasn’t married, she started telling me all about you. I think she’s already planning our wedding, to be honest.” His laugh was wonderful, very happy and warm.
I laughed too. “That sure sounds like Charli. She’s in cahoots with my mom. They’re bound and determined to find a husband for me. I guess Mom figures if I’m married off I’ll be less likely to be a burden on her in her old age.”
His eyes twinkled. “You don’t look like you’d be a burden to anyone.”
I was going to come back with some snappy, witty remark designed to show off my sparkling personality and encourage him to keep flirting, but I couldn’t think of one because the kids were squabbling and it distracted me. I stepped back and punted instead, hoping I’d have better field position the next time I met up with Kyle Zagle.
“Well, Mr. Zagle, it was nice to meet you, and again, thanks for saving me from old Frank there. I suppose I’d best be getting these wild ones out of the street and into the house for lunch. I sure do hope we meet again.”
“You can count on it, Miss Sheffield.” Another squeeze of my hand, a flash of teeth, and Kyle Zagle went back up his driveway and slipped into his car. His garage door peeled up and the Beemer disappeared inside.
I couldn’t help wondering what was up with Charli. She’d been telling Kyle Zagle all about me, but hadn’t mentioned a single word to me about her handsome new neighbor. Believe me, that’s not like Charli at all. I hadn’t been kidding when I told Kyle Zagle that Charli and Mom were shopping for a husband for me. Ever since Ricky Ray dumped me, they’ve been trying to fix me up with every eligible man (and some not so eligible ones) they run across.
I spent the rest of the time Charli was gone feeding the kids, cleaning up after them, refereeing arguments, and trying in vain to track down my car. When my sister returned, she changed into one of her perfectly coordinated shorts outfits and fixed us glasses of iced tea. We took the tea and went outside to sit on her porch swing. Little Jaelyn was napping and the boys were playing around the world on the driveway.
After we settled into the swing, I told Charli what had happened with Frank, which totally appalled her, and then mentioned that I’d met Kyle Zagle.
Charli was non-committal. “He seems to be quite nice.”
“Is he married?” I asked.
“No. But he’s seeing someone.”
That still didn’t explain why Charli hadn’t mentioned him to me. It wasn’t something that she’d ever let get in the way of her schemes before.
“Anyone I know?”
Charli grew very concentrated on her iced tea glass, swirling it around, carefully examining it, sipping it, avoiding my eyes.
“Okay, Charli, what gives? Are you having some sort of passionate affair with Kyle Zagle?”
Charli swatted me. “Mar-ty! Of course not. I’m a happily married mother of three. Where on earth would you get such a ridiculous idea?”
“Then why are you being so weird about answering my question? All I asked was who Kyle is dating.”
The music arrived before the car came into view. Ricky Ray Riley’s hit single, “Bye-Bye, Baby, Bye-Bye”, blasted at full volume. As soon as I heard it, I realized why Charli hadn’t mentioned Kyle to me.
“It can’t be,” I said, horrified by the very thought of it.
Charli was properly doleful. “Yeah. Can you believe it? Such a waste too. He’s obviously got something horribly wrong with him if that’s the kind of woman he finds attractive.”
The fire-engine red Corvette with the black bra, spoiler, and ‘2SEXE4U’ license plate whipped around the corner and into Kyle’s driveway. Giselle St. James, (her real name: Jean Eloise James) gossip reporter from hell, brainless wonder, and my archenemy since childhood, slithered out of the car and prissed up the walk to Kyle’s front door. But not before stopping to undo the top two buttons on her blouse and hike up her already too short skirt another inch.
“You can’t buy class,” I said.
“That’s for sure.” Charli took another sip of her tea. “What do you think he sees in her?”
“God only knows.” I felt a little queasy. To think, I’d been flirting with the man. Attempting to, anyway.
Kyle’s front door swung open and Giselle waltzed into his house like she owned it.
Giselle and I have a mutual hatred that goes back to fourth grade. She has it in her head that I stole Ricky Ray from her. The fact that Ricky Ray never went out with her, never really even knew she was alive for that matter, apparently didn’t mean much to Giselle. In her warped mind, she wanted him and I got in the way, therefore I had to pay. To that end, she’s made getting revenge on me her mission in life. You’d think that after Ricky Ray dumped me her motivation would have petered out. But oh no, not Giselle’s.
Instead of letting it go she ramped up her efforts. For the past several months, not only had I been forced to deal with the pain and humiliation of being stranded at the altar, but also with Giselle’s sick lust for vengeance. Every time I did anything the least bit embarrassing, there she was, filming it for her ludicrous gossip show.
While Charli and I contemplated Kyle Zagle’s appalling lack of taste, a Channel 42 news van, the station Giselle works for, squealed around the corner and jerked to a stop behind her Corvette. Giselle’s cameraman, Robby Pluck, bolted out and pounded on Kyle’s door.
We watched with interest as Giselle and Kyle came out of his house and moved around his yard, obviously trying to decide on where to stand to shoot an interview. They’d just started rolling when Kevin whizzed in front of Charli and me on his bike.
“No!” Charli hollered. “Kevin, don’t ride into Mr. Billingham’s flower bed!”
I lurched off the porch and bounded after Kevin, Charli fast on my trail. Kevin stopped just short of the flowerbed. I skidded to a stop, barely missing it myself. Charli wasn’t quite so lucky. She tripped over a wiffle ball bat the kids had left lying in the yard and went flying head first. She landed sprawled across the flowers, most of her body distinctly on the other side of Frank Billingham’s line in the mulch.
Frank, who was spreading compost and manure on his side of the flowers, went into a frenzy, ranting and raving and spitting with fury. I helped Charli to her feet and tried to brush the mulch off of her. The next thing I knew, Frank dumped a big shovel full of yard crud right on Charli’s head.
Clumps of leaves, dirt, rotten grass, and some other stuff that I would rather not mention clung to her freshly styled hair. Charli appeared to be in shock. She didn’t, or couldn’t, say anything. She just stood there frozen in place, her mouth open in a silent scream, looking like something the cat dragged home and, truth be told, smelling worse.
She blinked at me, her mouth still agape, then turned to Frank, who seemed quite pleased with his prank.
“Consider that a warning, missy” he cackled. “Next time, I’ll call the cops.”
Charli turned ninety shades of red and began to shake. That’s when the worm wriggled out of the mess on her head and slipped off the pile. I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it was going to be the last straw, so to speak.
I laughed anyway.
It slid down inside Charli’s blouse and my sister, who is absolutely, beyond all reason, scared to death of worms and snakes, went totally bananas. She danced around the yard, yanking at her blouse and screaming her head off. When the worm finally flew out of her blouse and lay wriggling on the ground she stopped and turned slowly toward Frank Billingham.
“This,” she shouted, “is WAR!”