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Fifty-five minutes later the doorbell rang.
Ignore it. Maybe whoever it is will go away.
Jack stuffed his head under the pillow, really needing another couple of hours sleep. Just a couple more hours. He’d be good to go if only he could get—
Whoever was outside his front door leaned on the doorbell. Buttercup, his Golden Retriever, jumped off the bed and ran to the door barking her blonde head off. Jack rolled over with a sigh. Hank, Greg and Lana’s obese tabby who he was cat-sitting, did a double gainer onto his chest, head-buttted his face, stomped on his bladder, then meowed directly into his ear loud enough to rattle his neighbor's eardrums.
Lord have mercy, he was going to have to commit murder before he’d even had breakfast.
“Keep your blasted shirt on, I’m coming.” He tossed the covers back, pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, and staggered down the stairs, vaguely remembering something about someone named Emma.
In the middle of the third chime, he threw the door open. There, standing impatiently on the other side of the threshold, was the most colorful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Bright purple beamed into his eye sockets. Purple hair, purple eye-shadow, purple lips, a body dressed in purple linen. Purple purse hanging off one arm.
Buttercup stopped barking, backed up, and tilted her head.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut hoping his color adjustment would fix itself. But, no. When he opened his eyes again, the eighties throwback was still standing there. With the exception of a pale pink bundle cradled snugly against her chest, she looked like she’d been standing front and center when someone’s lava lamp exploded.
Jack’s wonderful, luscious dream had burst into a purple nightmare with pink trim. He wanted to hand her a Cyndi Lauper CD and send her packing, but instead figured he’d better be polite until he found out what it was she wanted. “May I help you?”
“I say, are you Mr. O’Donlan?” The grape practically launched herself from one foot to the other. Either she had to go, or she really had to go.
“Yes,” he said, watching her ping from one side to the next. “And you would be... Wait a minute,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “Dottie, is that you?”
“Hi, Sheriff.” Left foot. “You’re kinda slow when you’re tired.” Right foot. “Still groggy, huh?” Left foot.
Jack scratched his head, wishing the eggplant would just hold still so he could think clearly. “I thought you said your name was Emma? And why do you suddenly have a British accent?”
“Oh, you know. In case I ever get to London. Better to be prepared, don’t you think? Can I come in?”
“Oh. Sure. Of course.” Anything to stop the bouncing.
Dottie bunny-hopped her way into the foyer, stopped on a dime, and thrust the pink thing into his arms. “You hold Emma, and I’ll just get her things.”
Hold Emma? He peered down at the soft pink lump and nearly dropped it. “Look here, Dottie, what’s going on, and why am I holding my niece?”
The plum came back, plunked a bunch of what looked like kiddie paraphernalia on the marble tile, and said, “Because you’re babysitting of course.”
He handed the baby back in what he considered the best lateral move since Troy Aikman blitzed the Steelers in Super Bowl Thirty. “Oh, no, I’m not.” He wanted to say, “Oh, hell no, I’m not,” but figured swearing in front of a baby was liable to get him smacked upside the head by Dottie, then Lana, and most certainly by Greg.
He dropped back two steps.
“Cute, but I really don’t have time for games, Sheriff Jack. Didn’t your brother or Lana call you?” Dottie marched forward and once again he found himself clutching a now squirming pink blob. “She likes it when you bounce her, and she’s probably going to want to eat soon. Her bottles are in the bag, along with some baby food.”
“Uh ...”
“You can feed her, can’t you?” Dottie narrowed her purple-smeared eyes.
“Of course I can. I am her uncle.” He bobbled Emma, before once again tightening his grip. Of course he couldn’t. He didn’t have a clue how to feed a baby. Watching Lana or Greg do it was one thing...Why would he know how? He knew her birthday, wasn’t that enough?
“You keep fumbling the baby like that and that she’s going to blow chunks all over your marble foyer. She’s not a football, you know.”
“Now wait just a darn minute. Exactly how long am I going to be babysitting?”
Dottie gave a long-suffering sigh. “Just until Greg and Lana get back from Hawaii. Now then, Sheriff, if you don’t have any more questions, I really must go. A plane to catch and all that, you know.”
Still stunned, Jack muttered, “Uh, yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
She stuck her hand out and Jack readjusted Emma to his left side. He started to shake Dottie’s hand when he suddenly realized she’d stuffed a pink pacifier into his palm.
Somewhat dazed, he wondered if he’d just sealed his fate.
As the door closed behind Dottie, Jack looked down at the gurgling baby in his arms, thinking another endorsement deal or town hall meeting or even a zombie invasion wouldn’t have been so bad after all.
What the heck was he supposed to do with a kid? He couldn’t babysit a real live baby. He didn’t know the first thing about babies.
He called Bailey only to learn that her kids had the chickenpox. Great, now what?
Call Sophie? No. No way. He was absolutely not going to call Sophie.
He glared down into the baby’s face, and she smiled back at him with wide blue eyes. A sweet, pure, guileless smile that made his stomach hurt. Then she grabbed his chin and dug in.
“Yow! Hey!” As he removed her fist from his face, her chin wobbled. Tears welled. “Oh, no. No tears. We’re not doing the crying thing.”
Emma screwed up her face, stuck out her lower lip, and bellowed loud enough to warn ships off the coast of Georgia.
Great. He’d somehow hurt the little blob’s feelings. “Look, kid, I didn’t mean it, you took me by surprise, got quite a grip there, make a great receiver some day. Here,” he grabbed her fist and stuck it back on his chin. “Grab, poke, pound, pull, I don’t care. Just please,” he raised his eyes heavenward, “get a grip on yourself.”
Emma was obviously one of those stubborn, you-need-to-suck-up-a-little-more babies, because she stiffened, turned her face away, and screamed even louder.
Holy Mother of All Things Sacred. Hank made a break for it and disappeared into another room. Buttercup howled and covered her face with her paws. Worse, she wasn’t trying to steal or hoard any of the baby stuff lying around which was not a good sign. His dog stole everything.
He had to call Sophie. She’d know exactly what to do. Probably. She liked kids, didn’t she? Sure she did, because she liked Max and Max was the biggest baby around, even if he was of the furry variety. Plus she loved Tilley, and Tilley was still a kitten, somehow that had to count.
Boy, he needed this like he needed a bad case of drunken crabs.
Remembering the way Dottie had bounced the baby around, he bunny-hopped into the bedroom and wondered how in the world he was going to get showered and dressed and still keep a watchful eye on the little pink screamer.
How did mothers do this?
He grabbed his phone off the bed, lurched from one foot to the other, and dialed his private line at work.
His secretary answered on the first ring. “I’ll give you a month’s salary if you can get Sophie up here before noon.”
“What in the world is that god-awful racket?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He sighed and kept bouncing. “A tornado siren.”
“What, you don’t make enough millions in endorsements and football commercials? Not to mention you’re the sheriff of Live Oak which I happen to know pays a decent salary in itself. You’ve gotta take up babysitting now, too?”
“I was ambushed.” Jack squeezed his eyes shut, nearing the panic mode. “Look, I need a limo at Sophie’s in half an hour. One with enough room for a chubby German shepherd.”
“Does Sophie know you’re volunteering her to help?”
“Not exactly.”
“She’s not going to be happy about this.”
Emma was now down to small hiccups, and Jack’s panic and guilt backed off a beat. “Sure she will. It’s just a baby, not a leper colony.”
“Umm hmm. Boy or girl leper?”
Jack sighed. “Girl. My niece.”
“How long are you planning on kidnapping Sophie?”
“Long enough to...to—” He thought for a second, then just in case Sophie wasn’t real receptive to helping him with Emma added, “Send over about ten pounds of gummi bears. The good ones.”
“Okay. You’re the boss.”
The boss. He glanced down at Emma and wondered how long that theory was going to hold water. Then he took a deep breath and called Sophie.
#IDon’tCareWhoStartedIt
#WhatPartOfNoDon’tYouUnderstand?
#NoRunningInTheHouse