PEYTON picked up his cell phone and punched a contact. “Hello, Mother?”
A woman answered the phone with a low, cultured tone. “So have you made me the laughingstock of all my friends by turning me into a grandmother yet?”
“I’m sorry to report, yes. You’ll have to lament to your friends how inconsiderate I am. Raji and the baby are doing beautifully, but we do seem to have a problem.”
“Oh?” As usual, his mother sounded distant, somewhat disinterested.
“Raji plans to return to her residency—”
“Yes, have we mentioned how much we appreciate that she is a career girl and not a flighty socialite?”
Yes, they had mentioned it. Often. “—in three weeks.”
“So soon?”
“That’s what I thought, too. Though I have quit Killer Valentine—”
“You have? Your father will be so pleased.” That was code for how pleased she was, that a decade and a half of shuttling Peyton to classical piano classes and workshops and competitions, not to mention standing over him during practice, had not been wasted on a career in (shudder) rock and roll.
He said, “So though I have some extra time on my hands, we are going to need help with the infant.”
“Oh?” Her voice was faint. The insinuation was obvious: what to do you expect me to do about it?
“So I was wondering if you could send Lupe to help us set up our staff and get settled in a house for a few months?”
“Oh! Yes! Of course. I’ll have her on a plane this afternoon. So pleased that we could help you.”
“Thank you, Mother. I expected nothing less.”