“What about Maggie?” Kate suggested. “And my mother? I don’t think they’re doing anything today but resting from a busy weekend.”
Babysitting Atlas was not…restful. Plus, he wasn’t crazy about the idea of handing over his most prized possession to two nearly eighty-year-old women, regardless of how much he loved and trusted his grandmother.
“They raised five kids between them,” Kate reminded him, reading his expression. “With nary a bottle warmer or video monitor in sight.”
“I don’t know…” But what hedidknow? Time was ticking away.
“Go ask them,” Kate urged him. “Emma and I will wait until you’ve sorted it all out.”
“I’ll get a Pop-Tart,” Emma said, walking toward the pantry.
With a nod, he headed to the garage and took the stairs to the apartment two at a time, remembering how he and Dad had built out the unit during the month when he was trying to get his life together.
That seemed like eons ago—Carly was alive and pregnant in California, Kate helped him apply to the culinary program, and Dad had been by his side when Jonah threatened to spiral into the old Mom grief that wrecked him.
He had such a different world now. One with a whole new set of problems and challenges. Mom grief had been replaced by Carly grief, but it eased with each passing day.
He knocked twice and opened the door.
“Everybody up and decent?” he called.
The living area was small and bright, with windows that let in the morning sun. There wasn’t a Gulf view up here, but blue sky and tips of palm trees that made the place feel like a tropical getaway—and nobody’s “old-age home.”
Jo Ellen was on the sofa with a heating pad wedged behind her lower back, reading something on her tablet. Now that looked a little old-age home-y.
“Jonah! What a nice surprise. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee? I was going to brew Maggie’s when she gets up but I can make a pot.”
His grandmother wasn’t even awake yet? That didn’t bode well.
“No, thanks, I just…” He swallowed. “Need a babysitter.”
“Of course! Bring him up. We would love nothing more.”
He eyed the electric cord to the heating pad and the pillow-covered sofa, the teacup steaming in front of her. No, Atlas couldn’t crawl yet, but the room was not remotely childproofed and unlike Meredith, neither one of them knew CPR.
“I don’t know, Jo Ellen. It looks like your back is acting up again.”
“Just a little stiff. Nothing that a sweet baby can’t cure.” She waved a hand. “Bring that boy to me. And a bottle, if he hasn’t eaten. Maybe his little rocky thing. Whatever he needs.”
Which would take another twenty minutes to haul up here.
From down the short hallway, he heard movement, and Grandma Maggie appeared in her robe, silver hair pressed flat on one side, Aunt Pittypat tucked under her arm like a furry football.
“What’s all the commotion? It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“It’s seven-fifteen, Grandma. I need help with Atlas. Everyone else is gone.” There was no bush-beating with Maggie Lawson. Direct always worked with her.
Her cornflower blue eyes sharpened with interest. “Ah, so we’re your last resort.”
And she didn’t suffer fools like Jonah, who waited until the very last minute to make childcare arrangements.
“I come because I know that nobody in this family has more experience with babies than you two.”
“Nice recovery,” Jo Ellen murmured from the sofa.
Maggie set Pittypat down—the Yorkie immediately began her morning patrol of the apartment’s perimeter—and crossed her arms. “We’ll take him. I doubt there’s anything a baby can throw at us that we haven’t faced in our lives.”
“Well, you should know he’s been fussy. I don’t know if he’s teething or if it’s the heat or if he’s just decided that sleep is for the weak, but he’s been a handful.”
