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Breaking children? That sounded ominous. Then again, maybe Mel could learn a trick or two. Her kids could probably use some breaking.
Mel nodded encouragingly. She sat on the edge of her seat, listening intently. Was it some unique version of timeout? Rev
erse psychology? A negative reinforcement/reward system. She. Needed. To. Know. Mel could use some fresh methods of wrangling in the little rugrats.
“One thing I like to do is isolate them if there are multiples because power is in numbers.”
Huh. Mel had never thought of it like that, but it made sense. Now that Barb mentioned it, the kids did seem to ban together at times. They were like a pack of coyotes, working together and circling their prey, then pouncing all at once.
“. . .put them in separate closets and apply the age-old method of sensory deprivation,” Barb continued. “Hours of isolation, the dark, and stuffy air works wonders.”
Mel’s smile wobbled.
“And if that doesn’t work, then I dampen a thin cloth, like a washcloth.” Barb bent forward and reached into her purse, pulling out a thin, white cotton cloth. “I take this with me everywhere,” she murmured.
Mel swallowed, and the back of her neck prickled.
“I dampen this and place it over their face like so.” Barb laid the cloth over her face before removing it and continuing in her explanation. “Then I pour a steady stream of water over their faces. It feels like they can’t breathe, but they totally can.” She waved this away with a laugh. “It’s harmless and all psychological, but it sure does scare them into good behavior. Works like a charm every time.”
Mel waited for Barb to laugh. Surely, this was a joke. Barb had an odd, dry sense of humor.
She stared at her grandmotherly face, urging her to smile and say, “just kidding,” followed by a hearty chuckle. But nothing.
Maybe she misunderstood. Although the picture she painted was pretty clear.
When it became clear Barb wasn’t going to say anything else, Mel held a finger up. “Um. I think that’s called waterboarding. The military used to use it as a tactical form of torture to extort information from terrorists and war criminals.”
Barb’s smile stiffened. A wrinkle creased her brow. “Yes, and?”
MEL SLAMMED THE DOOR closed, then immediately grabbed her phone off the coffee table. Who knew her interview would end with a phone call to the police? But she couldn’t exactly let crazy Barb walk around abusing children.
Afterward, she stumbled her way into the kitchen like a zombie. Bracing her hands on either side of the sink, she stared out the window like a man lost at sea, thinking, there has to be more than this provincial life.
Oh, kill her now. Even for her, she had hit an all-time low if she was quoting Disney characters.
She turned her head, slightly dazed. All four interviews thus far had been a disaster, with each one worse than the next. New York City had millions of people in it, yet this was the best she could get?
Her gaze snagged on the half-full bottle of merlot she had bought in a moment of desperation a couple nights ago. Reaching for it, she pulled out the plastic cork and slugged straight from the bottle. Breathless, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—because she was a lady, thank you very much—then placed it back on the counter. Maybe when the final interviewee came, she’d hide and drown herself in the remaining dregs of the bottle, rather than answer the door.
To say she was scraping the bottom of the barrel was an understatement. Where were the cute college kids looking for a good job come summer break? Or the retirees who needed “something to do” with all their spare time while earning an extra dollar? Where were the stay-at-home-moms whose own children had flown the coop, and now they were lonely and wanting three little rug rats to wrangle? This. Could. Not. Be. It.
When the doorbell rang, she groaned. She swung her head, glancing mournfully toward the sound. As much as she didn’t want to answer, she had little choice. She couldn’t afford to lose hope. At this point, Freddy Krueger could be her next interviewee and she’d have to accept. It was either that or call her parents and beg them to move back because she couldn’t manage her own life and responsibilities.
With a resigned sigh, she said a prayer this wouldn’t be as painful as expected and headed for the door. On the count of three, she yanked it open.
Her mouth dropped, and three thoughts came rapid-fire. First: it’s a man. Second: it’s a hot man. And third: holy crapola . . . It’s the man from The Burnt Bean.
Mel blinked into the void that was her open doorway, convinced this was some sort of joke. “Um . . .” she said dumbly.
The man blinked. A flicker of recognition burned in those dark brown eyes, followed by surprise.
“It’s you.” Mel pointed.
His answering scowl wasn’t very reassuring. “It’s me,” he said, and his deep voice hit her like a sledgehammer.
The vision of her pinwheeling across his table, coffee gushing all around her, hit her full force. The memory of his hand brushing hers as he handed her napkins. How the touch nearly jolted her out of her skin. The encounter was already awful but was made worse by his level of attractiveness. The next time she tripped over her children, she’d be sure she fell onto the table of someone with crooked teeth, pock-marked skin, body odor, and a lazy eye.
Mel screwed up her face, trying to compute the coincidence of his presence outside her door. “What . . . why are you here?” she asked because there was no way he was her next interview.
