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But the would-be pirate ship caught his gaze. The portholes weren’t aligned. And the bow of the ship was the flat side of a box—if they’d angled that box, the corner could’ve been the wave-slicing part of the bow, then all they’d have to do to fix the portholes was make the center one a cannon gunnery opening…
The vision of the girls scrambling around a cardboard ship, little Addison brandishing her plastic cutlass, flared inside his mind. He looked down at his modified tattoo.
Lady-Glitter-Sparkle peeped out from the edge of his short sleeve, distinct from the eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo, with her drawn-on lopsided grin.
His heart lurched with something like excitement. Before he knew it, he was striding over to the pile of cardboard, retrieving the box cutter as he went.
Maybe he’d tinker for a while.
The pesky smile returned to his face, but this time he barely noticed.
Chapter 7
Frickin’, frackin’ fudge,” Bryce ground out through gritted teeth as she read the text from Shama Patel—a labor and delivery nurse who’d since retired and now juggled three side hustles—teaching Lamaze classes, working as a doula for laboring women, and helping when needed as a babysitter for the Weatherford girls.
Shama: Sorry for the late notice but have to cancel. One of my moms is in labor, three weeks earlier than expected.
Once upon a time, Bryce had hated to ask favors. That notion seemed quaint now as she stared down at her phone with the text notification from her babysitter canceling an hour before a meeting with a potential weekend catering gig. She’d already rescheduled with the future Mrs. Strickland once before, when Cecily woke up with her hair tangled in a wad of gum she’d clandestinely gone to bed chewing. It had taken three screeching hours and a jar of peanut butter to get her strands untangled from the gooey mass. Bryce couldn’t afford to cancel again. Literally. Every cent she earned from PattyCakes drained out of her checking account like water through a colander, covering extra expenses for the girls she didn’t feel like fighting about with the executors of her nieces’ estate—Harvey and Adele Payne. Plus, she had to earn enough for the attorney fees to fight the contested guardianship. The catering side hustle she’d been cobbling together after hours—with Patty’s full approval—was the financial edge she hoped would prove to the judge that she, Bryce, was just as financially viable a guardian for the girls as the retired Paynes.
Bryce’s thumbs flew as she texted a desperate reply.
Bryce: Do you know anyone who could babysit the girls instead? Any names would be appreciated!
Sharma: Maybe the girls’ grandparents can stand in?
Bryce: Can’t. They’re playing in a golf tournament.
Sharma: Sorry.
Bryce felt sweat prickle at her scalp as she checked on the nibbles she’d prepared for today’s taste meeting, warm in the oven, the sauces in their dishes all ready to go. She couldn’t cancel on the Stricklands-to-be. The wedding was in two months, and they needed menu options or they were going to walk, and she needed this gig. What was she going to do? Having the girls upstairs alone was a broken limb waiting to happen, and having them downstairs in the closed café with her while she met with clients was asking for professional embarrassment when the girls inevitably fought.
“How do you spell ‘column’?” June asked, frowning down at the notebook paper only a quarter filled for the eight-hundred-word book report due on Greek architecture for her social studies class. Technically, it had been due a week ago, and Bryce had received an email from June’s teacher announcing that she’d already lost twenty points on the essay, but if she turned it in Monday, she may still get a passing grade. Bryce was making June work on it in the kitchen, where she could ensure that her horror-infatuated niece’s nose didn’t end up in another Drake Matthews book instead.
“C-o-l-u-m-n,” Bryce answered, scrolling through her limited Wellsville contacts for another sitter option and coming up empty.
“It’s got an ‘n’ in it? Damn. Who knew?”
“Damn has an ‘n’ at the end, too, and you owe me ten push-ups for the swear.” Bryce rubbed her eyes, trying to find the motivation to start a load of laundry as she puzzled out a solution to the sitter quandary. Starting the laundry wasn’t the problem—it was remembering to flip it to the dryer, followed by the Herculean task of sorting the billions of socks, that made it daunting.
“Spelling is whack.” June speared her with a crafty look in her green eyes. “And it’s not a swear if the little girls aren’t here to rat you out. That’s what you said last week when you broke the yolk on Addie’s fried egg and said ‘shit-balls.’”
Bryce glanced out into the middle of PattyCakes, where Cecily and Addison were splayed out on a blanket and pillows they’d dragged down, excited to have the closed café dining area all to themselves as Bryce cooked. They were watching the millionth playing ofTinker Bell and the Pirate Fairyon an old portable DVD player with such intense interest the whole building could’ve collapsed and it was unlikely they’d notice.
“Fair. Okay, who do we know that can babysit?”
“We don’t need a babysitter.” All the savagery was back in June’s voice. “I’m twelve and can watch them for an hour.”
Bryce snorted. “Without fighting? Or completely tuning them out to text your friends? Please. You can’t get your own homework done without a babysitter. Case in point.” She swept her hand over the café table strewn with her niece’s school iPad and notebooks. “You gotta prove you can handle your own self before you can be responsible for your sisters.”
“Oh, and I have such a good role model. You’re the one who can’t handle her own crap.” June gestured at the disarray of the desk in the tiny café’s office, blanketed by a flurry of invoices and sticky notes. “Case in point.”
Bryce felt her eyes narrow. “Why don’t you show me you’re responsible enough, then, and take your sisters upstairs. Finish your paper. Then we’ll talk about future paid babysitting opportunities.”
June slammed her book closed with enough ferocity that most of the girl’s notes flew in the mini-tornado. Gathering them up and giving a terse bark to her sisters to follow, the tween headed out the front door to the apartment without a backward glare in her aunt’s direction.
Bryce let out her breath.
June was right. Bryce’s to-do list, both in the daily tasks of caregiving and fighting for guardianship of her nieces, was massive. Add to that working forty hours at PattyCakes along with her fledgling catering business, and life had become so unwieldy it was easier to put out fires versus be proactive. Whenever she had a spare moment—not cooking, or caring for her nieces, which amounted to maybe a half hour every day—she attempted to tackle the chaos. But it was a Sisyphean task. Inexplicably, the harder she worked at reducing the boulder of her responsibilities, the heavier it became.
