By Debra H. Goldstein
“Awana wants me to spend the night. Going to.” Arms crossed, Jacob, my four-year-old son, stared at me.
I smiled at him but kept folding the wrinkled clothes I’d left in the dryer since yesterday. “We’ll cross that road when she asks.”
As he stomped his foot and began a Richter scale melt-down, my phone rang. “Hello.”
The sound of a loud voice saying, “This is Awana. Can Jacob spend the night? I wuv him,” ended the meltdown. It was replaced by the same lovesick puppy dog face my late husband, Stewart, had the day we first met when we were seven. For a moment, I was distracted by how similar father and son were, but the little girl again asking, “Can he?” regained my attention.
I racked my brain trying to think of a child in Jacob’s preschool class named Awana but couldn’t. “May I speak to your mother, please?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Is your daddy there?”
“Yes.”
When there were no apparent sounds of her putting her daddy on the phone, I asked to talk to him.
“Okay.” There was another long pause until a man came on the line. “Dan Roberts here. Who is this, please?”
“Cindy Martin. Your daughter, Awana…”
“Alana. She can’t say L’s yet.”
“Alana,” I corrected myself, “invited my son, Jacob, to spend the night.”
“Oh, no. We only want him to come home after school for a playdate.”
That made more sense, but I hesitated. Although his name sounded familiar, I couldn’t place Dan or Awana. “I read to Jacob’s class once a month, but I can’t recall meeting your daughter or you.”
“That’s because we’re new in town. Alana joined the class this week when I started my new job. I was trying to get her involved with some of the other girls in her class, but she’s adamant we invite Jacob. He’s the only child she ever talks about. I have a housekeeper here on Thursday who can watch them play for a few hours.”
A strange housekeeper, unfamiliar house, and an unknown family? Maybe I was being a little nutty, but no way. “I’m sorry. Thursday won’t work.”
“Alana will be disappointed.”
It sounded like he was, too. I took pity on him. “Tell you what, perhaps you and your daughter could come over here on Saturday?”
Now the pause was his. “I have to work Saturday late afternoon and evening, but maybe an early play date here?”
Not knowing him, I opted for a compromise. “So, there’s no pressure with your work schedule, why don’t we take the kids to Tango’s for games and an early pizza lunch? Jacob loves going there, but we don’t do it often. It would be a weekend treat for him.”
“Sounds like a plan. Where is it? Like I said, we’re new here.”
“Southlake Village on Southlake Road. It’s the strip center’s anchor. Tell me, what brought you and your family to Wheaton?”
“I’m the new sportscaster for Channel 5. I go on the air in this market on Saturday.”
Now, I felt stupid. Between juggling Jacob, the architectural projects that our firm had under contract before Stewart died, bidding new ones, and whatever else needed to take priority, I rarely watched TV. But, I had seen Dan’s face pasted on billboards announcing his arrival at the station. I also had read a newspaper story about him that mentioned he lost his wife to cancer when their daughter was six months old. Alana hadn’t lied, except about wanting Jacob to spend the night.
Jacob barely contained his excitement when I buckled him into his car seat. “Awana wuvs me. She said that means we need to get married. I told her okay.”
I averted my face so he wouldn’t see my amusement at the odds of four-year-old love lasting. Then again, Stewart and my love endured from grade school until two years ago, when a drunk driver hit him while he jogged.
Arriving at Tango’s, I immediately recognized Dan. He looked exactly like his billboard picture. Even if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered because of how fast Alana ran to Jacob and embraced him. As they played in the balls, Dan and I watched and talked about the weather, our jobs, and, eventually, our involvement with our children as single parents.
Later, over pizza, Dan and I reached for the last piece. “You can have it,” he offered.
“Oh, no,” Jacob said. “You have to share.”
“They teach them that at school.”
Dan cut the piece in two. We both bit into our respective halves. “There’s something to be said for sharing.”
“I think so, too.”
“And wuv.” Pointing at us, Alana took Jacob’s hand. When they ran off to play, my nutty side came out again as I wondered if the saying “out of the mouth of babes” was true.
Judge Debra H. Goldstein retired to follow her passion for writing mysteries. She is the author of Kensington’s Sarah Blair Mystery Series and two standalones: Maze in Blue and Should Have Played Poker. Her novels and short stories received Silver Falchion, IPPY, AWC, and BWR awards and named Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, and Claymore finalists.
Debra is a national board member of Sisters in Crime and previously served on the national board of MWA and as president of the Guppy and SEMWA chapters. She is a civic volunteer, mother of four, and married to a man whose blood runs Alabama Crimson.