Page 11 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
“All right. I like that one.”
I didn’t really have time to read to Cece, but Cece’s new book is a favorite right now, and perhaps she will nod off before the grandmother and all of the animals wake up. If not, I will let her listen to one of her favorite recorded books while artificial stars are projected on her ceiling.
It isn’t the right way to parent. I’m not even sure I am a good parent. I remember the censure on Kate Bailey’s face when I had tried to get Cece to stand still for her mother’s funeral.
I mostly remembered Kate as James’ bratty kid sister who was always tattling on us when I visited. Now that she was an adult, she didn’t have the buxom curves I liked in a woman, but she was trim and neat. And she did seem to have a way with Cece. But she also had a mouth and an attitude that just wouldn’t quit, and that set my teeth on edge.
She’d refused to come work for me right after the funeral. But I wonder what she might be doing now. Surely the college semester must be about over.
Kate Bailey might not be my favorite person, but if Icould persuade her to come look after Cece . . . that could be a big help to me. Childcare jobs probably aren’t that plentiful right now, with parents being laid off all over.
Maybe I can talk her into changing her mind. She might have an attitude, but I know that she would be reliable.
Chapter five
Kate
I bang my hand on the edge of my desk as the Internet indicator on my laptop winks over to “no connection.”
So far, I’ve managed to keep up with my classes in spite of the clunky old router and the inefficient wi-fi booster. James had relented after the first night and moved his office stuff out of my old bedroom so I had a place to stay. But it is far from ideal. Finals week starts on Monday, and I desperately need to get all my work done.
With exaggerated care, I turn off my laptop, close it, and pack it into its carrying case. Then I pick up my book bag, laptop, purse, and clatter downstairs.
James is at his desk downstairs, his “work” music blasting away at full volume from the vintage sound system. It used a turntable to play Dad’s old vinyl records — no Internet required.
“Where are you going?” he yells, looking up from the giant columnar paper spreadsheet he is working on.
“I’m going to drive into town where I can use my mobilenet card to actually connect,” I yell back at him. “I’ve got assignments due that can only be completed online.”
I stomp out of the house and fling myself into my rusty Ford Escort wagon. The engine stutters, then comes to life. It sounds like it is trying to miss on one cylinder. My poor car is long overdue for a tune up, needs tires, and could definitely use an oil change.
I could have asked James or Mom and Dad for a loan to get an overhaul or even a new vehicle, but I don’t want to be dependent, especially now. The late spring rains are making a mess of the winter wheat and delaying spring planting of just about everything else. So I put-putted into Olathe where my mobile Internet connection could get a signal.
I pull into the Grocery and Farm Exchange parking lot and find place along the side of the building where I wasn’t being blinded by the afternoon sun or chilled by the cold rain.
I plug my so-called solar generator into the cigarette lighter outlet. It is really just a rechargeable battery set up with outlets and charging ports that could work off a solar panel or cigarette lighter. Since the late April sun is behind a cloud bank, cigarette lighter is the only option.
I lock the doors, turn my back to the driver’s side door, stretch my legs out across the seat, and open my laptop.
I buckle down and work steadily, until my mobile connection starts beeping. A message blinks on my laptop:Connection timed out, minutes expired.Followed by another message:No Internet Connection.
I gulp. I still have two classes to go. I could buy more time on the mobile, maybe…I use the store’s free network connection to log into my bank account, then realize that no, I do not have enough money to buy more network time.
I check my phone…no. I’m out of data on it. James will throw a hissy fit if I try to get more.
I draw a deep breath. Well, I am already logged into the store’s customer network…I’ll just keep working.
I am more than halfway through writing the paper for my early childhood psychology class, when someone taps on my window.
Gregory Jones peers in. He is just as handsome as he had been ten years ago, when I was a sophomore and he was a senior. His skin is a warm brown, his eyelashes long and dark, his eyes are large, liquid and dark brown like some shaded forest pool. He kept his curly hair cut short.
I was often the student first-aid assistant at games. When he’d gotten tackled and hit his head on something metal on the edge of the gym, I discovered his curls were soft and fine, almost like a baby’s. I day-dreamed about running my fingers through those curls for weeks after that.
That daydream was right in there with dreams of him ditching Debra Sue and asking me, a lowly sophomore, to go to the Senior prom with him. I would float into his arms, and we would do a sensuous and dreamy tango that would stun everyone with its passion and beauty.
Of course, nothing of the kind ever happened.
Resolutely, I lift my laptop, swing my feet around so I am sitting correctly in the driver’s seat, and place my open laptop on the passenger seat. I hope he will interpret my flaming cheeks as embarrassment or alarm at having someone tap on the glass.
