Chapter Five
Ruby was still asleep when Mrs. Miller arrived the next morning. The woman was not the best babysitter in the world by a long stretch, but at least she was punctual. She walked into the cottage with her black handbag over her shoulder, a lunch box in one hand, a big plaid thermos in the other.
“Good morning,” Kyra said.
“Morning,” Mrs. Miller said and stalked past Kyra on her way to the kitchen. She put her lunch box down on the countertop, opened it, and removed a sandwich and some fruit, which she shoved into the fridge. She turned back to zip up her lunch box and eyed Kyra. “What are you standing there for? Don’t you need to go to work?”
“I do. I wanted to ask if you could keep a close eye on Ruby today.”
Mrs. Miller’s head came up, her expression unhappy. “I always keep an eye on her.”
Well, no, she didn’t, but Kyra didn’t want to argue. “It’s just that she’s been sneaking over to the neighbor’s cottage and he’s not happy about that.” She winced apologetically, and she hated herself for pretending she was imposing on the woman she paid to watch her daughter.
“That sounds like his problem, if you ask me,” Mrs. Miller said with a shrug. She turned away from Kyra, opened a drawer, and took out a spoon. She then opened the cabinet door directly above the drawer, took down the sugar canister, and proceeded to spoon sugar into her thermos as if the conversation was over. And as if she’d bought the sugar. What was that, four spoonfuls?
“Ruby likes to swim,” Kyra suggested.
Mrs. Miller snorted. “What kid doesn’t?” She looked up and locked eyes with Kyra as she stirred her coffee. “You know I raised three boys. This ain’t my first rodeo.”
“No,” Kyra agreed.
Mrs. Miller didn’t say more but continued to slowly stir her coffee, holding Kyra’s gaze, her expression clearly conveying that she would not be trudging down to the beach with a six-year-old in tow. They were facing each other like they were two gunslingers standing in front of the O.K. Corral, and Kyra knew she was not a fast shot. She debated insisting that Mrs. Miller do something with Ruby, but she kept coming back around to the fact that she had someone coming to her house to babysit for thirty bucks a day, and she really needed to go to work, and if she drew her gun first, Mrs. Miller might leave her in a bind.
“Anything else?” Mrs. Miller asked, drawing her gun first. “I don’t want to miss Good Morning America.”
Kyra folded. She smiled and shrugged. “Nope, that’s it. Have a good day.”
She retreated like the coward she was. She picked up her book bag, her perpetually full laundry basket, and her backpack on the way out the door.
The Laundromat didn’t open until eight, and her shift didn’t start until ten. Kyra decided to swing by the Green Bean coffee shop to take her mind off her babysitter woes and knock out some of her required reading for about an hour.
She had a plain coffee—she couldn’t afford the fancy coffees that smelled so good as they went wafting by in the hands of others—and finished up one of the workbook assignments. She was pleased with her progress—until she happened to glance at the clock. “Oh shit,” she murmured. It was a quarter past eight. She gathered up her things in her arms, not even bothering to shove her books into the book bag, and hurried out to her car.
Naturally, her car would choose this morning to decline to start right away. It had been acting up lately, and Kyra didn’t want to think about what was wrong with it or how much it might cost to fix. She was able to coax the engine to life after a few false starts, then sped off to the Laundromat.
As Laundromats went, the Spin and Swim Washeteria was a small one. There were five washers and three dryers, and Kyra was dismayed to see four of the washers in use this morning. An old man in a heavy coat was sitting in one of two orange plastic chairs, reading a newspaper. How could one man take up four washers? She had her work clothes and the soiled clothes of a little girl who changed no less than four times a day.
Kyra didn’t have time to wait; she’d have to use the college kid approach to laundry and shove everything into the remaining washer.
She loaded it up, set it on a short cycle, wincing a little as she thought of the two work shirts that needed some serious attention. Satisfied when the water began to fill the tub, she looked around. There was no other place to sit except beside the man in the heavy coat, so Kyra retreated outside. She figured she had forty-five minutes until the wash was done, and as the morning was beautiful, crisp and clear with a cobalt sky overhead, she decided to take the path down to the lake.
She retrieved her workbook from her car and found a bench, where she sat and finished her reading assignment. She was feeling pretty good about things; this was the most work she’d done on the real estate business in two weeks. At this rate she might be able to get her real estate license before the end of the year.
She kept an eye on the time, and after forty-three minutes, she walked back up the hill to the Laundromat. The old man was still there, but he was now methodically folding clothes from a heap in one of the rolling clothes bins. Kyra grabbed her basket, dumped her wash into it, then moved to the dryers. Two of them were in use. One of them was sitting idle. She opened the door of that one—but discovered it was full of clothes.
She looked at the old man. “Excuse me? Are these yours?”
“Nope,” he said without looking up from his folding.
Then whose clothes were they? This was the sort of thing that drove Kyra nuts—people who had no respect for other people’s time. People who would dump their laundry at the only Laundromat in town, and a tiny one at that, then go off for a round of golf or whatever. Didn’t the idea that someone else might need the dryer ever cross their minds? Wasn’t it an unwritten rule of public Laundromats that if you left your wash unattended, the next person up had a right to move it?
Yes. Yes it was.
Kyra grabbed one of the rolling baskets and began to dump the clothes into it.
She didn’t hear anyone else enter the facility over the sound of the dryers. She didn’t notice anyone else until she felt someone almost at her back and jumped, whirling around—and came face-to-face with the stormy blue eyes of her neighbor, Mr. Bishop. “What are you doing here?” she demanded as she pressed a hand over her racing heart. “Why are you always sneaking up on me?”
“Sneaking up on you?” he echoed incredulously. “I didn’t sneak up on you, I walked in like any normal person and went directly to my dryer, inside of which I find your head.”
She looked at him, then at the armload of damp black T-shirts she was holding. She dropped them in the rolling basket. “These are your clothes?”
He didn’t speak but leveled a withering look on her.
Her heart beat even faster, trapped between indignation and shame. “Well, I’m sorry, but the dryer was finished and I needed one.” Her earlier conviction of being completely justified in removing his clothes was now feeling a little weak.
“You couldn’t wait five minutes?” he asked and grabbed the rolling basket, moving it away from her. “I’m sorry that I caught the light on Main, but it was literally five minutes.”
“I’m in a hurry,” she said and glanced at the clock.
“Oh, you’re in a hurry,” he said. “Then please, allow me to remove my damp clothes from the dryer for you, princess.” He kept his dark gaze on her as he reached into the dryer with one arm and grabbed what remained of his clothes. “I’ll just wait over there until you’re through with the dryer so I can finish my drying.”
“No, go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the dryer. “You finish.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You’re in a hurry.” He turned his back to her, rolling the cart over to the two plastic orange chairs.
Kyra didn’t have time to debate with The Grouch. She threw her laundry into the dryer, deposited her quarters, and started it.
Now she had the problem of what to do while she waited. The Grouch was sitting in the orange chair, his legs splayed in front of him and taking up all available space, his arms folded across his chest. He wasn’t exactly glaring at her, but he was not projecting a friendly let’s start over vibe, either. Kyra self-consciously tucked her hair behind her ear, then ducked—okay, fled—outside.
She stood beside her car; her heart was still racing. She kept checking her watch, waiting for the thirty minutes to pass, and when at last they did, she hurried back inside to claim her clothes.
The Grouch was standing at her dryer, leaning against it with his shoulder. “You’re a minute late,” he said.
Kyra rolled her eyes. “Okay, all right. I said I was sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” He opened the door to the dryer.
She grabbed her things and threw them into her basket while he waited. They were damp—she could have used another round of drying, but she wasn’t about to ask for more time. When she had fished the last of the things from the dryer, she turned to go.
“What about this?” he asked.
She turned around. He was dangling a pair of her panties from his forefinger.
She snatched it from him. “Are you always so grumpy?”
“Yep.” He pulled his basket around and began to stuff his clothes into the dryer.
Kyra made her escape with her damp clothes.
Vincent, the bartender, was the only person in the bistro when Kyra crashed through the back door, fumbling with her time card and her apron at once. “Sorry I’m late. There’s something blocking the road where it meets Juneberry.”
“A food festival,” Vincent said. “Didn’t you see the notice by the time clock?”
“No.”
“You really have to start checking the board, Kyra. Anyway, it’s gonna be a slow shift. Hope you brought your schoolbooks.”
He wasn’t kidding. After Kyra and Deenie, her friend and fellow waiter, set up for lunch service, they mostly stood around, each of them with two tables.
“No one eats indoors on a day like this,” Deenie said as they stood at the bar, watching their diners. “Did you see all the food trucks? I wanna go. Let’s go when our shift ends.”
“Can’t,” Kyra said. “I’ve got to go pay the babysitter.”
“Come on, Kyra. You never go out. You never do anything.”
“That’s because I’ve got a six-year-old daughter at home and only so much money for babysitting.”
“You haven’t even met my new boyfriend,” Deenie said, playfully nudging her with her shoulder.
Kyra couldn’t keep up with all of Deenie’s boyfriends—she went through them regularly. Of course she did—she was cute and sparkly. Kyra hadn’t had a boyfriend since Ruby was born. She’d had a couple of dates, both of them bowing out when they learned she had a daughter. Kyra didn’t hold it against them—they were young men, not ready for a family, not ready to babysit. She got that. But that didn’t mean she didn’t feel a little sorry for herself from time to time. She would love a nice dinner out. She would love to go to happy hour for a drink. She would love to have sex. Just sex. No-holds-barred, no-strings-attached sex.
“Isn’t there anyone you’d like to date?” Deenie asked.
Kyra laughed. “I don’t know anyone to date. I don’t know any guys in East Beach. Well, except my neighbor, and he, as it turns out, is a grumpy asshole.”
“Brandon has a friend,” Deenie suggested.
Kyra looked at her.
“You could get a babysitter,” Deenie said, suddenly excited about the idea.
“Babysitters cost money. And Mrs. Miller won’t babysit past six. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“At least think about it. Phil is really cute.”
“Maybe,” Kyra said. “But if business keeps up like this, I won’t be able to feed my kid, much less afford a babysitter,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at their four tables.
“No kidding,” Deenie said and went out to check on her diners.
Two hours later, Kyra arrived home with a mere twenty-seven dollars in her pocket. She scrounged around in her backpack and the cup holder for more. She found a dollar in the side pocket of the car door, some loose change in the cup holder she hadn’t used for laundry this morning. The lesson here, she decided, was that sometimes it was a good idea to shove all the laundry into one washing machine.
She was still fifty cents short, however, and she leaned over to look under the seat for loose change. She stuck her arm under as far as it would go but touched only dirt and crumbs, some paper, a straw, and one of the thousands of cheap plastic toys that showed up in every kid’s meal from a fast-food joint.
She sat up halfway, then remembered she had thrown some change into the glove box. She stretched across the center console and popped the glove box open, and there found one dollar and forty-four cents. “Yes,” she said under her breath and gathered up the loose change.
She sat up, shoved her hair back with one hand, then reached for the door handle to open it—and screeched with surprise. Grumpy Gus was standing outside, his arms folded, his weight on one hip, impatiently waiting for her.
Kyra muttered a few curse words under her breath then opened the door, shoving so hard that the grouch had to take a step backward. “You seriously have to stop sneaking up on me!” she said loudly as she got out of her car.
“How am I sneaking up on you when I walk across the lawn in clear view?” he asked calmly. “It’s not my fault if you’re oblivious to your surroundings.”
The screen door slammed, and Mrs. Miller came hurrying down the stairs, her black bag slung over her shoulder, her thermos and lunch bag in one hand. “Oh, by the way,” she said, marching toward Kyra. “This guy says Ruby’s been next door again.”
“Are you kidding?” Kyra didn’t know if she was madder at Mrs. Miller or Ruby. Either way, she was starting to feel the jaws of defeat squeezing her over this battle of the fence.
“No one is kidding,” Grump said. “Your daughter brought me the breaking news that she pooped twice today.” His brows went up, as if that was somehow wrong of her.
“Hi, Mommy!”
And to complete the picture, here was Ruby with paint smeared on her face. “Okay, all right, I’ll talk to her,” Kyra said.
“I don’t want to butt into your business—” he started.
“Then don’t—” she snapped.
“But it looks like the talking isn’t working.”
That remark was as maddening as it was true. “Will you just give me a minute?” she demanded, flustered now. She would really, seriously, like to come home from work and not run into him. “Ruby, you’re grounded.”
“What? Why?” she wailed, already crying.
“You know why,” Kyra said and opened the back door to get the laundry. “I’ve told you more than once you are not to go and bother Mr. . . .” Grump . . .”
“Bishop,” he muttered.
“Bishop,” she repeated loudly. “Go inside. We’ll talk about this in a minute.”
“Mommy!” Ruby wailed.
“Go,” Kyra said, pointing at the cottage. Ruby turned around and ran, sobbing wildly. Or rather, trying to sob wildly.
Mrs. Miller watched Ruby go into the house, then turned back to Kyra. “Got my money?”
“Right,” Kyra said and dropped the laundry basket. She handed Mrs. Miller a ten, a five, thirteen ones, and two dollars in change.
Mrs. Miller stared at the change Kyra had put in her palm.
“It was the best I could do today,” Kyra said.
Mrs. Miller was frowning when she lifted her gaze. “I don’t like change, Carrie.”
“It’s Kyra,” she said impatiently. “Can you please take it this once?”
Mrs. Miller pursed her lips and stared down at the change. “This once,” she said curtly, and walked on without so much as good night.
Kyra and Grumpy Gus watched her get in her truck. As the thing roared to life, he shifted his gaze to Kyra and said, “I didn’t mean for you to yell at the kid.”
“Oh no?” Kyra asked and stooped down to pick up the laundry. “Then what did you mean? As you said, talking wasn’t working.”
He looked uncomfortable. He squinted toward her cottage. “It’s just that I work over there, and I’ve got a lot of equipment.”
“Uh-huh. Is there anything else?”
He rubbed his nape and looked at the cottage again, where Ruby’s wails could plainly be heard. Which, of course, was exactly what Ruby intended. But The Grouch winced as if those cries pained him. Amateur.
“No. Nothing else,” he said.
“Great. If you don’t mind, I’ve got some scolding to do,” Kyra said and walked on.
She stepped into the cottage, dropped the laundry on the faded couch, and said, “Cut it out, Ruby.”
Ruby was lying facedown on the floor. “You hurt my feelings!” she shouted, and cried again.
“I’m going to hurt more than your feelings if you don’t stop that wailing,” Kyra said wearily. “Come on, cut it out. I’ve had a long day.” She walked into the kitchen, noticed cookies cooling on the counter. She sat down on a kitchen chair and rubbed her face a moment. When she looked up, Ruby had crept to the kitchen door, half-hidden behind the wall, and was peeking at Kyra with one eye.
“Did you and Mrs. Miller make these?” Kyra asked.
“Mrs. Miller let me do it.”
“Nice,” Kyra said. “Come pick them up and put them on the plate.” She stood up, opened the fridge, and began to look around for something to make for dinner.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.” Ruby sniffed as she gathered the cookies.
“I’m sorry, too, for yelling at you. But sometimes sorry isn’t enough, Ruby. I want to believe you are really sorry. Except that you told me you were sorry before, and that you weren’t going over to our neighbor’s house anymore. And then you did.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Ruby insisted. “I forgot.”
“Well, you disobeyed me. What should your punishment be?”
Ruby looked up, seriously considering Kyra’s question. “No TV?”
Kyra folded her arms. “Do you think that’s fair?”
Ruby nodded.
“Okay. No TV tomorrow.”
Ruby’s bottom lip began to quiver.
“Do you think you will remember not to go over there?”
Ruby nodded again.
God, it was hard to look at her little crestfallen face. Kyra knelt down and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Sometimes it’s really hard to be six, isn’t it?”
“It’s really hard,” Ruby agreed.
Kyra kissed her cheek, then stood up. She noticed a movement out the window. It was The Grouch, of course, stalking around the back of his cottage, his dog trailing behind him. She watched him pick up some long planks of wood and carry them into the shed. A moment later he appeared again, picked up more wood, and stepped inside the shed again.
“You know what, Ruby? I have an idea. Let’s go tell Mr. Bishop that we are sorry. Maybe we can take him some of the cookies you made.”
“Yeah!” Ruby said eagerly.
Kyra found some plastic wrap, and she and Ruby packaged a half dozen of the cookies. She twisted the wrap around the cookies like a Tootsie Roll, and then together she and Ruby tied red ribbon on either end. Kyra took Ruby’s hand, and with the cookies in the other, they went outside, down the porch, and walked to the fence.
The Grouch had set up two sawhorses and had braced one of the planks of wood across it and was busy sawing away with a handsaw. Beneath the plank lay the dog, his tail thumping on the ground as he watched Kyra and Ruby walk up to the fence.
They waited until The Grouch had finished sawing the plank.
“Excuse me?” Kyra called.
He glanced up. And frowned. And then straightened, eyeing them with suspicion as his dog stood up, stretched long, and then trotted over to the fence to inspect. Ruby immediately dipped down to pet the dog through the fence railings.
“We brought you a peace offering,” Kyra said and held up the package of cookies.
“A what?”
“A peace offering!” she said louder. The dog stuck his head through the railing to sniff Kyra’s pants, then began to lick them, much to Ruby’s delight.
Grumpy Grouchy Gus didn’t move, just stood there staring at Kyra. Well, clearly, this had been a mistake. Try to do something nice and look where it gets you. “Look, if you don’t want it, that’s cool,” she said. “But my arm is getting tired.”
“What is it?” he asked warily.
“Big cyanide tablets.”
He looked startled, and Kyra couldn’t help but laugh. “They’re cookies,” she said. “Ruby made them today.”
“All by myself!” Ruby chirped.
The Grouch began to move toward the fence in a manner one might use to approach a coiled snake. He peered at the package of cookies she was holding. “What for?”
“Don’t you know what a peace offering is?” Kyra asked.
“I know what it is,” Ruby said. “It’s when you say you don’t want to fight anymore.”
He frowned down at Ruby. “Were we fighting?”
“No.”
“What we mean to say is that we are very sorry for being so annoying. Isn’t that right, Ruby?”
“Yes,” she said, punctuating that with an emphatic nod.
“And we’re going to try really hard to do better,” Kyra added. “Aren’t we, Ruby?” she asked, looking pointedly at her daughter.
Ruby nodded emphatically again, her pigtails bouncing, her eyes big and blue and earnest, and Kyra felt a shock of love for Ruby spark through her.
“Well . . . okay,” Grouchy Grump said. “I accept your apology.” But he looked uncertainly at the cookies.
Kyra poked him with the package. “Don’t be scared. They’re not poisoned, I promise.”
He gave her a dubious look, but he gingerly took the cookies from her. “Thanks,” he said shyly. “I appreciate it.”
“Can Otto come and play?” Ruby asked.
“No!” Kyra said at the exact same moment The Grump said no. They looked at each other, startled. And then something miraculous happened. The Grumpy Grouchy Goat smiled. It was a faint smile, and lopsided, but above it his storm cloud eyes lit up like a rainbow. Another shock went through her, but this was of a much stronger and fierier variety. “Well,” she said, her gaze on Grump as she groped around for Ruby’s hand. “Enjoy. Come on, pumpkin, it’s time for us to go.”
“Is it time for an adult beverage?” Ruby asked.
Kyra could feel herself color and laughed a little hysterically. “You’re a silly goose! It’s just time to go,” she said, dragging Ruby backward. “Okay, well . . . see you around,” she said.
Her neighbor didn’t say anything. He watched them go, still looking suspicious. But just as they reached the drive, Kyra heard a low, “Thanks again.”
She kept walking, her back still to him, but she lifted her hand and waved to acknowledge she’d heard it, then herded her daughter up the steps and into the house.
“Mommy, what’s funny?” Ruby asked, looking up at her.
“Funny?” Kyra asked.
“You’re smiling,” Ruby said, peering at her as if she were viewing a rare woodland creature.
“Am I? I didn’t know that. Come on, let’s figure out what’s for supper,” Kyra said and kept smiling as she returned to the fridge to resume the search for something fast and easy.