Daddy Business

Chapter 11: Robbing Cradles

Chapter 11: Robbing Cradles

May 21, Wednesday

“You’ve never liked children, Paul. What’s wrong with you?” Faye said the next morning, enjoying the summertime sun on my rear patio.

The two of us were having blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and coffee. I had spent the last twenty minutes preparing our meal as she chattered about how long it was taking Dugan Brae to recreate a revised set of blueprints with her suggested changes.

“You can’t possibly tell me that you can be attracted to men with children. If so, what’s gotten into you? I thought I knew you better. Children have always been cesspools of unthinkable bacteria to you. Explain yourself.”

“He was adorable,” I said, slicing into a stack of three pancakes.

She giggled. “Who? The father or the son?”

“Both,” I said. “Daddy’s a bit too young for me, though. Matthew’s in his early twenties. I’m pretty sure he just graduated from high school a few years ago.”

“Cradles are meant to be robbed, darling,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Sometimes age doesn’t matter.”

“It would never work. I’m going on forty, and he hasn’t even hit twenty-five. We are from two different worlds.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, old man.”

I gave her a disdainful frown. “Eat your pancakes. Do I have to feed them to you? If I remember correctly, we’re around the same age.”

“You’re a spindly b***h. How dare you call me old.”

I laughed, taking in the morning warmth and blue skies. The view looked somewhat lax, but normal. The Monongahela swirled an ugly brown in the distance. Apple, oaks, and maple trees decorated the sloping yard. The grass had grown ankle high, and the small vegetable garden to our left hadn’t been tended since early May. Frankly, I didn’t mind working in the front and back yards. Other chores seemed more important, though: lesson plans for my classes, tidying up the Tudor, preparing meals, and watching shows on the History Channel.

Faye said, “I’m hiring someone to work your yard. There’s nothing remotely nice about it.”

“There’s no reason for you to hire someone. I’ll take a Sunday and get to work on it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Paul.”

We chatted for another half hour while eating. Eventually, her strange friend, Harold Reisner, pulled her away, and she apologized that she had to leave.

“Harold has a wine event to attend this afternoon, and he’d like it if I went with him.”

I cut to the chase and asked in a rather dogmatic tone, “When is that strange bird going to call you his girlfriend?”

“Labels are needless for adults,” she said.

“He’s told you that too many times. Do you consider him your boyfriend?”

“I do.”

“Then we should start calling him that.”

“He wouldn’t hear of it, Paul. Harold is an expansive thinker. He’s not of the norm. Both you and I know that.”

“It doesn’t mean we can’t call him your boyfriend, even if he doesn’t want to call you his girlfriend.”

She looked down at her cellphone, pressed its screen, and studied the time. “We can talk about this later. I really must run.”

“We will.” I watched her leave as she walked around the Tudor and to the front sidewalk where her Mercedes sat parked.