Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5) Read online

  I pulled on my gloves and bobbed my head back and forth. “So-so. She convinced the kids to taste the PTC strip, but can’t get them to eat the broccoli.” Grace was trying to determine how many of the children in her second grade class were “super tasters,” meaning more sensitive to certain foods than the rest of the population.

  “Well, let me know if you need any help.”

  “I appreciate the offer.”

  “I’m not being altruistic.” His dark eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, a display of pointed sincerity. “I’d do almost anything for another of your roast chicken dinners.”

  My grin widened. “Then why don’t you come over and help Grace with her science fair project on Saturday? I was planning to make roast chicken anyway.”

  Matt nodded before I’d finished making the offer. “I accept,” he blurted as the elevator dinged, as though marking his acceptance rather than our arrival to the lobby. We both laughed and filed out, parting ways at the entrance to the building after another few minutes of small talk.

  Despite the distraction of nerdy and nice Professor Simmons, I was soon stewing in my discontent again. I stewed as I catalogued the inhabitants of the train, making note of threat likelihood, the location of exit points, and potential weapons. One man near the end of the train was holding an umbrella tucked under his arm; this was odd because it was snowing, not raining.

  I kept my eyes on him when the train stopped—still stewing in my earlier frustration—and watched him as we both departed. When we exited the train station, he opened the umbrella and turned left. Apparently he didn’t want any snowflakes to fall on his waterproof nylon jacket.

  Delores Day’s Dance Studio was on the third floor of a mixed-use brownstone, and I arrived on time. Several mothers, fathers, and nannies—all of which I recognized—were crowded around the door between the practice room and the waiting area. Kids, mostly little girls in tight buns, pink leotards, and stockings, skipped out of the classroom to their caregivers.

  I nodded and smiled, chitchatted with the gathered parents about nothing in particular, and craned my neck for a glimpse of my munchkins. When they didn’t appear after a few minutes, I excused myself from the circle of adults wrangling their own children and poked my head into the classroom. Grace was sitting on the floor trying to tie her snow boots and waved at me immediately; Jack was sitting on a bench in front of a piano. His back was to me, and he appeared to be in deep conversation with their ballet teacher. Miss Delores Day was eighty, at least, and in better shape than most thirty-year-olds I knew. She was also sassier than most thirty-year-olds I knew.

  Letting the door close behind me, I crossed the room, the sound of my footsteps drawing Delores’s and Jack’s attention. The older woman gave me a broad smile and glided to meet me halfway across the room with the grace of a life-long dancer.

  “Mrs. Archer.”

  “Please, call me Fiona.” I waved away the formality, my attention moving between Jack and his teacher. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Everything is excellent. Jack was filling in for Mrs. St. Claire again. He is such a dear boy. A disinterested dancer, but a dear boy.”

  “Filling in?” I frowned at Delores then looked to Jack for a clue; he wasn’t looking at me, his dark eyes were affixed to the keys of the instrument and I noted his cheeks were red. “Doesn’t Mrs. St. Claire provide the piano accompaniment?”

  “That’s right. He has a real gift, though he’s a bit rusty on the “Dance of the Four Swans.” More practicing at home should straighten all that out. Now, I do want to talk to you about—”

  “Wait, hold on.” I held my hands up to keep her from continuing. “I think one of us is confused. Jack doesn’t play the piano. He doesn’t play any instruments.”

  Delores squinted at me, as though she didn’t understand my words. “What was that, dear?”

  “Jack doesn’t play the piano.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Well then he does a good job of pretending to play Tchaikovsky.”

  “Wha-what?” Why was it suddenly hot in the dance studio?

  I turned my confused frown to my son and found him watching me with a gaze too much like Greg’s. His face was angelic, but his eyes held a hint of devilry and guilt.

  “Jack?” I appealed to him. “What’s this all about?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been messing around a little.” I didn’t miss how his fingers stroked the white keys of the piano with affection.

  “Messing around?” Delores and I asked in unison.

  “My dear boy, one does not mess around with Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.” Delores straightened her spine and sniffed in his direction, as though he’d offended her.

  “When? Where?” My head was swimming and I needed to lean against something sturdy. I walked to the upright piano and placed a hand on it.

  He shrugged again. “Here. At school. At Professor Simmons’s.”

  “Have you been getting piano lessons? At school?”

  “No. But Ms. Pastizo lets me in the chorus room during lunch.”

  “Ms. Pastizo lets you in the chorus room . . . ?” I repeated. I was so confused. Jack was only eight, never had a music lesson, never—to my knowledge—displayed any interest in music or taking lessons. I glanced between him and the instrument. “Play something, please.”

  He swallowed, his gaze wide and watchful . . . and wary. “I still want to play soccer.”

  “What?”

  “If I have to choose between music and soccer, I want to play soccer.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I promised you, you can play soccer this spring and I will keep my promise.” My gaze flickered to Delores, who was now watching us with dawning comprehension.

  “He’s never had a lesson.” She made this statement to the room rather than to any one of its inhabitants, and with no small amount of wonder and awe.

  Her wonder and awe made me nervous. “Jack, play Tchaikovsky. Play the Dance of the Six Ducks.”

  “The Dance of the Four Swans,” Delores provided gently, coming to stand next to me.

  “Yes. That one.” I knew nothing about Tchaikovsky’s music other than what I heard on the local NPR classical radio station. I couldn’t believe my young son was capable of playing chopsticks, let alone anything so complicated.

  Jack narrowed his eyes with protest, so I narrowed mine with warning. My mom-glare must’ve been sufficiently threatening because he sighed loudly and placed his hands on the keys. He gave one more dramatic sigh before his eyes lost focus and he began playing.

  And ohmydearGodinheaven, my son was playing the Jig of the Even Numbered Birds by Tchaikovsky. And he was playing it well. Remarkably well. Without sheet music. My jaw dropped and I covered my open mouth with shaking fingers.

  “Oh my God.”

  Delores’s hand closed over my shoulder and I turned my gaze to hers. She was smiling at me, a knowing smile, an elated smile. And it terrified me.

  “He’s never had a lesson?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you know what this means.”

  I shook my head again—faster this time—not because I didn’t know what his spontaneous piano playing meant, but because I didn’t want her to say it.

  “How lovely,” she said, obviously not understanding the ramifications of her next words, “Jack is a prodigy.”

  ***

  “You have to take a bath.”

  “But the water is wet.”

  “That’s the point of water.”

  “Can’t I take a sand bath?”

  I looked to the heavens beyond the ceiling of our apartment. “What are you talking about?”

  “Jack says people who live in the desert take sand baths.” Grace’s little voice adopted an accusatory edge, as though I’d been keeping this vital piece of information from her. As though I’d been needlessly subjecting her to the horror of wet baths for the last five y
ears, like some sort of barbarian water-pusher.

  “We don’t live in the desert. We live in snowy Chicago, where water abounds—not sand.”

  I heard the distinct ring of my cell phone over the rush of the faucet and Grace’s protests.

  “But—”

  “No. No more arguing, Grace. Get in the bath.”

  “But—”

  “If I have to tell you one more time to get in the bath . . .” I turned to leave, rubbing my forehead, the sharp spike of pain radiating from my temples. If Greg were here he’d know how to get Grace into the bath without a fight. He was the master of convincing our children to brush their teeth and go to bed on time, all the while making everything fun.

  Greg hardly ever being home meant it was only me who was failing miserably at convincing my children personal hygiene was important.

  Out of nowhere I was overwhelmed by a sense of longing for my husband, a need so visceral I had to stop for a second and lean against the wall, close my eyes to rein in my emotions. I wished Greg were home. I wished for him all the time.

  I quickly banished the wish. He was where he needed to be. Doing good work, making a difference in the world, providing for his family. Wishing only served to make me sad. I didn’t have time to be sad.

  I needed to stay focused.

  “I don’t want a bath—”

  “GRACE, GET IN THE BATH!”

  “Fine,” she grumbled to my back. Then I heard her pathetic wail, “I hate baths!”

  And I hated yelling at my children.

  I inwardly cringed as I left the bathroom and jogged to the living room. I swallowed the lump of regret in my throat as I searched for my phone. My head was full of too many thoughts, none of which brought any clarity. The fire ants had been joined by bees. The bees brought their viscous honey, slowing all processes to a virtual halt.

  Shell-shocked after what I’d discovered about Jack this afternoon, I’d ushered the kids out of the dance studio and gone through the motions of escorting the children home, making their dinner, and assisting with homework. As usual, I argued with Grace about taking her bath and I negotiated with Jack to a half hour of playing Minecraft, and only after reading one of his chapter books for a full hour.

  It was a typical evening in the Archer household: Just the three of us, me tripping over little shoes, Grace preferring dirty to clean, and Jack complaining about the distressing lack of pizza on his plate.

  Except my heart was heavy with worry and my head was pounding.

  I swiped my thumb across the screen of my cell phone after identifying the caller as our babysitter; my worried heart sank further. “Hi Jennifer. What’s up?”

  “Hi Fiona, this is Jennifer’s mom. I am so sorry but she can’t babysit tomorrow night or take the kids in the morning. We just got back from the doctor’s and she has strep throat.”

  “Oh goodness!” I dropped to the couch, rubbing my forehead with my fingers, more worry rising in my throat. I would have to find an alternate babysitter for the next night. A member of my knitting group, my good friend Ashley Winston—nurse and book worm—was moving to Tennessee.

  Our close-knit band of friends had planned a going-away party for her, scheduled for tomorrow night. I’d made the cake. I’d spent all morning on it, toasting mountains of coconut for the special meringue frosting. But the real issue was Jennifer had babysat two days prior. “Well, I hope she’s okay.”

  “The antibiotics should do the trick. You might want to keep an eye on Grace and Jack. The doctor said she might have been contagious for the last few days.”

  I nodded, her warning an echo to my thoughts. “I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks. And about tomorrow morning, I am so sorry. I know this is bad timing.”

  It was bad timing. Jennifer was supposed to wake the kids and take them to school so I could be at the hospital by 6:00 a.m. I had an early morning MRI scheduled, part of my once-every-two-years tumor screening. I was going on sixteen years in remission, but I’d been having headaches recently, headaches I hadn’t given myself permission to think about.

  I had too many other things to think about.

  “Don’t worry about it. I hope Jennifer feels better soon.”

  After a few additional pleasantries, I ended the call as another of Grace’s wails sailed through the apartment. “Why can’t we live in the desert?”

  I huffed a frustrated laugh and shook my head, collapsing back against the cushions. First things first, I needed to leave a message with the hospital about rescheduling my MRI. Then I would go through my list of alternate babysitters and try to find a replacement for Ashley’s going-away party. Then I would pour myself a Julia Child-sized glass of wine—so, the entire bottle—and wrangle my adorable children who I loved (I do, I love them, I love them . . . I do, truly) through their bedtime routine.

  Then and only then would I sort out what to do about Jack’s miraculous musical acumen.

  I dialed the hospital and was immediately placed on hold. While I waited, a knock on the front door pulled me from the classic rock wait music, specifically, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” But before I could stand from the sofa, Jack bolted from his room.

  “I’ll get it!”

  “No, you will not get it.” I was hot on his heels and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking? You don’t answer the door without asking first. You know that.”

  “But it’s Professor Simmons.”

  “How do you know it’s Professor Simmons?”

  “Because he said he was going to bring me his space atlas.”

  “When was this?” I stepped in front of Jack and peeked through the peephole. Sure enough, it was Professor Matthew Simmons.

  “Yesterday. When we came home from school, remember?”

  Nonplussed, I frowned as I opened the door. I didn’t remember. Well, I remembered seeing Matty yesterday morning, but I didn’t remember any conversation about a space atlas.

  “Peona.” Matty nodded his head at me in an efficient greeting, his use of the nickname inspiring a wave of nostalgia. I was pretty sure I’d never be able to look at him without seeing the toddler he used to be. Of course, since he was always wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt—no matter the time of day—it was difficult for me to see him as anything other than a big kid.

  Matty pulled a large, hardbound book from under his arm and presented it to Jack. “Jack, the promised space atlas.”

  Jack grabbed it from Matty, his eyes wide and excited. “Whoa! Thanks!”

  The peculiar professor grinned at my son’s enthusiasm. “No problem at all.”

  I stepped to the side and motioned with my hand. “Won’t you come in? I’m sure Jack would appreciate a tour of the atlas.”

  Matty didn’t hesitate and quickly stepped into our apartment. “Sure, just for a bit. I don’t suppose you have any leftovers from dinner?”

  “Oh good Lord! You are a food addict.”

  “No, I’m a good food addict. And you make good food.”

  I shut the door behind him and gave him an indulgent smile. “We had spare ribs, twice-baked potatoes, and broccoli for dinner. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

  “Twice-baked potatoes!? Good God, woman.” His eyes bulged, he didn’t need to be told twice. Matty quickly shuffled by me and sprinted for the kitchen.

  Meanwhile, Jack was already on the carpet in the living room, flipping through the massive pages of the atlas. “This is so cool.”

  I heard the fridge open and close, the telltale sounds of jars and dishes rattling as he rummaged. “Are you sure I can have anything in here? Anything at all?” Matty called from the kitchen.

  “Yes, help yourself.” My eyes snagged on a pile of mail I must’ve left forgotten on the coffee table yesterday. I frowned at it, feeling rising frustration at my increasing forgetfulness.

  “Anything? Anything at all? Even the ca—”

  “Go for it, but don’t make a mess in the kitchen. Use a paper
plate,” I interrupted, responding absentmindedly, flipping through the mail and relieved when I found it all to be advertisements and credit card offers.

  “Your kitchen is so clean, it sparkles,” Matty marveled, and I heard the fridge close. “How do you do that?”

  Of course he hadn’t seen the kitchen yesterday. Yesterday it was a disaster deserving of a biohazard warning. I’d spent all day yesterday and this morning picking up, cleaning, and doing laundry. It was my only chance to get the place straightened up before my Tuesday night knitting group descended. It was my week to host.

  Now I just had to keep it clean for the next week . . .

  “What’s an alabeado?” Jack struggled to pronounce.

  “Albedo,” I corrected as I stood and walked to the shredding bin. “It’s an attribute measurement, the reflective property of an object that isn’t a source of light. Right, Matty?”

  “More or less,” Matty said as he shuffled back into the living room, his words garbled as he was obviously trying to talk over a mouthful of food.

  I smirked as I lifted my eyes from the shredding, but then the smile fell away and a cold panic hit me in the chest when I saw what he was eating.

  It was cake.

  It was Ashley’s cake.

  He was eating Ashley’s cake!

  Jack must’ve looked up and noticed the contents of Matty’s plate as well, because he gasped loudly then said, “Ooooohhhh! You are in soooooo much trouble!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Dear Husband,

  You are my home. Which is astounding, since I've never really had one before. I didn't even know the meaning before you walked into my life. You give me things I never even knew I was missing.

  -Morgan

  Letter

  Iowa, USA

  Married 4 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  The fire ants in my brain were back. My face must’ve communicated my despair because the look on Matty’s face and his rush of words were effusively apologetic. “Oh no. I am so sorry, I’m so, so sorry! You said anything in the fridge and I love coconut and . . . oh shit, this is fucking fantastic cake.”