Mrs Right Read online

  “Oh joy.” Her words came out so dryly they almost turned to dust. She was going to love this job.

  “Six sharp.”

  She wiggled her fingers at her new boss, trying to remember to be thankful for this godsend. At least her stomach was full, even if she could still taste the grease from the hotdog. “Ta ta. Till tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  Race pretended not to notice his newest employee’s sexy exit. That’s all he needed--a prima donna on staff. If she could get over her I’m better-than-thou complex, she might actually make a decent employee. At least she was bright.

  A quick glance at her resume assured him she had better than rudimentary computer skills. He had no doubts she’d put the first person in their place that tried to give her any grief. He couldn’t help smiling at the vision that popped into his mind of her dealing with a pushy customer.

  Hitching up his pant legs, he rose to his full height. He couldn’t leave the store unattended plus he had to stock the freezer, sweep the parking lots, change the gas prices which entailed climbing the ladder, and run the closing reports. He couldn’t wait until his promotion to district manager came through so he could have more civilized duties and hours and be home with Steve in the evenings.

  The following day, he picked his son up from school, wishing they had more time together. It was bad enough the boy didn’t have a mother.

  Seven-year old Steven had inherited his mother’s red hair and freckles. The boy skipped out of school, a huge grin plastered on his impish face. His carrot top stood out in the crowd. His book bag hung off one shoulder haphazardly. Unzipped and stuffed with papers, the bag looked in danger of losing its contents.

  “Hey, kiddo. How goes it?” Race turned the radio off so he could talk to the child in these few precious, stolen moments before he had to leave for work.

  Steve gave his dad a high five and then slammed the car door behind him and buckled in. “I learned to write my name in cursive today. Wanna see when we get home?” Large, uneven gaps spanned his crooked teeth. He’d need braces soon.

  Race maneuvered out of the school zone and then headed southwest, the sunlight’s glare harsh in his eyes. Squinting, he asked, “Any notes from the teacher or principal today?” He held his breath.

  A sheepish grin replaced Steve’s happy smile and he clutched his book bag to his chest. He stuck his bottom lip out. “Nooooooo.”

  Race knew that tone of voice and that expression too well. He bit back a sigh and tried not show fear or dismay. “So, you were on green all day? Any old notes you didn’t show me or Gramma yet?”

  Steve studied the door as if deciding to jump out or stay and face his father. He crossed his arms over his chest and thrust out his jaw. Freckles brightened and popped out on his nose. “Patrick started it! He threw a rock at me first.”

  Indignation warred with concern. “Did the rock hit you?” The kid hadn’t come home bloodied, bruised, or scraped up, but he hadn’t checked under his hair or clothes. Since his mother had died, he’d gotten into several scrapes. One of his school counselors had suggested psychiatric counseling. Race really hated to put such a stigma on the boy who had been through more heartache than any young boy should have to bear, but he was beginning to think the counselor was right. Steve needed help. He couldn’t be allowed to go on this way. Race couldn’t take much more.

  Steve fidgeted and bounced around in his seat. His hazel eyes rimmed with a darker brown so much like his mother’s, widened in his urchin face. “It was all Butch’s fault! He almost got me in the eye. That stupid rock would’ve blinded me for sure.”

  Race dreaded the answer to his next question, torn about whether to champion his son in case it was the entire truth this time, or to scold him for getting into another brawl. He needed more info. “So what’d you do?”

  He turned into his driveway and did a double take when he spied a flock of tacky pink plastic flamingoes perched smack dab in the middle of his freshly mowed lawn. He double-checked the house address to make sure it was his home, and that he’d not had a seizure and driven to the wrong residence.

  He was horrified to find he was at the right place, having preferred a seizure to this monstrosity. Groaning, he cut the ignition and opened his door. “Out with it, young man.” The kid wasn’t going to get off the hook easily. Nor would the person responsible for the tacky lawn décor. “Did you throw rocks back? Did you do anything to start this?”

  Steve shuffled his feet, hung his head, and swung his book bag. He mumbled something unintelligible and played with the zipper.

  The zipping noise drove Race batty. “Louder, son.” He collared the boy by his neck and escorted him inside the house. “Well?”

  “Da-a-ad! Why won’t you believe me?”

  When Race continued to stare unflinchingly at him, Steve hung his head and finally admitted, “I kicked him and then he slugged me. I slugged him back and then he started throwing rocks at me.” Steve dumped his book bag on the couch and then plopped next to it and defiantly kicked his feet up on the coffee table.

  “How are my favorite boys?” Race’s mother breezed into the room, her voice chipper and singsong, her step light and airy. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a 1950’s sitcom, her dark hair short and coifed, her sunshiny yellow dress full skirted and belted at the waist, and butterfly framed glasses perched on her nose. “There’s milk and cookies on the table.” She kissed Steve on the cheek, and then pinched his other cheek. She lifted his feet off the coffee table and dropped them to the carpeted floor. “We’re not horses so don’t put your feet on the furniture.”

  “Wow! Dad only makes me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Or cheese and ketchup.” Steve bolted for the table, no trace of his sullenness remaining.

  Race stared at his child and shook his head disbelievingly. Apparently freshly home baked cookies could cure all.

  “They’re your favorites.” Marlene dragged Race to the table. “Chocolate oatmeal.” She pulled out a chair for him and patted it.

  Race’s mouth watered, but he had to go to work. “I really can’t, Ma. I’m due at the station in twenty-five minutes.” He noticed his furniture had been rearranged, including Edie’s prize piano. His favorite bookshelves and chairs were missing in action. His stomach lurched and his brows pinched together. “I liked things as they were. Why’d you move them? Where are my bookshelves?” He needed things in those shelves. “And what’s the deal with the yard décor? No one puts flamingoes out in the yard anymore.” Except in the retirement communities. Marlene’s lower lip trembled and her gaze veered out the front window to where her plastic birds stood. “It’s Florida. I thought you’d like them. The yard was so plain.” She strolled to the center of the living room. “There was much too much furniture cluttering up the room. Edie would roll over in her grave if she could see how her men were living in such a cluttered house. If only I lived closer. If only you’d moved back home after she died three years ago, like I begged you, I could help you all the time. Feng shui says…. ”

  Race scratched his head, following her. No way would he move back home and let her rule their lives and drive them crazy. He was a widower but he hadn’t had a lobotomy. Much as he loved her, he could only be around her for a couple days before he had to escape or lose his mind. She was a nag and a worrier, for all that she meant well. He supposed he should feel lucky that he’d been able to manage without help for so long--until his assistant manager had left him in the lurch without enough warning to quickly find a qualified replacement. “Feng what?”

  Marlene rolled her eyes and shot her don’t-you-silly-men-know-anything look at him. “Feng Shui. It’s Japanese. Less is better. Simple is desirable. I boxed up all those dusty books cluttering up the room and gave your shelves to that nice Mr. Petersen next door.”

  Race’s anger boiled up and he inhaled deeply and counted to ten slowly. He kept reminding himself that she meant well, that she was just trying to help, that he had asked her to help.
Calming himself as much as he could, he bit his tongue and sank into his favorite recliner that luckily remained. When he could trust himself to speak civilly, he said, “I need my books handy. I had important documents in there. You can’t go redecorating and giving stuff away without asking me. Or sticking plastic eyesores on my lawn.”

  Well, maybe not so civilly. He wanted to kick himself.

  Marlene blinked back tears and sniffled, dabbing her nose with her ever-present hankie. “I was just trying to be a good mother. I guess you two men don’t really need me here.” She spun on her high heel. “I’ll just go pack my things and get out of your hair. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Panic assailed Race. But guilt struck him harder, right in the core of his heart. God knew he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, to throw her help back in her face. He was just so extremely frustrated. Heaven knew he desperately needed her help to care for Steve until the company hired an assistant to help him at the station. Jumping to his feet, he hugged his mother. “Please stay, Ma. I’m sorry. I’m just used to being a bachelor and making the rules around here.” He spotted a gaudy lace doily atop his TV and even gaudier silk flowers displayed on the doily, and he choked back a groan.

  Marlene hugged him and patted his back. “Apology accepted.”

  She sauntered to the kitchen as she dried the last of her tears and beamed at Steve who chowed down on his snack. “It’s time you remarry and give your son a mother. Mr. Petersen has a very pretty daughter I think would be perfect for you.”

  Giggly Inga? “Inga’s not my type.” He blessed his mother for having laid out his uniform on his bed as seconds counted even as he grimaced at her idea of a perfect woman.

  He picked up the underwear and they were as stiff as a board. His scowl deepened and he scrunched them up in his fist to put some life back into them. The stupid thing was starched. Upon further inspection, every piece of clothing had been heavily starched--including the socks! He tossed the underwear and socks in his laundry hamper and pulled open his garment drawer, and horrified, stopped dead and stared openmouthed. All his underwear and socks had been starched. He took out a pair of each and balled them up to loosen the starch. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered under his breath. His mother would give him a nervous breakdown within a month. His fingers itched to telephone his dad and plead with him to call his mother home to Phoenix tonight.

  Race scowled. He couldn’t do that. Who would watch Steve until the store’s assistant manager, Nanette, returned from vacation and he was back to his normal day shift? She’d been called away on a family emergency that could take months and unfortunately, the company was short on trained, qualified managers and assistant managers as it was. Now her emergency had caused him to have a personal emergency. Her parents were ill and having to be relocated to an assisted living facility and as an only child, she had to clean out their house, prepare it for sale, sell it, and settle them into their new quarters. He sympathized and understood, but it didn’t make his situation any easier.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Marlene knocked softly on the door. “You decent yet?”

  He hurried and buttoned his slacks. “Come in.” He was decent but suffering. The starch gave him a rash and he could hardly breathe or walk.

  “I made you a nice dinner. You have a protein, peas, and pineapple. You can get milk at work so you’ll get your four basic food groups.” She thrust a psychedelic flowered lunch bag in his hands.

  “Gee thanks, Ma.” He stared at the flowers cross-eyed. He’d ditch the bag soon as he got to work. He’d be laughed off the job if anyone spied this nightmare. “Can I take some cookies?”

  Marlene walked him to the door and patted the bag. “There’s some in the bag.”

  He stared over her head at his son. “Come say goodbye to your old man, Stevie. I’m shovin’ off.”

  Steve pouted and moseyed over slowly, dragging his feet. “Aw, Dad. You have ta go to work again?” He gave Race the most pathetic frown of his young life.

  Race ruffled the boy’s fiery locks, feeling guilty. “Don’t wanna go, but I gotta go. Behave for your Gramma, okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” There had never been a more sullen affirmative muttered in history. Steve rolled his eyes and bared his crooked teeth.

  Marlene clapped her hands in front of her face, brightening. “We’ll bake more cookies and play Canasta.” She shushed him into the house and then waved goodbye to Race.

  Pity swelled in Race’s chest for his young one. His mother meant well but she could be a bit smothering and overbearing.

  He fought early evening traffic. His mom had a point. Steve needed a mother and Race needed a wife. His new employee’s gorgeous face flashed into his mind and his loins warmed. Scowling, he chased away the image. Blair Fayard might be sexy, beautiful, and even smart, but she was also spoiled and stuck up. Steve needed a loving and nurturing mother who could keep him in line. Blair Fayard seemed too self-centered to like children or put anyone before herself.

  Race parked next to the manager’s building, planning Blair’s orientation session. He’d called in his senior clerk, Wyatt Miott, to run the register so he could train her on the outside and stocking duties.

  Race liberated the cookies from their prison, scarfed one down, and tossed the bag into the dumpster. He’d grab a cheeseburger from the freezer and a bag of chips.

  “Hi, chief,” Wyatt muttered as he helped a customer. Wyatt was another college grad with paranoia issues that kept him from seeking another job. He’d been a clerk for ten years. “I see the joint’s still standing.” Race grunted his approval. “Any problems?”

  Wyatt grimaced. “Do you want the bad news first?” He paused strategically. “Or the worst news first?”

  Race groaned. “Shoot with the worst news.” Maybe they should just take him out back and shoot him for real and put him out of his misery.

  “Some kid drove off on pump ten earlier so the register’s going to be short twenty bucks.”

  Race bit back a curse. “You gotta make ‘em prepay if they’re not using a credit or debit card. No exceptions.”

  Wyatt’s shoulders slumped and his expression crumbled. “But they yell at me.” He trembled, looking off into the distance. “Sometimes they threaten me or throw things at me.”

  Race counted to ten, still boiling, but he knew Wyatt would break down in tears if he raised his voice or reprimanded too harshly. “Tell them to see me if they have a problem with it. We have signs posted, so you’re covered.”

  “They claim they can’t see them.” Wyatt would argue with God. He squinted at the nearest pump. “We should repaint them in giant neon, flashing letters.”

  “I can read it from here, no problem.” Race sent up a silent prayer for deliverance. Save him from fools, idiots, and difficult people. “So what’s the bad news?”

  “Dean’s girlfriend was in here causing a minor riot again but the cops chased her off without too much problem. It only took them two hours.” Dean, their maintenance man, ladies’ man extraordinaire, was legendary for his prowess with women.

  Race envied Dean’s charm but didn’t agree with how the younger man juggled women. “Great!” Not! “She didn’t have a weapon did she?”

  “No. They just chased around the cars. He finally locked himself in the office until the cops caught her.” Wyatt counted change to a pretty young lady whom he made cow eyes at. “Thank you for shopping at Kester. Please come again.” His tongue practically lolled out of his mouth.

  Race checked the grill area, store, and freezer. Beer, juice, and soda supplies were very low. “What gives with the freezer?”

  Wyatt ran the lotto machine. “Dean was locked in the store room all day, remember? He didn’t have a chance to restock.”

  Race shook his head. “By rights I should call Dean back and make him stock the cooler off the clock.”

  Glee danced in Wyatt’s eyes. “You should.” He wiped off the counter where a cold beer had left a wet ring.

 
Race would have to stock quickly. First he grabbed a hot dog, covered it in mustard, and stuffed half in his mouth. He stomped out of the store, barely tasting it. Blair Fayard was due to arrive shortly and he wouldn’t be ready.

  He threw cartons of soda and juice onto his cart, stacking it as high as he could. A load of ice dropped in the ice machine and reminded him to check the supply of ice bags also. He doubted Dean had filled ice bags, either.

  The speaker crackled and whined. “Kemosabe. A gorgeous chick is here in a Kester uniform askin’ for ya, dude. You’ve been holdin’ out on me.”

  Race wiped perspiration from his brow, and reached for the mike, clicking the button. “I’ll be right there.” He could see his new staff member on his monitor. Even with her hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing the garish orange men’s uniform shirt, she made his heart lurch and his pulse quicken.

  “Get a grip, man,” he mumbled to himself.

  Wyatt flirted with her, almost drooling. “I’m a college grad,” he bragged. “I was hired as a manager trainee.”

  True but misleading. The clerk hadn’t made the grade and had been demoted to Senior Clerk where he’d stayed for the past decade and where he’d probably die.

  Race propped open the door and wheeled the cart out. He had to stock the freezers before he did anything else. They still had a lot of customers demanding merchandise. Dean would hear about this.

  When Race dragged the cart inside, Blair tapped her heels together and saluted. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Race parked the cart behind the counter and saluted back. “At ease.” He almost added private but stopped just in time. This woman fancied herself at least a lieutenant. He studied her surreptitiously. She looked like prime rib in a burger joint.

  “Ready to orient, sir.” Laughter danced in her eyes the rich hue of charcoal beneath the neon light At least she no longer looked as if working here would be a jail sentence or worse than death.

  He grabbed the cart. “Change of plans. First, we stock the cooler. It’s almost empty.” He led the way, waiting for a snide remark that didn’t come. Not even an, “Aye, aye, Captain.”