Over His Head. Carolyn McSparren

Wainwright apparently was raising at least two bad seeds of his own. Maybe three if Eddy was as weird as he seemed.

      More reason to avoid the entire family. “If you’re lousy at something,” Dr. Mac always said, “quit doing it and take up something you’re good at.”

      She felt incompetent to deal with other people’s children, and was absolutely, positively the world’s worst stepmother. She hoped she hadn’t scarred Poppy for life, although Poppy had inflicted some deep wounds of her own. Nancy swore she’d never give anyone a chance to slice and dice her again, nor did she intend to be responsible for even partially rearing anyone else’s kids.

      She just had to arm her libido against Tim Wainwright and the heady way his touch had made her feel.

      She’d slept alone too long. She’d almost forgotten how it felt to have a man inside her, driving both of them higher until the explosion of pleasure took them over the top.

      Hoo, boy. Enough of that.

      She sighed and went to open the front door. Before she could get inside, she felt a sharp little foot on her instep.

      “No! Lancelot.” She shoved him back, slipped in and shut the door. “You’re staying here, understand? Helen and Bill will come over to visit, and you’ll be going to your new home with them before you realize it.” She set her cup down in the sink, picked up his dish and put it to soak, then went and climbed back into bed. This time she absolutely, positively must get some sleep. Tomorrow looked like it was going to be one god-awful day.

      SHE WOKE UP AT DAWN as always, even on Saturday. When she started to sit, she realized her neck was giving her fits. She’d been too tense the day before. Now she’d pay for it. She pulled on a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of threadbare low-rider cutoffs and padded into the kitchen barefoot to take Lancelot out for his morning potty break.

      Poddy and Otto slept curled together in the pet bed, but Lancelot wasn’t in the kitchen. “Lancelot, if you’re in the living room making a mess, I swear I’ll barbecue you,” she called. The cats each opened one eye, then went back to sleep. She rounded the corner and saw at once that the front door was ajar. She must not have latched it properly when she’d come back in. “Oh, no,” she whispered. She grabbed Lancelot’s leash and harness and ran out onto the front porch. He was nowhere in sight.

      “Damn! I’ll bet he’s gone back home.” She raced down the steps, taking care to slam the door behind her so that Otto and Poddy couldn’t wander. The asphalt of the lane already felt hot on the soles of her bare feet, but she ignored it, hopping a couple of times when she stepped on pebbles, as she ran across Tim’s lawn to his back door.

      She nudged the pet door with her toe. It moved, so he hadn’t locked it, although she didn’t think the Wainwrights had a pet. She bent down, swung it open and tried to see into the kitchen. Next, she tried the back door. Locked.

      Most of the people in Williamston left their doors open when they were home.

      She peered through the window in the door, shading her eyes to see into the gloom. No sign of Lancelot. He must be inside somewhere. He’d probably scare those children into catatonia.

      She raced around to the front of the house, tiptoed onto the front porch and tried to see into the room the Halliburtons had used for their master bedroom. The curtains were drawn. She could see only a sliver of a foot of the bed.

      Okay, Okay, she thought, what do I do? Bang on the door, ring the doorbell, wake those city folks up at five on a Saturday morning to tell them they have an intruder? Somehow she didn’t think they’d be pleased. Besides, Lancelot was her responsibility, and this was her fault.

      Only one thing to do.

      She went to the back porch again. “Please, Helen,” she prayed. “Please have left the spare key over the door.” She stood on tiptoe and felt around. Her index finger touched something metallic.

      She dislodged it, saw the key fall, made a grab for it in midair and missed.

      It clinked on the porch steps. She dived after it and caught it before it could clink again. Now on her hands and knees bent over the step, she wondered whether she’d actually have the nerve to use it.

      She and the Halliburtons had looked after each other’s property a million times. They knew where she hid her spare key, and where the spare keys to her storage shed and car were kept in the kitchen. She’d watered Helen’s house plants when they were out of town, and taken in their mail and newspapers. Helen and Bill had fed the cats when she was gone.

      But this wasn’t Helen and Bill. New owners often changed locks. Maybe the key wouldn’t even fit.

      Tentatively she slid the key into the lock. It went in. She began to twist it slowly. It turned. The lock clicked.

      Now what? Barge in, call out, “Yoo-hoo, it’s Nancy!” and assume Tim hadn’t had time to get a handgun permit yet? Technically she wasn’t breaking in, but she was definitely entering.

      She took a deep breath, put her hand along the jamb to keep the door from squeaking, opened it and stepped into the kitchen.

      The refrigerator door stood ajar. On the floor in front of it was a bottle of Perrier. Intact, thank the Lord. So far as she knew, Lancelot had not yet learned to open screw caps. She put the sparkling water back. The refrigerator was empty except for several more bottles of Perrier and a couple of big bottles of soda—also screw-on tops. Lancelot must have been extremely disappointed. He could open any pop-top can he could reach.

      She closed the refrigerator softly and looked around for evidence of destruction.

      The kitchen looked clean. Cluttered, of course. At least a dozen cardboard boxes sat on the counters waiting to be unpacked, but Lancelot hadn’t been able to reach high enough to pull any of them off in his lifelong quest for treats.

      She stood in the archway leading to the living room and listened. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, then she heard a soft snore from across the living room and down the hall. Tim must be sleeping in the Halliburtons’ master bedroom. She prayed Lancelot had gone in there and not up the stairs to join one of the children.

      Slipping silently across the wood floor, she edged around the boxes and furniture in the living room and started down the hall. The door at the end was open and the snoring was louder now.

      Five feet from that door she saw the figure in the bed. Wainwright.

      He was not alone.

      Beside him, spooned against his belly, head on a pillow, lay Lancelot.

      He was the one snoring.

      Wainwright lay under a single sheet, his naked shoulders exposed, his arm thrown casually across Lancelot’s back. He was breathing evenly.

      She got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the room.

      “Lancelot,” she whispered. “Get down here.”

      No response. She crawled closer. “Lancelot!” It was hard to whisper with menace, but she tried. “Get down here this instant.”

      Lancelot raised his head and stared at her unperturbed.

      “Now!”

      “Wha…?”

      She froze. Please, God, don’t let him wake up.

      Tim sighed.

      She shut her eyes and began to back out on her hands and knees.

      “What the hell!”

      He sat straight up in bed. No pajama top. No pajama bottoms, either. Apparently, he saw her on her hands and knees two feet inside his bedroom at the same time he registered that his bed buddy was not the houri he’d no doubt been dreaming about.

      He didn’t exactly shriek. The sound was too deep and male for that. He gave a sort of combined gurgle and yelp and lunged sideways off the bed.

      His