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She leaned in to kiss him, her hair glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. Doug inhaled in sweet expectation.
Only to hear his son fill his diaper. Enthusiastically. And then snort in manly satisfaction.
Doug rolled his eyes. “Boys and their bodily functions.”
Essie sighed. “I’ll change this one.”
“No,” Doug countered. “I think you’ve had enough of male physiology for one morning. I’ll take this one. There’s some pink lemonade in the fridge. I’ll take care of Mr. Toxic Pants here and meet you back on the deck chairs.” He used his free hand to nudge her shoulders toward the kitchen.
Essie didn’t argue. Which could only mean those boys really had been beasts.
The second-grade boys’ Sunday school class at Bayside Christian Church was proving to require stamina of Olympic proportions. Two weeks into the job—no, Essie corrected herself, into the ministry—and she was up to her earlobes in doubt. She was a fine teacher, but try as she might, she could not get the upper hand with this squirrelly class. Essie was still shaking her head as she closed the fridge door and returned to the porch to sink into an Adirondack chair.
She loved these angled wood chairs. They barely fit on the deck, and their New England rustic charm clashed with the jazzy Euro-style that was San Francisco. Ah, but Essie wouldn’t give these chairs up for the world. They were home. Barbecues in the backyard followed by walks to the beach. They were morning coffee cups steaming into the salt-laden air, they were lemonades on the lawn when it was hot and sticky. Essie let her head fall back against the wood and tried to conjure up a New Jersey Sunday from the scents that lingered in the grain. Of a life where she knew what to do and where she fit in. It worked a bit—just the hints, the barest fragments of a Jersey shore summer came uncurling out of her memory. Had they really been in San Francisco for a month? Had she really jumped straight from the shores of one ocean to the shores of another? The tang of soy sauce from the sushi bar on the corner floated in on the breeze as if to confirm her thoughts.
Josh’s post-baby-wipe coos came through the doorway. “Wow!” commented Doug, wrinkling his nose as he tucked Josh back onto his shoulder. “Can all that come out of one baby at one time?”
“Please…not one more shred of conversation about body functions. Even from you. Even about Josh.”
Doug chuckled as he eased himself and Josh into the other chair. “Deal. Hey, look, Essie, you’ve done your tour-of-combat duty for this week. Josh will practically sleep through couples’ Bible study tonight, it’ll all be grown-ups, and you’ve got six days before you even have to think about apostolic burps again. Just let it go for now.”
Esther drank her lemonade, wishing it was as easy as that. “I wish you were right, but I said I’d come to their Christian education committee meeting on Tuesday morning. They even promised to get one of the committee member’s daughters to sit for Josh if he got antsy so that I could attend. I’m gonna get grilled, I know it.”
“That’s your game-face talking, Essie. They are not going to hold up score cards to rate your first two weeks with that class.” He turned to look at her. “Did you ever stop to think that Mark invited you so you’d get a chance to meet some of the other mothers in the church? To help you make a few friends out here? Did you consider that?”
“No.”
“Well, you ought to. Your brother’s no fool. He’s smart enough to know that if we had to count on the finely tuned social graces of my coworkers at Nytex, we’d never meet a soul. Software engineers don’t have a geeky reputation for nothing. I’m living in the land of the pocket protector here.”
There was just a bit of an edge to his last remark, and Essie realized she hadn’t thought about that. She’d just assumed that Doug had grafted himself into a ready-made circle of friends. She imagined him lunching with buddies and rehashing baseball games at the watercooler. They’d made this cross-country move for her more than for him—it was purely God’s grace that he was able to land a job so easily after they decided to join her brother out here to help with her aging parents. Sure, he’d never once griped about moving to San Fran, but that didn’t mean he was enjoying it. Doug wasn’t the kind of man who complained. Essie wanted to whack herself on the forehead for being so self-centered.
“Office a little geeky this week?” She’d never even thought to ask before now. Nice wifely behavior. Way to be that strong support system, Essie.
Doug’s sigh told far more than his words. “A bit. I’m fitting in.” After a long pause he added, “Slowly.”
“We did the right thing, didn’t we? Made a good choice?”
Doug turned immediately and caught her hand on the armrest next to his. “Yes. Essie, I don’t doubt it for a second. You know I agreed to this fully, of my own geeky free will. My parents in Nevada aren’t so far away now—we’re nearer to both our parents.”
“Why isn’t it easier?” Essie was amazed at how much the words caught in her throat. Josh stared at her, his wide gray eyes beaming love out from their perch on Doug’s shoulder. He made a gurgling sound and waved a tiny fist in the air. She caught it, and reveled anew in how his minute grasp fit perfectly around her finger. She’d wanted to be a mother since forever. No book or magazine, though, did justice to how just plain hard it was. She’d never felt further out of her element than she did this past month.
“Let’s see,” said Doug, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “New job, new city, new baby, new home, new weather—well, okay, that’s more of a fringe benefit. There’s a hunk of adjustments in that list. I think we’re doing pretty good. Most of my programs don’t even adapt this well—and I design relocation software, remember?”
“Can you design a—what do you call it? An integration program—for one small family? Make a button for me, Doug. One I can push and make all the uncertainty go away.”
Doug chuckled. “I did, sort of.”
“No kidding? Where is it?”
Doug held up the cordless phone he’d evidently brought onto the deck with him. “Pepperoni pizza, really thin, New York-style. Coming up.”
“I’m liking this.”
“A guy at work—one of the less geekier ones—recommended a place. His uncle moved here from Manhattan, and called it his ‘relocation coping mechanism.’ I’ve been saving its implementation for just such a moment.”
“Doug Walker, I love you.”
He winked. “Nah, that’s just the pepperoni talking. Is this a ‘medium,’ or a ‘large’ kind of day?”
Essie smiled, too. For the first time since she came home. “Do they make an extra large?”
Chapter 2
Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man…
She wasn’t supposed to be this nice.
When Essie first spied Celia Covington—and even more so when someone called her “Cece”—she was supposed to fall easily into the well-to-do-nitwit category. The twinset was a dead giveaway. Essie was always suspicious of women who wore twinsets. Those bearing sweaters in pastel colors, and most especially when adorned with a string of tasteful pearls, were to be avoided at all costs.
Essie had her own personal classification system for the branches of womanhood. There were “the ponytails,” which had a subset containing the unpretentious and practical, and another subset of the entirely-too-perky. This could usually be distinguished by height. Not of the woman, but of the ponytail. High ponytails signaled high-level perkiness. Low ones generally denoted practicality.
On another branch of the tree of womanhood sat “the headbands.” There was a certain kind of woman, Essie surmised, who wore headbands. Personality was then telegraphed by the type of headband selected—fabric, tortoiseshell plastic, wide, thin, etc. But it was the well-off, well-bred, well-dressed woman who generally opted for the headband as hair accessory. Or, on rare occasions, the headband became the tool of choice when the practical woman wanted to dress up.
Put a headband and a twinset together, and a smart gal runs quickly in the other direction.
Celia Covington, however, didn’t fit the twinset mold. She passed by the precise corner of pastel-sandaled women who flanked the far end of the table and plunked herself down in the middle, with a heavyset, friendly Japanese woman on her left, and an Hispanic grandmother-type on her right. This placed Celia directly opposite Essie across the rectangular table. Essie had opted for the middle of the table as well, seated next to Mark. As in her brother Mark-o, or as everyone called him, Pastor Taylor.
“You’ve got to be Mrs. Walker,” Celia said, smiling. “David went on and on about you the other day. You’ve made quite an impression on my little monster, and that’s no small feat.” She had an authentic, squint-up-the-corners-of-your-eyes smile that lit up her face. Essie tried not to like her—on account of the headband and all—and failed.
“Please, call me Esther. Actually, call me Essie. Everyone else does.”
“I’m Celia—Cece, actually. David, the little tornado in your class, he’s my youngest. He’s a handful, especially after he’s sat through a Sunday service. There’s only so much patience a roll of Life Savers can buy.”
Well, it was a small headband, after all. And coral isn’t really a pastel. “He’s a good kid. Very creative. I think he really enjoys drawing, and he seems to be rather good at it. I could tell right away that his gray blob on Noah’s ark was a rhinoceros. Most of the other blobs were undistinguishable. And no one else thought to put rhinos on the ark.”
Celia laughed. “That’s David. Always thinking out of the box. My oldest, Samantha? She’s in the nursery with her nose in a book, ready and waiting should your little one get too squirmy.”
Nice lady with babysitter daughter. No, coral is definitely not in the pastel family. “Thanks, but I think Josh is out for the count. You never know, though.”
“Don’t worry. Sam would consider it a treat to tuck a little cutie like that into her arms. Want some coffee?”
Essie sighed. “Oh, you wouldn’t think Josh was so cute if you’d seen him screaming his adorable little head off at two-thirty this morning. Sugar, please.”
“Teething?” Celia called over her shoulder as she walked to the sideboard.
“Like a pro.”
“Have you tried a grapefruit spoon?”
A what? Why would you hand spiky silverware to your newborn? Who actually had one of those? “Uh, no.”
Celia laughed at Essie’s apparent shock. “I know it sounds barbaric,” she said, bringing back the coffee, “but the metal stays cool, and as long as the serrated edges aren’t really sharp, it helps the tooth break through the gum. It’s all that straining against the gum that makes babies crazy. Once the full surface of the tooth breaks through, they settle right down.”
“Really?”
“I’ve got four sets of healthy gums marching their way to the orthodontist to prove it.”
Lean, lovely Celia Covington was way too toned to have birthed four children. Not if Essie’s own lumpy belly was any indication. Still, she had returned from the sideboard with java and cookies, not the spiffy-label bottled water that seemed to be the beverage of choice over in the corner. Those women looked like they’d not touched a cheese-burger since high school. “I’ll take your word for it. But I don’t own one. I don’t even know where you’d get one.”
“Well, you could go to TableSets and pay a ridiculous amount of money for some, or you could stop by Darkson’s restaurant supply just down the block and pick up a half-dozen for peanuts. If Josh is crying as you walk in the door, they might even give you one for free out of sheer sympathy.” She winked as she dipped a cookie into her coffee.
Essie decided that she might want to start liking Celia Covington.
“Now that we solved a few pediatric issues, here,” interjected Mark, looking at his watch, “we need to get started so I can give you ladies as much of my time as I can before my eleven o’clock appointment. Dahlia, do you have an agenda for today?”
Dahlia, who looked like she’d just walked off the cover of a magazine, flipped open an expensive-looking notepad. “Just two items, Pastor, but they’re hefty ones. One—” she held up her substantial silver pen and flicked it like an orchestra conductor “—I want to run down how things are going with Sunday school. It’s been two weeks, and we ought to be able to see the problem areas bubbling up by now.”
Essie gulped. Somehow she just knew this woman had a second-grade boy.
“Second—” the pen bobbed again “—it’s time to start the ball rolling on the Celebration.” That seemed to surprise some of the women around the table. “Now, gals, every January we’re caught scrambling. I know we’re all just getting our feet underneath us with Sunday school for the year, but I can’t help thinking now’s the time to start planning.”
Celebration? Could that be that “little drama thing later in the year” Mark-o mentioned? That thing he distinctly described as “nothing you’ll have to worry about”? She’d taught school long enough to know that any event requiring several months’ worth of preparation could never be classified as “nothing much.” Most especially when parents were in charge. Essie shot a look to her brother out of the corner of her eye. He knew this was just a trial stint. He knew she and Doug weren’t sure they could make it on one income, and that Essie going back to work in the new year was a distinct possibility. Now there was this Celebration thing in the mix? If she did go back to work, Essie was pretty sure she couldn’t handle this on top of it.
“Wise indeed, Dahlia,” Mark said in a pastoral tone. “It does feel like we scramble just after the holidays, doesn’t it? But I do think we ought to tackle the Sunday school stuff first, as I doubt my skills are really required for Celebration discussions.”
Oh, yes, Mark-o, get out while you can. Remind me to thank you later when I’m hand-sewing second graders into sheep costumes….
“Sorry I’m late. Max forgot his trumpet again and I had to swing by school. I think I’m going to make him take up the piccolo and tie it around his neck.” A woman in jeans and a red sweater dumped her large canvas bag on the floor next to one of the empty chairs and turned toward the coffeepots. “One of these days I’ll make it on time to a meeting.”
“We wouldn’t recognize you if you did, Meg. Come on, you haven’t missed much at all.” Celia waved her arm and pulled out the chair Meg had chosen.
“Which reminds me,” Mark said. “I’ve clean forgotten the introductions. Ladies, this is my sister, Esther Walker. She just moved here with her husband and baby to help us with Mom and Pop. Some of you already know her as the second-grade boys Sunday school teacher. Essie, these are my school soldiers. The fine ladies who keep Bayside’s Christian education programs up and running.”
“Pastor Taylor’s sister, hmm?” said Meg, plunking herself down in the chair. “I was wondering how he’d wrangled a newcomer into that spot. You’re either a brave woman, or you owe your brother a very big favor.”
“Now Meg, be nice….”
“I taught the Doom Room one year. I speak from firsthand knowledge.”
The Doom Room? The Doom Room? Essie swallowed hard. Just exactly what is it I’ve promised to do?
“Meg,” said Celia, “no fair scaring our new friend here. Just because you’ve now upgraded to the compliant third-grade girls’ class is no reason to think…”
“Ladies,” interjected Mark for the second time that morning, “Essie can handle our little men. I’d say one state champion athlete against eight small boys is more than a fair fight.”
“State champion athlete, is it?” said Celia, flexing perfectly manicured fingers. “Good. You’ll need it. What event?”
“Shot put.” Essie waited the obligatory ten seconds it took everyone on Planet Earth to realize all female shot-put champions did not necessarily look like pro wrestlers or have names like “Uta.” It happened every time.
The pastel corner didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. Nola nodded her head in a show of respect, Jan merely raised a dark eyebrow. Meg, however, looked downright tickled. “Shot put? Well, that ought to do nicely. Wow. How much does one of those things weigh, anyway?”
“About the weight of your average second grader.” Essie amazed even herself with the zippy comeback.
“I’d share that with the class next week,” Celia added.
“I just might.” Even the pastel contingency managed a giggle at that. Adding his own voice of approval, Josh produced a loud, squeaky grunt and shifted in his carrier. “Excuse me, but it seems I have a little business to take care of.”
“Want me to get Sam to handle it?”
“No, thanks, I think I’ll spare her the joy of diaper changing.” Truth be told, Essie wasn’t even sure he needed a diaper change—she was just glad for a reason to leave the room before the dissection of Sunday school began. Those women in the corner looked like they were in possession of firm opinions on all kinds of subjects. If they had suggestions—those kind of parents always called them “suggestions” rather than the more truthful label of “complaints”—Essie was sure she’d rather hear them through Mark-o’s compassionate filter than straight from the source.
Essie picked up Josh’s carrier as a pointed “Well now!” from Dahlia signaled the evaluation starting gun.
Go easy on me, ladies. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in twelve weeks.
“They gave it at least a seven-point-oh,” whispered Mark as she returned. He accompanied that last remark with a discreet thumbs-up under the conference table.
“Bible Heroes’ it is, then?” Dahlia was saying. “Arthur has a friend whose son is majoring in children’s theater at BSU—a fine young Christian man, someone we can trust with a project like this. I feel certain we can draft him into scriptwriting.” Essie was both impressed and baffled. This was a church play they were talking about, wasn’t it? One of those little forty-minute drama things? Where she came from, church plays were bought from the script rack at the local Christian bookstore or whipped up by someone’s good-natured mother. Drama penned by an advanced degree theater major; well, that was pretty hot stuff.
From the way Dahlia put it, however, it sounded as if the committee was going to request a statement of faith and four references from the poor young man. She could see it now: Dahlia’s silver pen slashing its way through the poor young scriptwriter’s first drafts, editing, cutting, changing. Asking for the theological reasons for dressing the wandering Israelites in blue, rather than beige.
Three years of teaching had taught her to spot this type of parent. Essie was glad it wasn’t Dahlia’s son who’d sketched the belching apostle. Dahlia looked like the kind of mom who would write a long letter over something like that. A really long letter. Anyone with a pen that formidable would know how to use it.
Twenty minutes of discussion followed. After they gave her class the story of Zacchaeus, Essie didn’t catch much of the rest. Her brain was busy concocting the image of second-grade boys launching themselves off of piled-up classroom chairs while others shouted, “Zacchaeus, come down,” in their best deep Son-of-God voices. Evidently, each classroom was being assigned their own hero. Mr. Scriptwriter would be given his detailed marching orders, and the “Celebration of Bible Heroes” was born.
Dahlia snapped the cap on her pen, signaling the end of the meeting.
“Come on,” said Celia as she stuffed her notes into a canvas bag. “I’ve got a bit of time before I have to drop Sam off. We can go get you those grapefruit spoons.”
“Just give me a second.” Essie ducked back into the church’s administrative offices, leaving Celia to grin at Josh as he made faces at her from his carrier. Waving at the harried-looking secretary, Essie snagged a Post-it note and pen off the woman’s desk. She wrote, “Mark-o, call me” in her large handwriting and stuck it to Mark-o’s closed door.
September in San Francisco was feeling complicated, but evidently it was going to make February look like a walk in the park…if she even lasted that long.
Chapter 3
Stinky Whale Guts
“You’re not going to let Joshua chew on that thing, are you?” Dorothy Taylor eyed the evil implement Essie was about to hand the First-Ever Grandson.
“Actually, yes. It really works.” Essie assumed the position she’d held every waking moment for the past two days. Josh in one arm, grapefruit spoon in other hand. Chew, drool, repeat. Sleep for thirty minutes, wail, then begin again. Essie had decided she was developing a healthy hatred for teeth. Teeth=no sleep. No sleep=bad days and worse nights. She had begun scouring the baby books this morning to see how much longer it would be before Josh could hold his own spoon, thereby buying her perhaps forty-five minutes of uninterrupted sleep. Evidently that precious mercy wouldn’t be forthcoming for at least another month. She yawned involuntarily at the thought of so little sleep for so long. “He’s having such trouble cutting this first tooth. I hope they’re not all like this.”
Dorothy Taylor eyed the handle of the grapefruit spoon, now wobbling with every gummy chomp as it stuck out of Joshua’s tiny mouth. She frowned again. “I just don’t know, Essie. I never gave you or Mark any such thing. I remember I just woke up one day…”
“And noticed we had teeth. Yes, Mom, you’ve told me.” And trust me, it’s not helping to hear how you never went through any such thing. I’m already feeling so confident in my parenting skills. Really, it does wonders for you to hand me another reason to question things. Please, if you think of any more, don’t hesitate to bring them up. “How’s Dad liking the new doctor?”
“Oh, he argues with this one just like he did in New Jersey. Yesterday he told Dr. Einhart that he walks thirty minutes each day.”
“He what?”
