Andrew has a follow-up appointment at Sick Kids, and the babysitter cancelled, so Meg phoned in a bit of a panic.
“I can’t take all of them! They’ll run riot! And the in-laws are at their constituency again. William’s in a meeting he can’t get out of, and Lauren has a date or something. So I’m all alone.”
“Meg, I can’t,” Susan told her, just as she walked into the kitchen at Elliot’s. “Gloria and I are meeting with the chefs—”
At that, Gloria looked up, shrugged, and said, “Go ahead, I can handle the meetings. What is it—a couple of hours? You and I can deal with the suppliers then.”
“Susan, please!” Meg wailed. “I need you!”
And so, here she is, watching Ali kick a football around while she pushes Ayden in a swing.
“Look at me! Look at me!” Ali crows, tripping over the ball as he chases it, landing flat on his face. Susan braces herself for wails and tears, but Ali just pops back up and goes back to kicking the ball around.
At least it’s a nice day to be out, and Susan begrudgingly admits she’s glad not to be stuck in a basement kitchen. A few clouds scuttle across the sky, but otherwise it’s sunny and mild. The park is full of people taking advantage of the weather (any time the mercury creeps above single digits and the sun comes out it’s officially “taps aff” weather in Scotland. There isn’t a sidewalk or green space in the city that isn’t full of people quaffing fruity cocktails or neon orange Irn-Bru, trying to soak up a year’s worth of vitamin D in a single afternoon).
The playground, of course, is packed with kids clambering over slides and climbing frames designed to look like a shipwreck. Parents chat while sipping lattes bought from the blinding aluminum coffee truck parked nearby. Beyond the playground fence, dog owners fling balls and Frisbees for their pets; joggers trot along the paths; and lemon-yellow, open-topped tourist buses make their leisurely way up the road to stop just outside the Botanics. On the opposite side of the park, the grand, chateau-like spires of Fettes School slice across the bright blue sky.
Ayden begins to fuss, reaching toward his brother, so Susan stops the swing, lifts him out, and decides it’s snack time.
“Ali! Let’s get a snack!” she hollers.
Ali obligingly begins dribbling the ball toward the truck, and Susan follows behind, jiggling Ayden up and down to make him smile and laugh.
“Right, what’ll it be?” she asks Ali as they step into the shade of the truck.
“Organic,” Ali answers, standing on tiptoes to try and see the cakes on offer. “Mum says.”
“Oh, it’s all organic,” Susan tells him, catching the eye of the barista, who grins and winks. “How about a flapjack?” They have oats in them: practically health food.
“Okay,” Ali agrees.
She pays for their treats and they head for a nearby bench.
As she sets Ayden down, Ali looks up at her and says, “Kneel down, Auntie Suze, kneel down!”
“Okay.” She sets her coffee on the bench and kneels in the grass. Ali backs up a few paces, grins, and runs at her full-force, knocking her flat on her back.
“Rugby tackle!” he gleefully announces, putting his face right in hers and cackling.
“Oof!” Susan catches her breath and laughs. “You got me! You got me! You got me!” She lifts him up in the air with each chant. He screams in delight, and Ayden claps his hands and laughs.
Susan rolls back up onto her knees, blinks, and sees Chris, accompanied by a golden bulldog, standing on the nearby path, watching them.
The sight of him is even more of a sudden smack than Ali’s recent assault.
“Hi,” she manages to say.
Screaming, “Rugby tackle!” Ali hurls himself at his aunt, laying her out once more. The fall (she tells herself) is what’s knocked the wind out of her, and this time she just lies there for a second, staring up at the toddler’s smiling face and the blue sky above, wondering (yet again) if she’s just seen Chris or imagined it.
But then Alisdair is being gently lifted off her, and Chris’s voice is saying, “Easy, wee man—you’ll hurt your mum!”
Chris sets Ali back on his feet before turning to Susan, still on the ground, and offering her a hand to help her up.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, flustered. She overlooks his hand and rises under her own steam.
“She’s not my mum,” Ali informs Chris, reaching into the paper bag beside Susan’s coffee and retrieving the flapjack.
“Is she not?” Chris asks.
“They’re my nephews,” Susan explains. “I’m just babysitting.”
“Ahh.” They blink at each other. Then he says, “I thought you didn’t like kids.”
“Why would you think that?” she asks, confused. He’s never even seen her with children. It was barely even a subject of conversation for them; they were both far too young to be thinking of that sort of thing. He’d mentioned, once or twice, wanting them, but Susan had brushed it off because the way things were for her at that time, the thought of being completely responsible for another human being was overwhelming. She’d hardly been able to look after herself.
* * *
Chris flounders a bit, realizing he’s wandered into strange territory, but unsure how to get back out of it. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I just assumed.”
He thinks of the one time he brought the subject up. It was an offhand comment—they were talking about traveling and all the places they wanted to visit, and he said something about having to visit some of them “before we have kids, of course.” It had just popped out. But the look of absolute terror that came over her face when he said it … that was the end of that conversation.
Ali has polished off the flapjack, and now he and Ayden are inspecting the dog. Chris hunkers down, smiles, and the tone of his voice lightens.
“You like dogs, do you?” he asks. “Do you have dogs at home?” Ali says no, but his grandparents have some. “I know. I met them,” Chris tells them. “Nice dogs, those.”
No need to tell the kids how annoyed he and Calum were with those dogs, the night they catered the party. They were nice creatures but seemed to have a knack for always anticipating where you were going to turn or step next, and planting themselves right in your path. The two chefs spent most of the evening tripping over and cursing at the poor things, until finally the lady of the house came in, laughing, and said, “Oh, they’re not in your way, are they? Naughty babies! Out you go!” as she shooed the dogs into the garden.
“We want a dog, but Mum says no,” Ali announces. “They shed and track mud, and we track enough mud in for five dogs.” He seems proud of that.
“I’ll bet you do,” Chris agrees heartily. “You play football, little man?” He nods toward the abandoned ball.
“Yeah. Dad says he’ll take me and Andrew to see the Hibs play.”
“Ah, a Hibernian fan! Man after my own heart!” Chris claps a hand dramatically over his chest. Ali giggles.
Susan smiles and says, “I didn’t know you were such a fan of the little ’uns.”
Chris squints up at her and shrugs. “Sure. Who doesn’t like kids?”