“And the dirty diaper in the diaper can?”
I stare at her. She stares back. Seconds tick by.
“Why would you ask me that?” I challenge, instantly defensive because —
“Because knowing you, you threw it all in the hamper, and if I don’t ask, Shannon and Declan are in for a disgusting laundry surprise.”
I sigh.
I go back to the hamper. I find the dirty diaper. What the hell is a “diaper can”?
“The diaper can is in Ellie’s room! It has a clear plastic cover on it, next to her changing table!” Amanda calls out, as if she’s reading my mind.
Or she assumes I’m exceptionally incompetent at this.
But we’re not going to entertain that possibility, right?
Ring!
In the distance, a phone goes off. Can't be mine, because mine's keeping cool with the beer and the butter. I set the dirty diaper on top of a contraption that meets Amanda’s description and go back into the bathroom.
“Ignore it,” Amanda murmurs, smiling at Ellie. “Can't be more important than this.”
Ring!
She frowns, then her eyes flare wide. “What if it's Mom? She's been sick.”
“I'll get it,” I tell her, half jogging into the living room. I find her purse, the phone tucked away in a pocket. I punch in her six-digit code and find my own assistant calling...
My wife?
“Hey, Gina.” I start walking back to the bathroom.
“Andrew? What happened? Are you all right? Has there been an accident?”
“What are you talking about, Gina?”
“You never, ever go this long without answering a text? And you didn't answer your phone, or email either? I thought you DIED, Andrew?”
Every sentence out of my executive assistant's mouth sounds like a question.
“I'm alive.”
“I can tell? But why?”
“Why am I alive?”
“Why did you ignore all my messages?”
“Because I'm taking a break.”
“A break?”
“It's Saturday night. Amanda and I are babysitting for my niece, Ellie, and I wanted a break from the phone.”
“ARE YOU REALLY ANDREW MCCORMICK?” she screeches into the phone, making me wonder if she and Ellie are distantly related. “Andrew McCormick never takes breaks from his phone? What is this 'Saturday night' business? You never cared before?”
“I do now.”
“You could have told me? Given me some warning? I got so desperate I called Vince?”
“Vince?”
“I didn't know if you were on some crazy workout with that jerkface?”
“What did he say when you called him?”
“He asked me out?”
“Really?” Go, Vince.
“YES?”
“You sound upset about that.”
“I thought you were dead, and I'd have to initiate the Dead CEO PR Protocol? So I wasn't thinking about going out with someone?”
“Hold on. What's the Dead CEO PR Protocol?”
“The one Mr. McCormick created?”
“I'm Mr... oh. You mean my dad.”
“Yes?”
Amanda's glancing at me here and there as she finishes pouring the water over Ellie's head, the visor keeping it out of her eyes. I don't know how much of my conversation with Gina she can hear, but it's getting harder and harder to avoid the temptation to put this on speakerphone.
Dead CEO PR Protocol? Amanda mouths.
I shrug. “What is this protocol?”
“Your father had your obituary written up the week you became CEO? And I inherited all the information from Grace?”
“I have an obituary?” My question makes Amanda freeze.
“Yes?”
Amanda's hand goes to my forearm. Gina and Vince? she mouths.
Great. My wife cares more about Gina and Vince's love life than the fact that my father initiated an obituary for me.
“Did you say yes?” Amanda calls out.
“Hi, Amanda,” Gina says, loud.
I give up and go to speakerphone, which makes Ellie reach for my phone and shout, “Wan phone!”
“Is that Ellie with you?” Gina asks in a cooing, sweet voice clearly designed for small children, though I know she also uses it on my dad when he comes to the office and tries to be important.
“We're giving her a bath before bed,” Amanda tells her as Ellie stares at my phone like it's a wallet hanging out of the pocket of a tourist in a Marrakesh market. She’s just waiting for her chance.
“You want to know about Vince?” Gina offers up, which makes me groan.
“Great. Fraternizing between employees who are my direct reports,” I mutter.
“I'm your employee and you fraternize with me,” Amanda points out.
“I'm the CEO. I'm allowed.”
“I can date who I want to, Andrew?” Gina's question-like statement is emphatic, scrambling the signals to the speech and comprehension centers of my brain.
“Yes, you can?” Damn. Now I'm doing it, too. “What's the emergency, Gina? Let's clear it up so I can get back to important matters, like giving my niece bubble beards.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
It ticks on for an eternity before finally, in a small, nervous voice, Gina whispers, “You're serious?”
“Huh?”
“You're really not working?”
“I am not.”
“I think I might faint?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Now tell me what I need to do to get off the phone as fast as possible.”
“AH DONE!” Ellie shouts, standing suddenly, pulling the visor off her head and flinging it at me, marking my polo shirt with soapy foam.
Amanda finds a hooded towel that has spikes up the back like a dinosaur. It's pink and yellow and adorable.
“Tell me later, Gina?” Amanda says, then clamps her hand over her mouth.
It's truly contagious?
See. It is.
Within five minutes, I've given Gina a series of decisions and she's off to execute them, leaving me standing in the living room, Amanda wrestling Ellie's right arm into a pair of Dalmatian-inspired pajamas, her dark, wispy hair in need of combing.
“Here.” Amanda thrusts the wide-toothed comb at me. “You do this part.”
How hard can combing a toddler's hair be?
I pick her up and set her on the floor in front of the sofa, then put the comb on top of her head, barely pressing.
She becomes a fire-engine siren in petite human form, then runs across the room, scrambling over the cocktail table like she's in Special Ops training and a bear is trying to eat her.
Amanda snickers.
“Ellie,” I say in a goofy voice. “Time to comb your hair.”
“No.”
“It's messy.”
Her hand goes to the dark brown tangle. “No.”
“You have to.”
“AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!”
Amanda sidles up next to me, her finger in her ear as she says loudly, “Are you sure this is the hill you want your eardrums to die on?”
“You told me to do it!”
“Comb your own hair and smile while you do it.”