Stacey McGill... Matchmaker?, Page 3

  The movie had started and we fell silent watching it. I enjoyed it, but from time to time I found myself glancing at the picture on top of the TV. I wondered how Mrs. Brooke could stand to leave her kids behind. And then I thought about all the parents, like my own father, who live apart from their kids. With that in mind, I decided not to judge.

  I became interested in the movie, and the time flew by. It had just ended when the doorbell rang. I ran up the stairs to answer it and almost ran into Mr. Brooke as he came out of his study. “Whoa, sorry,” he apologized, stepping around me to get to the door.

  It was Mom. She’d come to pick me up on her way home from work. “Hi, I’m Maureen McGill, Stacey’s mother. Am I too early?” she asked, stepping into the living room.

  Mr. Brooke introduced himself and offered his hand to Mom. “No, it’s good you stopped me. Once I start writing, I could keep going for hours. Especially when I have a killer deadline.”

  “You’re a writer,” Mom noted, sounding impressed.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so,” he replied with a smile. He turned toward a low bookcase by the door. “These are mine.”

  Mom’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re J. B. Angel!”

  I leaned forward and saw that every book on the shelf was written by the same author, J. B. Angel.

  Mr. Brooke chuckled. “When I was a deejay at my college radio station I called myself Johnny Angel. So when I became an author, I kept the pseudonym.”

  “Why don’t you use your own name?” I asked.

  “This way I can write about all sorts of bizarre crimes and criminals without having people hide from me at parties and school conferences.”

  “Gee, I never thought of that,” I said.

  “Did the kids drive you crazy?” he asked me.

  “No, they were great.” Joni and Ewan came into the room. They smiled at me gratefully. “It’s true,” I said to them.

  Mom had taken one of the books off the shelf. “I loved this one,” she said.

  “You’ve read it?” Mr. Brooke asked, sounding surprised and pleased.

  “Of course. I’ve read several of your books. I’ve really enjoyed them, though I have to say I didn’t always sleep well at night after I finished them.”

  Mr. Brooke laughed. “I get many angry letters from husbands and wives who say their spouses keep the light on at night after they read my books.”

  “Oh, I was already divorced by the time I discovered your books, so my husband wouldn’t have complained to you,” Mom said as she perused the back cover of another book. “I haven’t read this one.”

  “Take it,” Mr. Brooke said. “Please.”

  She smiled at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I have boxes of them.” He smiled at her. “So, you’re divorced?”

  Mom nodded.

  “Me too.”

  “Oh?” Something about the way Mom said that made me take notice. As if his being divorced were incredibly interesting news.

  I studied Mom closely. Could she actually be … was it possible … interested in Mr. Brooke?

  Claudia clutched her arms and shivered. “I tried to read one of J. B. Angel’s books once.” That didn’t surprise me, since Claudia is a big mystery fan. She adores Nancy Drew books. “I couldn’t finish it,” she added. “It was too scary. Is he creepy?”

  We were in her room for our regular Wednesday meeting. I was filling everyone in on our newest client.

  “Not at all,” I told her. “He’s really nice. And guess what? I think my mother likes him.”

  “You mean likes likes him?” Abby asked.

  I nodded just as the phone rang. I was the closest to it, so I answered. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club.”

  “Hello, this is John Brooke.”

  “Hi, Mr. Brooke, it’s Stacey.”

  “Oh, hi, Stacey! Listen, are you free to sit tomorrow night? Maybe from six-thirty until about nine-thirty?”

  “I can’t definitely take the job until I talk to the other baby-sitters,” I told him. “But I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” That’s how the club works. Clients aren’t allowed to request a specific sitter. We share the work equally. I hung up and told Mary Anne the information. “I’m free, but if someone else wants the job, that’s fine,” I said.

  No one spoke up. “The job’s yours,” Mary Anne said.

  * * *

  “What did you think of Mr. Brooke?” Mom asked Thursday evening as we ate supper together.

  “Nice,” I said. “And cute.” I’d been waiting for her to ask me.

  Mom nodded. “It’s so amazing to actually meet J. B. Angel. I’ll drive you over there this evening,” she offered.

  “I can ride my bike,” I said.

  “Absolutely not. You’d have to ride home after dark. It’s better if I drive you.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. She seemed awfully eager to drive over there.

  By six-thirty, when we pulled up in front of the Brookes’ house, it was dark. The front lamppost lit up the walkway. Mr. Brooke was outside with a golden retriever on a leash. I hadn’t seen the dog on Tuesday. Mom climbed out of the car and walked around to talk to him. “She’s my neighbors’ dog,” he explained as we approached. “I’m walking and feeding her while they’re away.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Mom commented.

  “Just being neighborly,” he said casually. “You know, I’m sorry. I could have picked Stacey up. I should have thought to offer.”

  “No problem,” Mom said. “I was on my way out anyway.”

  You liar! I thought, smiling to myself. It was the kind of lie I might tell a guy I liked if I walked past his locker to see him. Oh, I have class just down the hall, or something like that. Anything to make it seem as if I wasn’t haunting the hallway in the hope of catching a glimpse of him.

  I laughed to myself. That was exactly what Mom had just done.

  “Are the kids inside?” I asked Mr. Brooke.

  “Yes, and they’re dying to see you,” he answered. “Why don’t you go in?”

  “Okay. ’Bye, Mom!” With a wave to her, I walked to the front door. As I pulled it open, I noticed she was planted right there, chatting with Mr. Brooke.

  Okay! I thought. This is good.

  The moment I opened the front door, I spotted Joni and Ewan at the front window, anxiously peering out. “Are you spying on my mother?” I asked with a laugh.

  Joni turned her head toward me sharply. “What are they talking about?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know — this and that.”

  Joni pressed her nose to the glass, then turned away, her lips set in a grim line. “My father thinks your mother is pretty,” she said sullenly. “He said so after she left Tuesday.”

  This was good news to me. Exciting news. He liked her too! But the dour expression on Joni’s face kept me from smiling.

  “She is pretty,” Ewan said, turning away from the window.

  Still scowling, Joni opened the front closet and yanked out her jacket. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Out to get my father,” she said. “He’s supposed to be working. This is why he’s always late. He can’t get down to work. He has no self-discipline.”

  Her statements struck me as oddly grown-up. In a minute I understood why. “That’s what Mom always used to say,” Ewan told me. “She said it every single day.”

  “She did not!” Joni barked at him. “And if she did, it was because she was right. She used to make him work, and since she’s not here, that’s my job now.”

  “Wait,” I said. I didn’t want Joni to wreck our parents’ conversation. “Give them just a few more minutes.”

  She didn’t take her hand off the doorknob.

  “Do you have homework?” I asked her.

  She nodded, wrinkling her nose. “My worst subject, math.”

  “That’s my best subject. Want some help?”

  I could see the battle raging in her head. She was torn between dragging her father to w
ork or getting math out of the way. “I could use some help,” she admitted. “But if he’s not in here soon, I’m going to go get him.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, “let’s see that homework.” Her backpack was on the couch. She pulled her math workbook from it and we sat down together while Ewan stretched out on the love seat and opened an easy-reader book called The Wrong-Way Rabbit.

  Joni’s fourth-grade class was working on number rounding and estimation. It was easy stuff for me, but Joni didn’t get it at all. “This make no sense,” she fumed.

  “Yes, it does,” I insisted. “It’s simple, really.” We became involved with it. Another fifteen minutes passed. I was dying to know if Mom was still out there or if she’d left and Mr. Brooke had simply gone off to finish walking the dog.

  Ewan left the couch and passed by the window. Joni’s head snapped up from her work. “Take a look. Are they still out there?” she asked her brother.

  Before Ewan could reply, Mr. Brooke walked through the front door. “Everything under control in here?” he asked me.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  “Great. I’d better get to my writing.” He opened the door to his study and was gone.

  “You shouldn’t worry about your father getting his work done,” I told Joni gently. I didn’t want her to think of herself as her dad’s taskmaster. I pointed to his books on the shelf. “Look at all the books he’s already written. Somehow he gets it done.”

  “He wrote those when my mother was here to make him write,” Joni objected.

  I didn’t have an answer for that one. But somehow it didn’t seem right that a nine-year-old should have to worry about it. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s working now, isn’t he? What’s his study like?”

  “Very cool,” Joni replied. “I think he used to be cool a long time ago before he got married and had us. You sort of get that idea from him.”

  The sound of a clacking typewriter came from his studio. “See?” I said. “He’s working.” Then I frowned. “He uses a typewriter?” I asked. I thought all authors worked on word processors nowadays. At the very least, on an electric typewriter, which wouldn’t make that kind of noise.

  “Only when he’s thinking,” Joni explained. “When he has a good idea all worked out, he works on his computer.”

  The clacking kept up for a long time. I wondered if that meant the writing wasn’t going well. Joni and I continued to grapple with her homework while Ewan watched TV downstairs. Finally, she grasped the idea, and I felt proud of myself for tutoring her successfully.

  After that, we pulled out the Brookes’ Monopoly game. Ewan had to be my partner because the game was too difficult for him. He seemed to enjoy moving our piece around the board, counting out the money, and putting down the buildings.

  Joni played, but she was quiet. I wondered if she was just tired or still thinking about her father’s work.

  At eight o’clock, I asked, “What time do you guys go to bed?”

  “Ewan goes to bed at seven. I go at eight-thirty,” Joni answered.

  “Seven!” I cried, tickling Ewan. “You little sneak. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I can’t tell time,” he said. We put away the game and went upstairs. Ewan was easy to settle down since he was already tired.

  Joni was still wide awake. “Do you want me to read with you?” I asked.

  “No. But could I read alone for a while?”

  “I could get my book and we could read up here together,” I offered.

  “No. If you don’t mind, I’d rather read alone. That’s what I’m used to.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, feeling ever so slightly hurt. I had the feeling that something had changed since Tuesday. “Good night,” I said at her bedroom door. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  “I won’t,” she assured me, and I left. Downstairs, the clacking had stopped. I hoped it meant Mr. Brooke had moved to his computer.

  I took out my copy of Jacob Have I Loved. The book had hooked me. It was the story of twin teenage girls told from the point of view of one twin, Louise, who thinks her sister, Caroline, is the favored one.

  I became so engrossed in the story that only a few minutes seemed to pass before the doorbell rang. Mom had arrived to pick me up. “Mr. Brooke said he’d be done around nine-thirty,” she explained.

  Almost the moment she spoke, Mr. Brooke came out of his study. “Maureen, hello,” he greeted her warmly. “Care for a cup of tea?”

  “Well, if you’re having one.”

  Mr. Brooke looked at me. “Stacey, how about you?” I knew he was just being polite.

  “If no one minds, I’d love to finish this chapter while you have your tea,” I said.

  “A passionate reader,” Mr. Brooke said. “That’s what I like to see. Sure, finish your chapter.” I could tell he was glad I’d said no. Nothing personal — he just wanted to be alone with Mom.

  They went into the kitchen and I returned to the couch and opened my book. Despite my interest in the story, I couldn’t read it. I was too busy listening to their conversation, which was easy to hear.

  It was mostly small talk. The amazing part was how well they were hitting it off. Each acted as if what the other had to say was fascinating, even though they were discussing some new town taxes coming up for a vote and whether or not Stoneybrook should put a traffic light at a certain corner.

  Becoming a little bored, I went upstairs to check on Joni. She was asleep with her book beside her. She looked so young and sweet. I pulled her blanket up and shut off the light.

  By the time I went downstairs again, the conversation between Mr. Brooke and Mom had become much more personal. “I know, divorce is so difficult,” I heard Mom say. “Eventually, you’ll all adjust, though. It just takes time.”

  I moved silently back to the couch, opened my book, and continued to eavesdrop.

  “Listen, Maureen,” Mr. Brooke said. “I need to ask you something. Do you like theater? In this case, bad theater?”

  Mom laughed. “Well, not particularly. Not bad theater.”

  “Maybe I should put it another way,” Mr. Brooke said. “Do you like theater that might, through some miracle, turn out not to be totally terrible?”

  “It depends. What are you talking about?”

  “This is the thing. Several years ago, I wrote a play, a mystery. Now a theater group in Stamford is going to perform it. I saw one rehearsal and it … wasn’t great. But that was a month ago. There’s a chance it might have improved.”

  “I’ll bet it has.”

  “Opening night is this Saturday,” Mr. Brooke went on. “I have to go, of course, since I’m the playwright. But I could use some moral support — a friend to hide behind — in case it’s really a disaster. Would you possibly be free to go?”

  I froze as I waited for Mom’s reply.

  “Absolutely,” she said with delight in her voice. “I’d love to.”

  “Terrific!”

  Yes! I cheered silently, closing my book. Yes!

  I couldn’t sit for Joni and Ewan the night of Mom’s date because I’d made plans to visit Dad and Ethan in the city that day.

  I’d told Kristy that Ewan and Joni were adorable, so she expected the job to be a snap. When she arrived, though, she found Ewan pouting and Joni snapping at him. Not exactly the picture I’d painted for her.

  The next day, when she called me, Kristy agreed that Mr. Brooke was seriously cute. “I felt sorry for him, though,” she reported. “He was really nervous and Joni kept telling him the sweater he was wearing looked terrible. He’d put on another, and she’d shoot that one down too.”

  “Did the sweaters look terrible?” I asked.

  “No. He looked fine in each one. I’m pretty sure Joni was trying to make him late. Did you know this date with your mom was the first date he had since his divorce?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Wow. It was the first date for the kids then too.”

  I recalled how I felt when I first le
arned about Samantha, Dad’s girlfriend. In the back of my mind I had been holding the far-fetched hope that someday Dad and Mom might get back together. Dad’s having a new girlfriend smashed that dream. It made their divorce seem absolutely final.

  Kristy told me that finally Mr. Brooke realized Joni was succeeding in making him late, and he dashed out (wearing a green sweater, which probably looked great with his eyes). The moment he left, Joni hurled a throw pillow at the door behind him. “Have a rotten time!” she shouted after him.

  Ewan started crying.

  Kristy gaped at them. “What’s wrong?” she asked, amazed by this outburst.

  “I don’t want another mom,” Joni exploded. “I have a beautiful mother. I don’t need a new, ugly one.”

  Ewan sobbed even harder.

  “Whoa,” Kristy said. “Hold on. Mrs. McGill isn’t ugly. And who says she’s going to be your mother?”

  “Dad likes her. He said she’s pretty,” Joni said.

  “She is pretty,” Ewan sobbed.

  “Shut up!” Joni snapped at him. “She’s not. Our mother is pretty.”

  Kristy didn’t see any tissues for Ewan, so she took toilet paper from the small downstairs bathroom and wiped his nose. “Why are you upset?” she asked him gently.

  He sniffed a few times before answering. “Joni says Dad is marrying Stacey’s mom and she’ll be our wicked stepmother like in Cinderella and Hansel and Gretel.”

  “And we’ll never see our own, true mother again,” Joni chimed in.

  “Who told you these things?” Kristy asked.

  “No one. I just know,” Joni said.

  “Sit down a minute, both of you,” Kristy said. With her arm around Ewan, she walked to the couch. Joni sat on the love seat. “I have a stepfather,” Kristy said, “and he’s a great guy.”

  “What about your father?” Joni asked. “How can you love your stepfather when you have a real father? Don’t you love him?”

  Kristy paused. For years she thought she hated her real father because of the way he walked out on the family. Then, not long ago, he came to Stoneybrook and saw her. She was surprised to discover that part of her still loved him, in spite of everything.