The Last to Know by Wendy Corsi Staub Page A

resolutely.
    Naturally, Joel, who had one eye on the Yankees game, hadn’t heard her. Or maybe he pretended not to so that he wouldn’t have to tell his mother that he does, indeed, like seeded rye—and that he was, in fact, the one who bought it that day at the bakery. . . .
    “Mommy?”
    “Yes?” Tasha asks absently, looking down at her daughter.
    “Why do you look so mad?”
    “Do I look mad?” She tries to smile. “I’m not mad, Victoria. I’m just thinking about something.”
    “About what?”
    “Never mind. You know what? Let’s have that ice cream now. We can deal with everything later.”
    “What do we have to deal with?”
    Tasha hesitates. “Just . . . oh, a bunch of yucky stuff, Victoria. Be glad you’re only three.”
    “Why?”
    “Because when you’re three, you don’t have to deal with yucky stuff.”
    “I do so. There’s a lot of yucky stuff. Like when Max poops and—”
    “That’s not what I meant,” Tasha says, grinning. “Come on, let’s make a couple of big sundaes.”
    S atisfied that the kids are absorbed by the Winnie the Pooh video she just started for them, Rachel goes into the kitchen and picks up the phone.
    She dials a familiar number, then, as it rings, pulls a pack of Salems from her purse. She puts it back just as quickly, realizing that if she lights one here in the house, Ben will sniff it out and realize she’s smoking again. He’ll eventually figure it out, of course, but she doesn’t want him to realize it before the end of next week, when they leave for their long weekend in the Abaco Islands, just the two of them—her reward for kicking the habit.
    Again the phone rings on the other end of the line. Rachel walks over to the counter and squirts some rose-scented lotion from a white porcelain dispenser into the palm of her hand.
    There’s a third ring as she starts rubbing it in, the receiver cradled between her ear and her shoulder. Her hands are starting to look chapped after a day of diaper changing and raw, rainy weather.
    “Hello?” a masculine voice says, picking up on the other end.
    “Hi.” Rachel pauses. “Is this Jeremiah?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Jeremiah, my name is Rachel Leiberman. I live down the street, in the white house with black shutters.”
    “Which one?”
    Is the kid being a smart-ass, or is the question sincere? It’s hard to tell.
    Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she chuckles and says, “I know, they all kind of look alike, don’t they?”
    “Kind of. I mean, I know there are a couple of white houses with black shutters up that way—”
    “We’re number forty-eight. End of the block. The one with the basketball hoop and the three-car garage.”
    “Uh-huh,” he says, and it isn’t clear if he knows which house she means—not that it matters. He’ll figure it out.
    “I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing a little babysitting for me,” Rachel says. “Our nanny just quit”— well, actually, firing her will be the next phone call I make —“and I’m kind of stuck for someone to watch my kids until I find a replacement.”
    “Well, uh, I have school—”
    “I can work around your school schedule. I can pay you whatever the going rate is.”
    “I have no idea. I don’t really babysit much. I mean, ever. But—”
    “How about if I give you twelve bucks an hour, then.”
    “Twelve bucks an hour?” he echoes, stunned. “That would be great .”
    “Good. Can you come tomorrow?”
    “After school?”
    “At around dinner time. If you’re available.”
    “I’m available,” he says quickly.
    “And I would need you to stay until later in the evening. My husband is working.”
    “That’s okay.”
    “Wonderful. Is there anything you want to know before I hang up?”
    “I guess. I mean, uh, are your kids . . .”
    He trails off, clearly not sure what to ask. Rachel helps him out. “Noah is thirteen months, and Mara is four. My husband is a pediatrician and he has office hours