Uncle Sarge

He had an occasion to rest up for. He smiled to himself. He liked the idea of having family to go to, even if Rebecca Tucker wasn’t technically family. It was the closest thing to it he’d had in years. And his family would be there. Sherry and the kids were his family.

Hell, he liked the idea of having family.

JENNIFER SAT at her computer terminal and shuffled among the neat stacks of paper, looking for something else to do. She wondered if she’d ever get to the point where she didn’t mind being alone.

Al had returned from his Alaska trip, but he’d already left to spend the weekend with his wife and kids. She’d finished up the one project she’d had pending, and now she had nothing to look forward to other than the long holiday weekend.

Holidays were the worst.

That was, maybe, the only regret she had about divorcing Duke. Now that her parents were retired and traveling across the country in a rented RV, she had no home to go to. Even a husband who drank too hard and flirted too much was better than being alone.

No, she told herself, anything was better than putting up with Duke Bishop, his infidelities and lies. He might have thought he was God’s gift to women, he might have thought that he’d done her a big favor by marrying her and taking her away from Scranton, Pennsylvania, but he’d done her a bigger favor by letting her see the real him before they’d had children.

She let out a long gusty sigh, exited her program, turned off the computer and wandered toward the front door. She had a couple of plants at home she could work on. They were probably rootbound. Repotting them would kill at least an hour.

Then she’d have the rest of the three-day weekend to fill with nothing left to do.

Spending a long weekend alone and not having anybody to be with was far more preferable than trying to make a marriage work with somebody who hadn’t been interested in working it out with her.

She couldn’t help thinking about Rich Larsen and how he now had family to spend this weekend with. How lucky he was. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like for him.

Jennifer sighed again and let herself out, locking the door behind her. No, she wouldn’t think about him. Their business was over. She’d never see him again.

RICH SHOULDERED open the door to his apartment and dropped the heavy, canvas A-3 bag just inside. The room smelled musty and dank, thanks to the pervasive Florida humidity and being closed up for a week. Ski, his roommate followed him in.

Ski dumped his bag next to Rich’s, then let out an amazed whistle. “Whoa. One of us must be pretty popular.”

Rich followed Ski’s gaze to their answering machine which was lit up like a Christmas tree. “Hell, I don’t know anybody here. They can’t be for me. They must be yours.”

Then he realized that they could be from his sister. He lunged for the machine, hit Play and listened.

A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize. Rich started to call Ski, but then he caught a name. “This is Rebecca Tucker. Please call me.”

Ski stood by, waiting to see if any of the machine’s blinks were for him.

That message for Rich was followed by six more, all placed since noon, and each seeming more desperate. None were for Ski, and he drifted off to unload his gear.

Heart lodged in his throat, Rich dialed the number. Someone answered, and he recognized the voice as the same one in the frantic messages. He started to identify himself, then realized he had reached her voice mail.

Muttering a curse, he slammed the phone back down and played the messages back, trying to glean an alternate number or some other useful information from the urgent messages. Nothing.

Rich let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Now what? Maybe, he should call the hospital. But, hadn’t Sherry told him that she was going to be transferred to the rehab facility? She’d told him where it was, and he probably had the number stuck away somewhere, but right now, he couldn’t put a finger on it.

He started to dial Rebecca again, but as he reached for the phone, somebody rang the doorbell.

“I’ll get that,” Ski called. “You find out what’s going on with your sister.”

Rich glanced in the direction of the door as he pushed redial. The door opened out of his line of sight, but as he watched, Ski backed away. His hands were raised; a look of incredulity was on his face.

Ski glanced over his shoulder toward Rich. “Hey, good buddy. I think this one’s for you. I never saw that woman before in my life. Much less those rugrats.”

Dropping the receiver back on the cradle, Rich hurried to the door.

There, in the doorway, was Rebecca Tucker wearing a look of utter panic. In her arms was a munchkin that looked like Yoda’s first cousin, and at her side stood a very tired-looking little girl. What were they doing here? Surrounding them all was a pile of pastel-colored baggage that looked like, at least, three times as much of the stuff he’d off-loaded this afternoon.

“Oh, Rich. I am so glad to see you. You have to help me. I’m desperate,” Rebecca said as she stepped inside. She turned to Ski. “Would you mind bringing all that in?”

Ski, a bewildered expression on his face, looked at Rich, and all Rich could do was nod.

“What’s happened to Sherry?” he finally asked when it became clear that Rebecca was too flustered to explain.

She shifted Yoda to her other hip and shook her head. “Nothing. Sherry’s fine. You’ll see her tomorrow. She’s out of the halo and in a neck brace. I’m sorry, I didn’t think how it might sound when I left all those messages.”

Ski strode in with a pastel contraption in either hand. “I guess I should introduce you to my roommate,” Rich said. “Ski Warsinski, meet Rebecca Tucker. She’s the friend of my sister’s who’s been taking care of her kids.”

Ski nodded and went back for another load.

At least Rebecca had the decency to apologize for scaring him out of his mind, but she’d yet to explain why she was here. He remembered his promise to help out in whatever way he could, and hoped she wasn’t calling that one in. He had a feeling she was. Why else would she have the kids and all their gear with her? “Okay,” he said warily. “What do you need?”

Ski went into the kitchen.

The frantic look faded, and Rebecca managed a weak smile. “The lady I had lined up to keep the kids for the wedding and honeymoon stumbled down the stairs and broke her hip. So far, I haven’t been able to find anybody to take over.” She shrugged. “It’s a holiday weekend and the last minute, at that.” She looked at him hopefully.

Rich didn’t have to hear the rest to know what she was working herself up to, but how should he respond? He only had to look into the mirror to see his father’s face reflected back at him. He shook his head vehemently. What if he’d inherited more than just his father’s looks?

What if he harmed one of those kids?

Why hadn’t she postponed the wedding? Of course, he knew the answer: Sherry had told him she’d insisted that Rebecca go on with it.

“Please, Rich. You have to help me out here.” When Rich was slow to agree, Rebecca went on. “I promise it’ll only be for tonight. I’ve got feelers out everywhere, and I’ll keep looking. Surely I’ll have someone by the ceremony tomorrow.

“In the meantime, I have to run. I have to be at the rehearsal dinner in…” She glanced at her watch. “About an hour and a half.” With that she handed Yoda to him. “This is Carter, and this is Caitlyn,” she said, urging the reluctant little girl toward Rich. “This is your Uncle Rich. He’s going to take care of you until Mrs. Dahlstrom is better.”

“But, Rebecca…” Rich protested. “They don’t know me.”

“You’re not a complete stranger to them, Rich. They’ve seen pictures of you that Sherry had.”

“I don’t know anything about taking care of kids,” Rich insisted. “What if I…?” He didn’t dare think of the rest of that sentence.

“Carter is an easy baby,” Rebecca told him. “He’ll be fine as long as Caitlyn is here, and she knows what to do. She’ll be a big help to you.” She blew a kiss toward the kids. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks.” She dashed out the door.

Rich looked at the door closing behind Rebecca. She hadn’t even given him a chance to say no. Then he looked down at Carter. His face was screwed up and turning red, and before Rich had a chance to try to calm him down, he let out an ear-splitting shriek guaranteed to blow a 100-amp stereo speaker at fifty paces.

“What the hell was that?” Ski asked, coming out of the kitchen, a sandwich of Dagwood proportions in his hands.

“I think Carter wants something to eat. It is supper time. I guess we should try to feed them. Is there any more sandwich stuff in there or did you use it all?” Rich noticed one of those pacifier things tangled in the baby’s clothes and popped it into his open mouth. Carter continued to cry, and the pacifier dribbled onto the floor.

“There’s plenty,” Ski answered, his mouth full, as Rich scooped up the pacifier.