Crash!
My head jerks up from the stove at the sound of shattering glass. My son is the world’s expert at breaking things, so I am very familiar with that sound. And I’m very familiar with the panicked look on his face when he runs back in the house, clutching his baseball bat.
“Mom,” he says. “I had an accident.”
What. A. Surprise.
I follow him out to the backyard, and I’m expecting to look up to find one of our bedroom windows shattered, but the reality is much worse. There is a broken window, but it’s not in our house. It’s next door.
He broke one of Suzette’s windows. Great. He hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t say it to me,” I tell him. “You’re going to say it to Mrs. Lowell.”
And I’m probably going to have to say it too. Because I have a feeling that Suzette is not the kind of person who shrugs off a broken window.
This is bad. Very, very bad. I don’t know how on earth we are going to pay for this.
As I march Nico to the house next door, he acts like I’m leading him to the electric chair. I’m not excited about this either, but he’s being really dramatic. You would think with the number of times he’s broken something, he would be used to apologizing for it.
But as we get closer to the house, I hear voices coming from the back. A female voice and a male voice. And it’s not Suzette and Jonathan. I would recognize that accent anywhere. My husband is in Suzette’s backyard. Again.
What is Enzo doing at Suzette’s house in the middle of the evening? Especially after he specifically told me he wouldn’t go over there without telling me.
I’m so mad, I stomp across Suzette’s front lawn to her door. Since Enzo works on yards, I’m pretty anal about never cutting across people’s lawns and ruining the grass, but I don’t care right now. I’m pissed off. I push my thumb into the doorbell, and without waiting for somebody to answer, I press it again. Then a third time, for good measure.
“Can I press it too?” Nico asks, wanting to get in on the fun.
“Go for it.”
By the time Suzette answers the door, looking somewhat hassled, we have managed to ring the bell at least seven times. But when I see her wearing teeny tiny shorts and a tank top that is tied off to reveal her midriff, I feel absolutely no sympathy for bothering her.
Or even for her broken window.
“Millie.” She flashes me an exasperated look, which only grows more irritated when she sees Nico. “I could hear the doorbell fine. Once will do.”
“Is Enzo here?”
Her irritation vanishes, and a smile creeps across her lips. “Yes. He’s just been helping me out in the backyard.”
At that moment, Enzo emerges from the back, wearing jeans and a grimy white T-shirt, his hands coated in a healthy layer of dirt. “Can I use the kitchen sink?” he starts to ask, and then he sees me and freezes. “Millie?”
Suzette is eating up this drama, but as much as I hate to disappoint her, I’m not here to catch my husband. We have a more pressing matter. I put my hand on Nico’s shoulder and give it a squeeze.
“I broke your window,” he says. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“My goodness.” Suzette clasps a hand to her chest. “I thought I heard glass breaking!”
“Nico.” Enzo frowns. “I told you to be careful hitting the ball in the backyard, yes?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, he thought you were going to be playing with him.”
Now it’s Enzo’s turn to look guilty. He should have known better though. When you tell your nine-year-old son that you’re going to play baseball with him, it’s a good idea to actually do it. Or else bad things happen. Windows get broken.
“Which window was it?” Suzette asks.
“It’s on the second floor,” I say. “The middle one on the side.”
“Oh.” She taps a manicured fingernail on her chin. “The stained-glass window.”
Stained glass? Oh God, that sounds extremely expensive. Enzo’s eyes widen—he’s clearly thinking the same thing. There’s absolutely no way we’re going to be able to afford to pay for a new stained-glass window.
“What if…” I say tentatively, “Nico performs chores around your house until he’s paid off the window?”
Suzette clearly does not like this idea. Her whole body goes rigid. “I’m not sure about that.”
I need to sell this because we cannot pay for that window ourselves. “It’s the only way for him to learn to take responsibility for his actions.”
I look over at Enzo for support. He nods his head slowly. “Yes, I agree. Suzette, I think it would be very good for my son to be able to do the chores for you.”
“I have someone to do chores.” Suzette folds her arms across her chest. “Martha comes two days a week!”
“Then that leaves five days a week for Nico to come,” I point out.
I’m fairly sure Suzette would have refused, but Enzo scrunches his brows together, his dark eyes narrowing. “Is there a reason why you do not want my son in your house?”
Finally, she throws up her hands. “Fine! He can do a few chores for me.”
For the first time since Suzette suggested Enzo teach her gardening tips, the tension drains out of me. Suzette hasn’t mentioned money at all. We won’t have to pay for the stained-glass window, and Nico will learn to take a little responsibility for his actions. And it also occurs to me that with Nico around, Suzette may refrain from hitting on my husband.
