Free Mom's the Word by Marilynn Griffith Page A

it. I still can’t believe this. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this vacation from work, this house, maybe it isn’t realistic. I’m gone less than a week and Heather, who I trained and felt totally comfortable with, almost loses the author that keeps my department’s lights on? Then the author calls the publisher and has a ‘chat’ with him? Do you know how that could have ended? Things are out of control.”
    â€œOut of your control, you mean.” In the moonlight filtering through the window, the lines of Neal’s body were even sharper, with deep cuts between the muscles on his back and down his legs. Fallon had made Dyanne forget about her ovulation timeline, but the silhouette illuminated by the moon was unforgettable. She reached out and traced his spine with her fingernail.
    When he sighed with pleasure, Fallon happened to be walking by on her way to the room closest to them. She’d rejected the guest room at the end of the hall; too small she said. Besides theirs, it was the biggest bedroom in the house.
    Dressed in a purple caftan and munching grapes, Fallon lingered in their closed doorway. “That’s right, Dee Dee. Make him holler. You’ll get you a baby yet. It’s good for the skin, too,” she said, laughing into the folds of her nightgown.
    Dyanne slid under the sheets, covering her face in shame while Neal had another laughing fit. As usual, he found Fallon’s brashness comforting. His wife did not.
    â€œMind your own business, woman. Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book?”
    â€œFeisty tonight, huh? I like it. Ain’t you supposed to be getting a baby? You tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine. The moon is on the wane, but I think you can still squeeze something out of it. I love my room. Did you know I can see straight in your neighbor’s upstairs? Those kids are something funny. Been waving at me all night. Their parents probably don’t even know they up. I’ve got to go and meet them tomorrow.”
    Brilliant! Maybe they’d all keep each other out of trouble. “Go for it,” Dyanne said, wondering if this was going to happen every night. At least the children next door were warming up to Fallon. Progress at last. “Those kids are something wild, especially that little girl.”
    â€œGood! I can’t stand all these little fake kids people have now, small adults running around. If I’m going to spend time with children, I want them to be just that. Remember that when you ask me to babysit. Now go on, act like married folk. Good night. I’m turning on my music….”
    True to her word, instrumental jazz replaced Fallon’s voice a few minutes later, the latest intruder into their tranquil bedroom.
    At least she warned us.
    The sultry crooning of a bass guitar was just loud enough to be heard, but not too distracting. Neal must have liked it because he went after Dyanne with both hands—and a full heart.
    â€œI love that woman,” he said, going in for a kiss.
    Me, too, Dyanne thought. “You’d better be concerned about loving this woman,” she said, returning his playful yet passionate kisses. Still, she was relieved that Neal seemed happy about having Fallon around.
    Once before, Dyanne had spent a week alone with Fallon on a huge rewrite and it wasn’t pretty. There were still shards of Swarovski crystals in the carpet of their old apartment from the vase Dyanne had broken after throwing up her hands one time too many.
    Things had been tight enough with just a month to get this house in order and finalize the book tour. Being successful in the African-American market meant making—and keeping—relationships. And that wasn’t always easy with tight deadlines and high personnel turnover. For every bookstore owner, university official or organizational chairperson, there were keep-in-touch gifts, e-mails and calls and