The Perfect Father. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      Prologue

      “Okay, Simon. Now do as Auntie Sylvie says, and everything will be just fine.”

      Sylvie Venner widened her eyes and nodded with encouragement, then guided a spoonful of strained carrots toward her eight-month-old nephew’s mouth. She fingered a length of her blond blunt-cut hair away from her eyes and felt something gloppy sticking to the jaw-length tresses. When she pulled away her hand, she saw that her fingertips were covered with orange. Smiling indulgently, she placed the spoon back into Simon’s bowl and reached for a napkin to wipe what she could of the carrots from her hair.

      “You nailed Auntie Sylvie pretty well with that last handful, didn’t you, buckaroo?”

      Simon squealed with laughter and squirmed with delight in his high chair.

      Olivia McGuane, Sylvie’s sister and Simon’s mother, glanced up from tossing a salad and smiled. “I told you he was an adventurous eater, and I told you not to feed him when you’re dressed for work. But nooooooo. You had to be the one to do the honors.”

      Zoey Holland, a co-worker of Olivia’s who completed the trio of very close friends enjoying their monthly Sunday-afternoon brunch, laughed. “Nice sweater,” she said of Sylvie’s thick, bright red, hand-crocheted cardigan. “How much did you pay for it?”

      Sylvie sighed as she inspected the garment in question. In addition to her sweater, her bartender’s uniform of white dress shirt, multicolored silk necktie and black, man-style trousers was also decorated by a number of other colors—beet purple, string-bean green, tapioca off-white and squash yellow. Each had been a course she’d been certain the baby would love, but Simon had sent them all back, deeming them—in his own unique way—unsuitable fare.

      “I got this sweater on sale, all right?” she replied. “Besides, baby food is organic. The dry cleaner can get it out. Right, Livy?”

      Olivia’s expression was not reassuring. “Actually, I’m not sure what they make baby food out of. Whatever it is, it bears absolutely no resemblance to real food.”

      Zoey nodded her agreement. “I think there’s some hush-hush, top secret lab somewhere in a place like Spongemop, South Dakota, that biochemically engineers baby food to be as offensively tasting and eternally staining as possible.”

      “I’ve read that, too,” Olivia confirmed with a nod.

      Sylvie eyed her friend and her sister warily. Both women worked as R.N.’s in a hospital maternity ward—Zoey in the nursery and Olivia in obstetrics. They probably knew what they were talking about. She threw Simon a suspicious look. He threw a suspicious look of his own right back at her. Then he smiled a two-tooth smile, revealing his dimples, and Sylvie forgave him his transgressions.

      “Do you think he’ll ever grow any hair?” she asked, noting the bald scalp with which the little guy had been born.

      Olivia shook her head, her own long dark curls flying. “Who knows? By this time I’m so used to him bald, I’m not sure I’d recognize him with hair.”

      Zoey shoved a fat, auburn braid over her shoulder and snatched a deviled egg from a plate full of them on the table. “He’s getting cuter every day, Liv. You should list him with a talent agent. If nothing else, he could be a ‘before’ shot on one of those late-night commercials for that men’s hair-growing club.”

      Sylvie chuckled. “Well, all I know is that it looks like Auntie Sylvie’s going to have to try a new tactic if she’s going to get the little buckaroo fed.” She lifted the spoon into her hand once more, then vibrated her lips together to simulate the sound of an engine.

      Simon smiled at her, looking intrigued.

      Sylvie smiled back. Maybe she was on to something here. “Cooperation, buddy. That’s today’s word. Now, open your mouth and let Mr. Airplane fly right inside.”

      The baby did as requested until Sylvie’s hand was within millimeters of completing the task. Then Simon shut his mouth tight, crossed his pudgy arms over his stomach and turned his head to the side. Sylvie couldn’t help but laugh at his expression.

      “Oh, boy, Simon. You’re definitely Venner through and through. Neither your mama nor your auntie ever does anything she doesn’t want to do.”

      “And when your aunt does want something,” Olivia added, “watch out. Because nothing—and I mean nothing—is ever going to make her change her mind about going after it.”

      “Must be some genetic thing,” Zoey said.

      Simon cooed and gurgled his agreement.

      Sylvie set the bowl of carrots on the kitchen table beside her. Simon had eaten almost as much as he’d thrown on her, she decided, which meant he’d eaten quite a bit. She pulled him out of his high chair, told the others she was going upstairs СКАЧАТЬ